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JB, Lippmrott & CoTh-ilaul'^ 



CYCLOPEDIA 



ENGLISH POETEY. 



SPECIMENS OF THE 



BRITISH POETS: 



BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES. 



A]N ESSAY ON EJ^GLISH POETRY. 



BY 

THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ. 



A NEW EDITION, 

KETISKD, WITH ADDITIOHAL ITOTBB. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPIKCOTT & CO. 

1875. 



) 






6QC0-E I 
1 V '<^'' 




^ ' 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



With this, the Second Edition of these Specimens, their original Editor has 
had nothing to do, being prevented by other engagements from resuming the 
task of revising them. Various inaccuracies of the former edition have been 
removed in this, — some silently, for it had been burdening the book with use- 
less matter to have retained them in the text, and pointed them out in a note, 
— while others, that entangled a thought or gave weight to it, have been al- 
lowed to stand, but not without notes to stop the perpetuity of the error. 
With many of the now-discovered inaccuracies of the work in dates and mere 
minutiae, Mr. Campbell is not properly chargeable : some may be laid to the 
excursive nature of his task ; others to the imperfect information of those 
days compared with ours, for we cannot have lived two-and-twenty years 
without important additions to our literary facts. 

Mr. Campbell's excellent taste in the selection of these Specimens has never 
been disputed ; and of his Critical Disquisitions the best eulogy is in the fact 
that no work of any importance on our literary history has been written since 
they were published, without commendatory references to them ; in particular, 
that they have been corrected and appealed to by Lord Byron, applaudingly 
quoted by Sir Walter Scott, and frequently cited and referred to by Mr. Hallam. 





LIST OF AUTHORS 




' 






GEOFFUEY CnATTOEB. 


JOSEPH HALL. 


RICHARD GOBBET. 


JOHN GOWKR. 


WILLLAM WARNER. 


THOMAS MIDDLETON. 


JOHN LYDQATE. 


SIR JOHN HARRINGTON. 


RICHARD NICCOLS. 


JAMES I. OF SCOTLANl) 


FROM HENRY PERROTS BOOK 


CHARMS FITZGEFFREY. 


ROBERT HENRYSONE. 


OF EPIGRAMS. 


BEN JONSON. 


WILLIAM DUNBAR. 


SIR THOMAS OVERBURY. 


THOMAS CAREW. 


SIR DAVID LYNDSAY. 


WILLLAM SHAKSPEARE. 


SIR HENRY WOTTON. 


SIR THOMAS WYAT. 


SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 




HENRY HOWARD, EA«t o» 


JOSHUA SYLVESTER. 


SwRirax. 


SURBXT. 


SAMUEL DANIEL. 


NATHANIEL FIELD. 


LORD VAUX. 


JOHN CHALKUILL. 


THOMAS DEKKER. 


RICHARD EDWARDS. 


GILES Airo PHINEAS FLETCHER. 


JOHN WEBSTER. 


WILLIAM HUNNIS. 


HENRY CONSTABLE. 


JOHN FORD. 


THOMAS SACKVILLE, Bamn 


NICHOLAS BRETON. 


WILLIAM ROWLEY. 


BCCKEimOT IKD EaBL Of DOBSIt. 


DR. THOMAS LODGE. 


PHILIP MASSINGER. 


GEORGE GASCOIGNE. 


BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 


SIR JOHN SUCKLDJO. 


JOHN HARRINGTON. 


SIR JOHN DA VIES. 


SIDNEY GODOLPHIN. 


SIR PHILIP SYDNEY. 


THOMAS GOFFB. 


WILLLAM CARTWRIGHT. 


ROBERT GREENE. 


SIR FULKE GREVILLE. 


GEORGE SANDYS. 


CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 


SIR JOHN BEAUMONT. 


ANONYMOUS. 


ROBERT SOUTHWELL. 


SIR ROBERT AYTON. 


FRANCIS QUARLE3. 


THOMAS WATSON. 


MICHAEL DRAYTON. 


WILLLAM BROWNE. 


EDMUND SPENSER. 


EDWARD FAIRFAX. 




UNCERTAIN AUTHORS. 


SAMUEL ROWLANDS. 


THOMAS HBYWOOD. 


JOHN LYLY. 


JOHN DONNE, DJ). 


WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 


GEORGE PEELR 


THOMAS PICKE. 


THOMAS MAY. 




GEORGE HERBERT. 


RICHARD CRASHAW. 


THOMAS NASH. 


JOHN MARSTON. 


WILLIAM HABINGTON. 


EDWARD YERE, Eua or OxrokD. 


GEORGE CHAPMAN. 


JOHN HALL. 


THOMAS 8T0RER. 


THOMAS RANDOLPH. 


tU 



Tin 



LIST OF AUTHORS. 



KICUARD LOVKLACK. 

ANONYMOUS. 

KATIIERINE PHILIPS. 

WILLIAM UKMINQB. 

JAMES SIHRLEY. 

ALEXANDER BROME. 

ROBERT IIGRRICK. 

ABRAHAM COWLEY. 

SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE. 

SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT. 

SIR JOHN DENHAM. 

JOHN BDLTEEL. 

GEORQE WITHER. 

DR. HENRY KINO. 

DR. ROBERT WILDE. 

SIR JOHN MENNIS AHB JAMES 
SMITH. 

JASPER MAYNE. 

RICHARD BRATHWATTB. 

JOHN MILTON. 

ANDREW MARVEIX 

THOMAS STANLEY. 

JOHN WILMOT, JUas. or RocHU- 

TBB. 

SAMUEL BUTLER. 
ISAAK WALTON. 
WENTWORTH DILLON, Eabl of 

ROaCOMMOK. 

THOMAS OTWAY 
ANONYMOUS. 
N. HOOK. 
PHILIP AYRES. 
EDMUND WALLER. 
CHARLES COTTON. 
DR. HENRY MORE. 
OEORQE ETHEREOB. 
THOMAS FLATHAN. 
APIIRA BEHN. 
NATILA.NIEL LEE. 
THOMAS SHADWBLL. 



HENRY VAUGHAN. 
JOHN DRYDEN. 
SIR CHARLES SEDLEY. 
JOHN POMFRET. 
THOMAS BROWN. 
CHARLES SACKVILLE, Eabl or 
DO88EZ. 

OEORQE STEPNEY. 

JOHN PHILIPS. V^ 

WILLIAM WALSH. 

ANONYMOUS. 

ROBERT GOULD. 

DR. WALTER POPK 

THOMAS PARNELL. 

NICHOLAS ROWE. 

SAMUEL GARTH. 

PETER ANTHONY MOTTEUX. 

JOSEPH ADDISON. 

MATTHEW PRIOR. 

DR. GEORGE SEWELL. 

SIR JOHN VANBRUOII. 

WILLIAM CONGREVE. 

ELIJAH FENTON. 

EDWARD WARD. 

JOHN GAY. 

BARTON BOOTH. 

GEORGE GRANYILLB, Lobd 
Laxsdownc. 

MATTHEW OREEN. 

OEORQE LILLO. 

THOMAS TICKELL. 

JAMES HAMMOND. 

JOHN OLDMIXON. 

WILLIAM SOMERVILE. 

RICHARD WEST. 

JAMES EYRE WEEKES 

RICHARD SATAQE. 

ALEXANDER POPE. 

JONATHAN SWIFT. 



JAMES BRAMSTON. 
WILLIAM MESTON. 
THOMAS WARTON. 
THOMAS SOUTHERNS. 
ROBERT BLAIR. 
JAMES THOMSON. 
ISAAC WATTS. 

AMBROSE PHILIPS. 

LEONARD WELSTED. 

AMHURST SELDEN. 

WILLIAM CRAWFURD. 

AARON HILL. 

WILLIAM HAMILTON. 

GILBERT WEST. 

WILLIAM COLLINS. 

COLLEY CIBBER. 

EDWARD MOORE. 

JOHN DYER. 

ALLAN RAMSAY. 

SIR CHARLES UANDBURY WIL 



ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE. 
JOHN BYROM. 
WILLIAM SHENSTONK 
HENRY CAREY. 
CHARLES CHURCnnX. 
ROBERT DODSLEY. 
ROBERT LLOYD. 
DAVID MALLET. 
EDWARD YOUNG. 
JOHN BROWN. 
MICHAEL BRUCE. 
JAMES GRAINGER.V 
JOHN GILBERT COOPER. 
JAMES MERRICK. 
WILLIAM FALCONER. 
MARK AKENSIDB. 
THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
CHRISTOPHER SMART. 



LIST OF AUTHORS. 



THOMAS GB-AY. 

COTUBERT SIIAW. 

TOBIAS SMOLLETT. 

ANONYMODS. 

JOUN CUNNINOnAM. 

QEORQB, LORD LYTTBLTON. 

ROBERT FEROUSSON. 

THOMAS SCOTT. 

PHILIP DORMER STANHOPE, 

EaBL of CaESTERnELS. 

OUVER GOLDSMITH. 
PAUL WIIITEUEAD. 
WALTER UARTB. 
ANONYMOUS. 
EDWARD LOVIBOND. 
FRANCIS FAWKES. 
ANONYMOU& 
JOHN ARMSTRONO. 
JOHN RICHARDSON. 



JOHN LANGUORNB. 

THOMAS PENROSE. 

SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE. 

SIR JOHN HENRY MOORE, 
Babt. 

RICHARD JAOO. 

HENRY BROOKE. 

JOHN SCOTT. 

QEOROE ' ALEXANDER STE- 
VENS. 

DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 

MRS. QRETILLE. 

WILLIAM WHITEHEAD. 

RICHARD GLOVER. 

JOHN HALL STEPHENSON 

EDWARD THOMPSON. 

HENRY UEADLEY. 

IHOMAS RUSSELL. 

JOHN LOGAN. 



ROBERT NUGENT, Eaw. Nn 

OEKT. 

WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. 
NATHANIEL COTTON. 
TBIOTHY DWIGHT 
JAMES WHYTE. 
THOMAS WARTON. 
THOMAS BLACKLOCE. 
WILLIAM HAYWARD ROBERTa 
SIR WILLIAM JONES. 
SAMUEL BISHOP. 
JOHN BAMPFYLDE. 
ROBERT BURNS. 
WILLIAM MASON. 
JOSEPH WARTON. 
WILUAM COWPER. 
ERASMUS DARWIN. 
JAMES BSATTIB. 
CHSISTOPHEB AN8TEY. 



CONTENTS. 



ESSAY ON ENGLISH POETRY 1 

GEOFFREY CHAUCER 65 

The Prologue to the " Canterbury Tales". 69 

JOHN GOWER 76 

The Tale of the Coffers or Ca«kete, &c. (in ihe fifth Book of the "Confessio Amantis"). 76 
Of the Gratification which the Lover's Passion receives from the Sense of Hearing (in 

the sixth Book of the "Confessio Amantis") 77 

JOHN LYDGATE 78 

Canace condemned to Death by her Father ^ulus, sends to her guilty Brother Macareus 

the last Testimony of her unhappy Passion (Book L fol. 39) 78 

SCOTTISH POETRY 79 

JAMES I. OP SCOTLAND 81 

Extraot from Canto IL of "The Quair". 81 

ROBERT HENRYSONE 82 

Robene and Makyue, a Ballad 82 

WILLIAM DUNBAR 84 

The Daunce of the Seven Deadly Sins through Hell 8-t 

SIR DAVID LYNDSAY 8d 

Description of Squyre Meldrum 86 

SIR THOMAS WYAT 89 

Ode. — The Lover coraplnineth the Unkindness of his Love 90 

From his Songs and Episrams — 

A Description of such a one as he would love. •, 90 

Of his Return from Spain 90 

Fttox Bts Odics — 

An earnest suit to his unkind Mistress not to forsake him 90 

He lamenteth that he had ever Cause to doubt his Lady's Faith 9 

To his Mistress 9 

HENRY HOWARD, Earl of Surrey 9 

Prisoned in Windsor, he recounteth bis Pleasure there passed 93 

Description of Spring 9' 

How each thing, save the Lover, in Spring reviveth to Pleasure 9- 

LORD VAUX 9 

Upon bis white Hairs (from "The Aged Lover's Renunciation of Love") 



CONTENTS. 



PAOF 

RICHARD EDWARDS 95 

He requesteth some friendly Comfort, aflBrming his ConsUncj 95 

WILLIAM HUNNIS 95 

The Lore that is requited with Disdain 95 

THOMAS SACKVILLE, Baron Buckhorst and Earl of Dorset 96 

From his Induction to the Complaint of Henry Duke of Buukingham 96 

GEORGE GASCOIGNE . . 98 

De Profundi? 98 

The Arraignment of a Lover 99 

The Vanity of the Beautiful 100 

Vanity of Youth . 100 

Swiftness of Time lOil 

From his "Grief of Joy" . )0« 

JOHN HARRINGTON m> 

Verses on a most stony-hearted Maiden, who did sorely beguile the noble Knight, my 

true Friend 100 

Sonnet on Isabella Markham 101 

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (01 

Sonnets !• I 

ROBERT GREENE 102 

Dorastus on Fawnia 102 

Jealousy (from "Tally's Love") 102 

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE lOS 

The Passionate Shepherd to his Love 103 

ROBERT SOUTHWELL . 103 

Love's servile Lot. . 104 

Look Home . 104 

THOMAS WATSON 104 

The Nymphs to their May Queen (from "England's Helicon") 104 

Sonnet 104 

EDMUND SPENSER 105 

Fairy Queen, Book I. Canto III. (Una followed by the Lion) 107 

, Canto V 108 

, Book IL Canto VI 108 

Sir Guyon, guided by the Palmer Temperance, passes the Dangers of the Bower of Bliss 111 

Glauce and Britomart exploring the Cave of Merlin 114 

Belphoebe finds Timias wounded,and conveys him to her Dwelling (Book III. Canto V.).. 114 

Sonnet LXXXVI 116 

Sonnet LXXXVIII 116 

POETRY OP UNCERTAIN AUTHORS OF THE END OP THE SIXTEENTH 

CENTURY , 116 

The Soul's Errand (from Davison's "Poetical Rhapsody") 116 

Canzonet (from Davison's "Rhapsody," Edit. 1603) 117 

From "The Phoenix' Nest," Edit. 1593 117 

From the same 118 

Songs. From Wylbye's "Madrigals," Edit. 1598 118 

From Bird's Collections of Songs, Ac 119 

From Weelke's "Madrigals," Edit. 1604 119 

From Bateson's " Madrigals," Edit. 1606 119 

To his Love (From "England's Helicon") 119 



CONTENTS. 



PAOB 

JOHN LYLY 120 

Cupid and Cauipaspe 120 

Song. From "Alexander and Campaspe" 120 

From "Mother Bombie" 120 

ALEXANDER HUME 121 

Thanks for a Summer's Day 121 

THOMAS NASH 123 

Despair of a Poor Scholar (from "Pierce Penniless") 123 

EDWARD VERB, Earl of Oxford 123 

Fancy and Desire (from "The Paradise of Dainty Devices") 123 

Lines attributed to the Earl of Oxford (in a MS. of the Bodleian Library) 124 

THOMAS STORER 124 

From "The Life and Death of Cardinal Wolsey " 124 

Wolsey's Ambition 124 

Wolsey's Vision 124 

JOSEPH HALL 12S 

Satire L Book 1 126 

Satire III. Book 1 126 

Satire V. Book III 127 

Satire VIL Book III 127 

Satire VL Book IV 128 

WILLIAM WARNER 129 

Argentile and Curan (from "Albion's England") 129 

SIR JOHN HARRINGTON 130 

From his Epigrams. 

Of a precise Tailor 131 

FROM HENRY PERROTS BOOK OF EPIGRAMS (entitled "Springes for Woodcocks," 

Edit. 1613) L31 

Ambitio Feminini Generis 131 

Nee Sutor Ultra 131 

SIR THOMAS OVERBURY 131 

From his Poem "The Wife" 131 

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE 132 

Sonnet* 138 

SIR WALTER RALEIGH 140 

The Silent Lover 140 

A Nymph's Disdnin of Love 141 

The Shepherd's Deflcription of Love. (Ascribed to Sir W. Raleigh in " England's 

Helicon") 141 

Duleina 141 

His Love admits no Rival 142 

A Vision upon ^' The Fairy Queen" 142 

JOSHUA SYLVESTER ^.... 142 

Stanzas from "All is not Gold that Glitters." To Religion 142 

SAMUEL DANIEL 143 

Richard th:- Second, the Morning before his Murder in Pouifret Castle 143 

Love in Infancy 143 

GILES AND PHINEAS FLETCHER 144 

Mercy dwelling in Heaven and pl'adin}; lor the Guilty, with Justice described by her 

Qualities (from Giles Fletcher's " Christ's Victory in Heaven") 144 

2 



liT CONTENTS. 



FAOI 

Justicp addressing the Creator ^.... 145 

Mercj brightening the Rainbow 145 

The Palace of Presumption 145 

Instability of Human Greatness (from Phineas Fletcher's "Purple Island," Canto VII.) 146 
Happiness of the Shepherd's Life (from the same, Canto XII.) 147 

HENRY CONSTABLE 147 

Sonnet. 147 

NICHOLAS BRETON 147 

A sweet Pastoral (from "England's Helicon") 147 

A Pastoral of Phillis and Corydon (from the same) 148 

DR. THOMAS LODGE 148 

Rosader's Sonetto (from bis Romance, called "Euphues's Qolden Legacy"). 148 

Another (from the same) 148 

Rosalind's Madrigal (from the same) 149 

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER 149 

From "The Maid's Tragedy" 150 

From the Tragedy of "Philaster" 151 

From the same, Act II. Scene 1 151 

From the same 151 

From the last Scene of the same 152 

The Reconcilement of Mr. Roger, the Curate, and Abigail (from "The Scornful Lady," 

Scene L Act IV.) 153 

Julio tantalized by Bustopha about the Fate of his Nephew Antonio (from "The Maid 

of the Mill," Act IV. Scene IL) 154 

Edith pleading for the Life of her Father (from the Tragedy of " RoUo, Duke of Nor- 
mandy," ActllL) 155 

Installation of the King of the Beggars (from "Beggar's Bush," Act II. Scene I.) 155 

Distant View of the Roman Army engaging the Britons (from the Tragedy of "Bon- 

duca," Scene V. Act IIL) 156 

Bonduca attacked in her Fortress by the Romans (from the same. Scene IV. Act IV.).. 156 
Caratach, Prince of the Britons, with his Nephew Hengo asleep (from the same, Scene 

in. ActV.) 157 

Amoldo tempted by Hypolita (from "The Custom of the Country") 157 

No Rivalship or Taint of Faith admissible in Love (from the same) 158 

Scene in the Comedy of "Monsieur Thomas" 158 

Prom "A King and No King," Act IV. Scene IV 160 

SIR JOHN DAVIES 161 

The Vanity of Human Knowledge (from "Nosce Teipsum," or a Poem on the Immor- 
tality of the Soul) 162 

Reasons for the Soul's Immortality 162 

■ In what Manner the Soul is united to the Body 163 

That the Soul is more than the Temperature of the Humours of tbeSody 163 

That the Soul is more than a Perfection or Reflection of the Sense 163 

THOMAS GOFFE 164 

Scene from his Tragedy of " Amurath, or the Coorageoiu Tnrk^ 164 

SIR FULKE GREVILLE 165 

Knowledge (from his "Treatise on Human Learning").... . 165 

Insufficiencv of Philosophy 165 

Sonnet from " Caelica" i , . 165 

SIR JOHN BEAUMONT 165 

Richard before the Battle of Bosworth . 166 



CONTENTS. 



PAOI 

HICHAEL DRAYTON „ 1«« 

Mortimer, Earl of March, and the Queen, surprised by Edward IIL ia Nottingham 

Castle (from "The Barons' Wars," Book VI.) 167 

Nymphidia, the Court of Fairy 169 

The Quest of Cynthia. „ 175 

Ballad of Dowsabel „ 176 

To his coy Love (from his Odes) „ 177 

Sonnet to his Pair Idea ; 177 

Description of Morning, Birds, and hunting the Deer (Poly-Olbion, Song XIII.).. 177 

EDWARD FAIRFAX , 179 

From his Translation of Ta^so's Jerusalem Delivered, Book XVIII 179 

SAJMUEL ROWLANDS 181 

Like Master, like Man (from " The Knave of Spades") 181 

Tragedy of Smug the Smith (from "The Night Raven") 182' 

The Vicar (from his Epigrams) 182 

Fools and Babes tell True (from "The Knave of Spades") 182 

The married Scholar. „., 182 

JOHN DONNE, D.D 182 

The Break of Day ■. 183 

The Dream 183 

On the Lord Harrington, 4c. (To the Coantessof Bedford) 183 

Song. 184 

THOMAS PICKB „ 184 

From Songs, Sonnets, and Elegies 184 

GEORGE HERBERT 184 

From his Poems, entitled " The Temple, sacred Poems and pious Ejaculations". 185 

The Quip 185 

Grace 185 

Business „., 185 

Peace 186 

Mattens „ 186 

The Collar 186 

JOHN MARSTON ,. 187 

From " Sophonisba," a Tragedy (Act V. Scene III.) 187 

From "Antonio and Mellida" (Act III. Scene I.) 188 

From the same (Act IV.) 189 

GEORGE CHAPMAN 190 

From the Comedy of "All Fools" 190 

A Son appeasing his Father by Submission, after a stolen Marriage (from the same) 190 

Speech of Valeria to Rynaldo, in Answer to his bitter Invective against the Sex 191 

Pride (from the Comedy of "All Fools") 191 

THOMAS RANDOLPH 191 

Introductory Scene of "The Muse's Looking-Glass".. 192 

Speech of Acolastus the Epicure (from "The Muse's Looking-Glass") 192 

Colas, the Flatterer, between the dismal Philosopher Anaisthetns and the Epicure 

Acolastus, accommodating his Opinions to both 193 

Colax to Philotimia, or the Proud Lady 193 

The Praise of Woman (from his Miscellaneous Poems) 193 

RICHARD CORBET 194 

Dr. Corbet's Journey into France 194 

The Fairies' Farewell 195 



XTi CONTENTS. 



rAos 
THOMAS MIDDLETON 1*6 

Leantio approaching his Home (from the Tragedy of "Women beware Women") 196 

Leantio'g Agony for the Desertion of his Wife (from the same) 196 

Scene from "The Roaring Girl" 197 

Fathers comparing Sons. — Benefit of Imprisonment to a wild Youth (from the same).. 198 

Devotion to Love (from the Play of "Blurt, Master-Constable") 199 

Indignation at the Sale of a Wife's Honour (from "The Phoenix") 199 

Law (from the same) 199 

CHARLES FITZGEFFREY 199 

To Posterity (from "England's Parnassus") 199 

From his "Life of Sir Francis Drake" ; 200 

RICHARD NICCOLS 200 

From the Legend of "Robert Duke of Normandy" 200 

BEN JONSON 201 

Speech of Maia (in "The Penates") 204 

From the Celebration of Chans '. 205 

To Celia (from "The Forest") 205 

Song (from the same) , 205 

Song to Celia (from the same) , 205 

Song of Night (in the Masque of "The Vision of Delight") 206 

Chorus (in the same) 206 

Song of Hesperus (in "Cynthia's Revels") 206 

Song (in "The Masque of Beauty") , 206 

Song. 206 

Song (in "The Silent Woman") 206 

Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke 206 

Epitaph on Elizabeth L. H '. 206 

A Nymph's Passion 207 

The Picture of the Body 207 

On Lucy, Countess of Bedford (from his Epigrams) 207 

From "The Fox" 207 

From the Celebration of Chans... 211 

THOMAS CAREW 212 

Persuasions to Love 212 

Song. — Mediocrity in Love rejected 212 

To my Mistress sitting by the River's Side. — An Eddy 213 

Epitaph on the Lady Mary Villiers 213 

Ingrateful Beauty threatened 213 

Disdain returned 213 

Song. — Persuasions to enjoy 213 

Song 213 

Song. — The willing Prisoner to his Mistress 214 

A pastoral Dialogue 214 

Upon Mr. W. Montague's Return from Travel 214 

Feminine Honour 214 

The Mistake ..— 215 

Good Counsel to a Young Maid 215 

blR HENRY WOTTON 215 

Farewell to the Vanities of the World 215 

On the sudden Restraint of the Earl of Somerset (the favourite of James I.) then falling 

from Favour 216 

The Happy Life 216 

A Meditation (from Sanscroft's Collection) „. 216 



CONTENTS. 



Fortune giving Fortunatus his Choice of Goods., 
From "The Honest Whore" 



NATHANIEL FIELD ""gjg 

Song (from "Amends for Ladies," 1618) ......".. 216 

THOMAS DEKKER 217 

217 

218 

WILLIAM ALEXANDER, Earl of Stkrline '. 213 

Sonnets (from his "Aurora") '.'.."'". 218 

JOHN WEBSTER 219 

Vittoria, the Mistress of Brachiano, relating her Dream to him (from "Vittoria Corom- 

bona, the Venetian Courtezan") 219 

From "The Duchess of Malfi" ......"..r.....!..l"r."l."!!"".". 220 

From the same, Act V. Scene III... .....!!....!!!,......]!..."... 222 

WILLIAM ROWLEY .* 223 

Scene from the Comedy of "A New Wonder, or a Woman never Vext"....!!!.".!!.!!.!!!"! 223 
Stephen, a reclaimed Gamester, newly married to the over-fortunate Widow .' 224 

JOHN FORD 

From "The Lover's Melancholy," Act IV. Scene III ...","!!!...".".! 225 

PHILIP MASSINGER 227 

Marcelia tempted by Francisco (from "The Duke of Milan," a Tragedy) "" 228 

Parting Scene of Leosthenes, a young Nobleman of Syracuse, and Cleora, Daughter to 

the Praetor of the City (from "The Bondman") ° 229 

Pisander declaring his Passion for Cleora, in the Insurrection of the Slaves* of Syracuse 

(from the same) j-ji 

Pisander holding a Parley with the Chiefs of Syracuse at the headorthe'lnsurgents 

(from the same) oqi 

Leostbenes's Return to Cleora (from the same) ^ ["[ 232 

From "The Bondman," Act V. Scene III '."..".Z.....7.........7.*..".... 234 

Giovanni, Nephew to the Duke of Florence, taking Leave of Lydia, the Daughter "of 

his Tutor Charomonte (from "The Great Duke of Florence") 236 

From "The Fatal Dowry," Act IL Scene I .'..'.'*".!*..'.".*..'...'.","..",..*.* 236 

ANONYMOUS 

The Oxford Riddle on the Puritans (from a single Sheet printed at OxfordlnleTs)..*."!! 237 

SIR JOHN SUCKLING 

Song 238 

A Ballad upon a Wedding „.,o 

SIDNEY GODOLPHIN 

MS. Lines found in Mr. Malone's Collection '..'."'. 239 

WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT 

240 



On the Death of Sir Bevil Grenville "_'"* 

Love's Darts 

A Valediction 

GEORGE SANDYS 241 

Paraphrase upon the Psalms of David (Ps. LXVIIL) 241 

FRANCIS QUARLES „., 

Faith ::: 

241 

Emblem L Book III 

Brevity of Human Life 244 

^""s ■ 7!!™;;:::;;;::;:::::::::::::;:;::::::::::::::::::;:^ 

^ 2* 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

WILLIAM BROWNE 245 

Song 245 

Song 245 

Power of Genius over Envy 245 

Address to bis native Soil 245 

Evening , 246 

From "Britannia's Pastorals," Booji II. Song V 246 

Venus and Adonis 246 

THOMAS HEYWOOD 247 

Grief of Frank ford, after discovering his Wife's Infidelity, and dismissing her (Scene in 

the Tragedy "A Woman killed with Kindness") 247 

Death of Mrs. Frankford (from the same) , 248 

A Witling set up by a Poet's Legacy (from "The Fair Maid of the Exchange") 248 

Song of Nymphs to Diana (from "The Golden Age") 249 

WILLIAM DRUMMOND 249 

Sonnets 250 

Spiritual Poems 251 

THOMAS NABBES 251 

Song by Love and the Virtues to Physander and Bellanima (from "Microcosmus," a 

Masque, 1637) 261 

THOMAS MAY 252 

The Death of Rosamond 252 

RICHARD CRASHAW 253 

Sospetto d'Herode, Lib. 1 253 

WILLIAM HABINGTON 255 

Cupio dissolvi 255 

The description of Castara 256 

To Castara, inquiring why I loved her 256 

Song (from "The Queen of Arragon") 256 

JOHN HALL 257 

The Morning Star • 257 

WILLIAM CHAMBERLAYNE 257 

Pharonnida, Book IL Canto III 257 

, Book IIL Canto II 258 

, Book IIL Canto III 259 

, Argalia taken Prisoner by the Turks 259 

, Book in. Canto IV 261 

RICHARD LOVELACE 263 

A loose Saraband 263 

Song 264 

Song.— To Althea, from Prison 264 

The Scrutiny 264 

To Lucasta.— Going to the Wars 264 

To Sir Peter Lely, on his picture of Charles 1 264 

KATHERINE PHILIPS 265 

The Inquiry 265 

A Friend 265 

WILLIAM HEMINGE 266 

From "The Fatal Contract," Act II. Scene II 266 

Another Scene from the same , 267 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

JAMES SHIRLEY 268 

From the play of "The Ciirdinal" 268 

The Duchess's Conference with Alvarez (from the same) 269 

From the same 270 

From "The Royal Master" 271 

From "The Gentleman of Venice" 272 

From "The Doubtful Heir" 272 

Ferdinand's Trial (from the same) 273 

From "The Lady of Pleasure" 274 

Extravagance of Celestina (from the same) 277 

Aretina's Reception of her Nephew Frederick 278 

The Queen insulting the Wife and Father of the accused Admiral in their Misfortunes 

(from "Chabot, Admiral of France," written by Shirley and Chapman) 280 

Death's Conquest. 281 

ANONYMOUS 281 

From "Select Ayres and Dialogues" by Lawes, 1659 .\, 281 

Song (from "Cromwell's Conspiracy," a Tragi-comedy, 1660) 281 

Loyalty confined. — Ascribed to Roger L'Estrange. (From "The Rump") 282 

Upon Ambition. — Occasioned by the Accusation of the Earl of StraflFord in 1640 (from 

the same, 1662) 282 

ALEXANDER BROME 283 

The Resolve 283 

On Canary 283 

To a Coy Lady , 234 

The Mad Lover 284 

ROBERT HERRICK 284 

To Meadows 284 

Song 285 

To Daffodils 285 

To Blossoms 285 

The Night-Piece, to Julia 285 

The Country Life 285 

Litany to the Holy Spirit 286 

ABRAHAM COWLEY 286 

The Chronicle, a Ballad 287 

The Complaint 288 

From "Friendship in Absence" 289 

The Despair 289 

The Waiting-maid .' 290 

Honour. 290 

Of Wit 290 

Of Solitude 291 

The Swallow » ;, 291 

SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE 292 

The Spring, a Sonnet (from the Spanish) 292 

SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT 292 

From "Gondibert," Canto IV 293 

SIR JOHN DENHAM 295 

Cooper's Hill 295 

On the Earl of Strafford's Trial and Death 298 

.lOHN BULTEEL 299 

Song 2i'9 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

GEORGE WITHER 299 

From "The Shepherd's Hunting" 300 

From "The Shepherd's Resolution" 301 

The Stedfast Shepherd 30? 

From a Poem on the Anniversary of his Marriage-day 302 

DR. HENRY KING 303 

SicViU 303 

Life 303 

The Anniversary 303 

Song 304 

DR. ROBERT WILDE 304 

A Complaint of a learned Divine in Puritan Times 304 

SIR JOHN MENNIS AND JAMES SMITH 305 

Upon Lutestrings cat-eaten 305 

JASPER MAYNE 306 

A Son and Nephew receiving the News of a Father's and an Uncle's Death (from "The 

City Match," Act IIL Scene IIL) 306 

Song in "The Amorous War" 808 

RICHARD BRATHWAITE 308 

From "A Strappado for the-Devil" 309 

JOHN MILTON .309 

Upon the Circumcision ; 310 

Song on May Morning 310 

Sonnet to the Nightingale 310 

An Epitaph on Shakspeare 311 

Sonnet on his Blindness 311 

on his deceased Wife 311 

Athens (from Book IV. of "Paradise Regained") 311 

Samson bewailing his Blindness and Captivity (from "Samson Agonistes") 311 

Speeches of Manoah, the Father of Samson, and of the Chorus, on hearing of bis last 

Achievement and Death 312 

From "Comus" 313 

Chastity (from the same) 315 

Song 316 

The Dances ended, the Spirit epiloguizes 316 

Speech of the Genius of the Wood, in the "Arcades" 316 

ANDREW MARVELL 317 

The Emigrants 318 

The Nymph complaining for the Death of her Fawn 318 

Young Love 319 

THOMAS STANLEY 319 

Celia singing 319 

Speaking and kissing 320 

La Belle Confidante 320 

JOHN WILMOT, Eakl op Rochester 320 

Song 320 

Song 320 

bAMUEL BUTLER 321 

Hudibras, Part L Canto 1 321 

Hudibrns commencing battle with the Rabble, and leading off Crowdero Prisoner (Part I. 

Canto ID ^2<« 



CONTENTS. xxi 



PAGE 

Vicarious Justice exemplified by Ralpho, in the Case of the Cobbler that killed the 

Indian (from Part II. Canto II.) 329 

Hudibras consulting the Lawyer (from Part III. Canto III.) 329 

ISAAK WALTON 331 

The Angler's Wish ^ 331 

WENTWORTII DILLON, Earl op Roscommon 3.31 

From an Essay on Translated Verse 331 

THOMAS OTWAY 333 

Chamont's Suspicions of his Sister (Scene from "The Orphan") 333 

Chamont finding Monimia in Tears, discovering the Cause of her Grief, and remonstrat- 
ing with Ac-nsto (from the same) 335 

Belvidera revealing to her Father the Secret of the Conspiracy (from "Venice Pre- 
served," Act V. Scene I.) 336 

Song 337 

ANONYMOUS , 337 

Song (from "The Loyal Garland," 1685) 337 

Seaman's Song (from the same) 337 

Song. — Tyrannic Love (from the same) 338 

N. HOOK 338 

From a Poem entitled "Amanda" 338 

PHILIP AYRES 3,38 

To the Nightingiile (from Lyric Poems) 338 

On the Sight of his Mistress's House (from the same) 338 

EDMUND WALLER 3.39 

Of the Queen 339 

On my Lady Dorothy Sydney's Picture 339 

At Penshurst 339 

The Story of Phoebus and Daphne applied 339 

At PenshursU 340 

Of Love 340 

Of my Liuly Isabella playing the Lute 310 

Love's Fiirewell 341 

On a Girdle : 341 

Go, Lovely Rose 341 

Of loving at first sight 341 

The Self-bnnished 341 

The Night piece, or a Picture drawn in the Dark 341 

The Naval Glory of England (from Verses on a War with Spain) 342 

CHARLES COTTON 342 

A Voyage to Ireland in Burlesque, Canto 1 342 

Canto ir .344 

Canto III 34C 

DR. HENRY MORE 348 

The Pre-e.\istency of the Soul 348 

GEORGE ETHEREGE 349 

Song (from "Love in a Tub") , 350 

Song (from Southerne's "Disappointment," Ac.) 350 

Song (from "Love in a Tub") 350 

Song 350 

THOMAS FLATMAN 350 

Fi.r Thoughts (from Poems and Songs) 350 



xxii CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Song (from the same) 351 

Extract 351 

APHRA BEIIN 351 

S(Hig (in the Farce of "The Emperor of the Moon") 351 

NATHANIEL LEE 352 

From "Theodosius, or the Force of Love" 352 

THOMAS SHADWELL 355 

From "The Rape, or Innocent Impostors" 355 

HENRY VAUGHAN 355 

Early Rising and Prayer (from "Silex Scintillans, or Sacred Poems") ; 355 

The Timber (from the same) 356 

The Rainbow (from the same) 356 

The Wreath. — To the Redeemer (from the same) 356 

JOHN DRTDEN 356 

Character of Shaftesbury (from "Absalom itnd Aehitophel") 356 

Character of George Villiers, the second Duke of Buckingham (from the same) 357 

Characters of Doeg and Og — the Poets Settle and Shadwell (from the same) 357 

Ode to the Memory of Mrs. Anne Killigrew 358 

Description of Lycurgus King of Thrace, and of Emetrius King of Inde (from the 

Fable of "Palamon and Arcite") 358 

Preparations for the Tournament (from the same) 359 

From "Cymon and Iphigenia" 360 

From "The Flower and the Leaf" 361 

Upon the Earl of Dundee 362 

SIR CHARLES SEDLEY 363 

Song in "Bellamira, or the Mistress" 363 

To a very young Lady 363 

Song 363 

Song 364 

Extract 364 

JOHN POMFRET 364 

From "Reason," a Poem 364 

THOMAS BROWN 365 

Song 365 

Song 365 

CHARLES SACKVILLE, Earl of Dorset 366 

Song. — Written at Sea, in the first Dutch War, 1665, the Night before an Engagement. 366 
Song 367 

GEORGE STEPNEY 367 

To the Evening Star (Englished from a Greek Idyllium) 367 

JOHN PHILIPS 367 

The Splendid Shilling 368 

WILLIAM WALSH 369 

Song 369 

ANONYMOUS -. 370 

Holla, my Fancy, whither wilt thou go? (from a Choice Collection of Comic and Serious 

Scots Poems, 1709) 370 

On a Woman's Inconstancy (from the same) 370 

The Church Builder (from Poems for the October Club, 1711) 371 



CONTENTS. xxiii 



PAGB 

ROBERT GOULD 371 

Song (from "The Violence of Love, or the Rival Sisters") 371 

Song (from the same) 371 

DR. WALTER POPE 372 

The Old Man's Wish 372 

THOMAS PARNELL 372 

A Fairy Tale.— In the ancient English Style 373 

The Book-worm 375 

An' Imitation of some French Verses 375 

A Night-piece on Death 376 

The Hermit 377 

Piety, or the Vision 379 

Hymn to Contentment 380 

NICHOLAS ROWE 381 

Lucilla conjuring Calista to conquer her Passion for Lothario (from "The Fair Penitent," 

Act IL Scene L) 381 

Sciolto, the Father of Calista, finds her watching the Dead Body of Lothario by Lamp- 
light, in a Room hung round with black (from the same, Act V. Scene I.) 381 

Colin's Complaint 383 

SAMUEL GARTH 384 

The Dispensary, Canto 1 384 

PETER ANTHONY MOTTEUX 386 

Song (from "Mars and Venus") 386 

A Rondeleaux (in "The Mock Marriage" by Scott) 386 

JOSEPH ADDISON 387 

A Letter from Italy ; 387 

An Ode 388 

Paraphrase on Psalm XXIII 388 

MATTHEW PRIOR 389 

The Lady's Looking-glass. — In Imitation of a Greek Idyllium 389 

An Answer to Chloe 390 

The Remedy worse than the Disease 390 

Partial Fame 390 

Song 390 

An Epitaph 390 

Protogenes and Apelles 391 

The Cameleon 391 

From "Alma, or the Progress of the Mind" (Canto II.) 392 

DR. GEORGE SEWELL .393 

Verses said to be written by the Author on himself when he was in a Consumption 394 

SIR JOHN VANBRUGH 394 

Fable.— Related by a Beau to Esop 394 

WILLIAM CONGREVB .395 

From the "Mourning Bride" 39ft 

Song 397 

ELIJAH FENTON.. 397 

An Ode to Lord Gower 398 



xxW CONTENTS. 



PAOB 

EDWARD WARD 398 



JOHN GAT 399 

Monday; or the Squabble 400 

Thursday; or the Spell 401 

Saturday; or the Flights 402 

The Birth of the Squire.— In Imitation of the Pollio of Virgil 403 

Sweet William's Farewell to Black-eyed Susan 404 

The Court of Death, a Fable 405 

A Ballad (from " The What-d'ye-caU-it") 405 

BARTON BOOTH 406 

Song 406 

MATTHEW GREEN 406 

From the "Spleen" 406 

GEORGE GRANVILLE, Loud Lansdowne 408 

Song 408 

GEORGE LILLO 409 

From the "Fatal Curiosity" 410 

THOMAS TICKELL 415 

To the Earl of Warwick, on the Death of Mr. Addison 415 

Colin and Lucy, a Ballad 416 

JAMES HAMMOND 417 

Elegy XIII 417 

JOHN OLDMIXON 418 

Song (from his " Poems on several Occasions, in Imitation of the Manner of Anacreon"). 413 
On himself (from Anacreon) 418 

WILLIAM SOMERVILLE 419 

Bacchus Triumphant, a Tale 419 

RICHARD WEST 420 

Ad Amicos 420 

JAMES EYRE WEEKES 421 

The Five Traitors, a Song (from Poems printed at Cork, 1743) 421 

RICHARD SAVAGE 422 

The Bastard 422 

ALEXANDER POPE 423 

The Dying Christian to his Soul 424 

The Rape of the Lock, Canto 1 424 

Canto II 425 

Canto III 426 

Canto IV 428 

Canto V 429 

JONATHAN SWIFT 431 

Baucis and Philemon. — On the ever-lamented Loss of the two Yew Trees in the Parish 

of Chilthorne, Somerset, 1708 (imitated from the eighth Book of Ovid) 431 

On Poetry,— A Rhapsody, 1733 * 43^ 



CONTENTS. XTT 

PAOB 

JAMES BRAMSTON 437 

The Man of Taste 437 

WILLIAM MESTON 439 

The Cobbler.— An Irish Tule (from Mother Griin's Tales) 440 

THOMAS SOUTHERNE 442 

From the Tragedy of "The Fatal Marriage," Act IV. Scene II 442 

Act V. Scene 1 444 

Scene II 444 

Song (in "Sir Anthony Love, or the Rambling Lady") 445 

THOMAS WHARTON 446 

Retirement. — An Ode 446 

Verses written after seeing Windsor Castle 446 

An American Love Ode (from the second Volume of Montaigne's Essays) 446 

ROBERT BLAIR 446 

From "The Grave" 447 

JAMES THOMSON 449 

Ttfe Castle of Indolence, Canto 1 450 

To Fortune 467 

Rule Britannia 457 

AMBROSE PHILIPS 458 

To the Earl of Dorset 453 

A Hymn to Venus (from the Greek of Sappho) 453 

A Fragment of Sappho 459 

ISAAC WATTS 459 

Few happy Matches 459 

LEONARD WELSTED 460 

From his "Summum Bonum" 460 

AMHURST SELDEN 461 

Love and Folly. — Arraignment and Trial of Cupid 461 

Canto II 465 

From Canto IV 467 

WILLIAM CRAWFURD 470 

Tweedside 470 

The Bush aboon Traquair 470 

On Mrs. A. H. at a Concert 470 

AARON HILL 471 

Verses written by the Author when alone in an Inn at Southampton 471 

Alexis; or Pope, 471 

WILLIAM HAMILTON 472 

From Contemplation, or the Triumph of Love 472 

Song 473 

GILBERT WEST 474 

Allegorical description of Verlii (from the "Abuse of Travelling") 474 

WILLIAM COLLINS 475 

Ode to Evening 475 

Ode on the popular Superstitions of the Highlands of Scotland, considered as the Subject 

of Poetry (inscribed to Mr. John Hume) 476 

D 3 



xxvi CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

COLLEY GIBBER 479 

Song.— The Blind Boy 479 

EDWARD MOORE 479 

The Discovery.— An Ode 479 

The Happy Marriage 480 

JOHN DYER 481 

Grongar Hill 481 

ALLAN RAMSAY. 482 

From "The Gentle Shepherd," Act. L Scene II 485 

Song 487 

SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS 487 

Ode. — To a great Number of great Men, newly made 487 

ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE 488 

A Pipe op Tobacco, in Imitation of six several Authors : — 

Imitation I. — Colley Gibber 488 

Imitation II. — Amb. Philips 489 

Imitation III. — James Thomson 489 

Imitation IV.— Dr. Young .' 489 

Imitation V. — Mr. Pope 490 

Imitation VL— Dean Swift 490 

JOHN BYROM 490 

A Pastoral 490 

WILLIAM SHENSTONE 491 

The Schoolmistress (in Imitation of Spenser) 492 

Elegy. — Describing the Sorrow of an ingenuous Mind on the melancholy Event of a 

licentious Amour 496 

From Rural Eelgance, — An Ode to the Duchess of Somerset 497 

Ode to Memory 497 

HENRY CAREY 498 

Sally in our Alley 498 

CHARLES CHURCHILL 499 

Introduction to "The Roseiad" 601 

Character of a critical Fribble (from the same) 501 

Characters of Quin, Tom Sheridan, and Garrick (from the same) 602 

From "The Prophecy of Famine" 603 

ROBERT DODSLEY 505 

Song ,. 505 

Song.— The Parting Kiss ' 506 

ROBERT LLOYD 506 

Chit-chat (an Imitation of Theocritus) „.. 506 

DAVID MALLET 508 

William and Margaret 509 

Song 610 

EDWARD YOUNG 510 

Introduction to the "Night Thoughts" — Uncertainty of human Happiness — Univer.sality 

of human Misery 5)2 



CONTENTS. 



PAGK 

Apology for the Seriousness of the Subject (from Night II.) 613 

Madness of Men in Pursuit of Amusements (from the same) 514 

Blessedness of the Son of Foresight (from the same) 514 

Society necessary to Happiness (from the same) 514 

Complaint for Nnrcissa (from Night III.) 514 

Comparison of the Soul viewing the Prospects of Immortality to the Prisoner enlarged 

from a Dungeon (from Night IV.) 515 

The Danger to Virtue of Infection from the World (from Night V.) 515 

Insufficiency of Qenius without Virtue (from Night VI.) 516 

Description of the Man whose Thoughts are not of this World (from Night VIII.) 516 

The Love of Praise (from Satire I.) 516 

Propensity of Man to false and fantastic Joys (from Satire V.) 516 

Characters of Women — The Astronomical Lady (from the same) 617 

The Languid Lady (from the same) 617 

The Swearer (from the same) 517 

The Wedded Wit (from the same) 517 

JOHN BROWN 517 

From the Tragedy of " Barbarossa" t 518 

From the same 519 

Selim's Soliloquy before the Insurrection 519 

MICHAEL BRUCE 520 

From the "Elegy on Spring" 520 

From "Lochleven" 521 

JAMES GRAINGER ; 521 

Ode to Solitude..... 521 

JOHN GILBERT COOPER 622 

Song 523 

Song 523 

JAMES MERRICK 523 

The Wish 523 

WILLIAM FALCONER 524 

Character of the Officers (from "The Shipwreck") 625 

Evening described — Midnight — the Ship weighing Anchor and departing from the 

Haven (from the same) 526 

Distress of the Vessel — Heaving of the Guns overboard (from the same) 628 

Council of Officers. — Albert's directions to prepare for the last Extremities (from the 

same) 528 

The Vessel going to Pieces — Death of Albert (from the same) 530 

MARK AKENSIDE 631 

From "The Pleasures of Imagination" (Book I.) 532 

Final Cause of our Pleasure in Beauty (from the same) 534 

Mental Beauty (from the same) , 634 

All the natural passions, Grief, Pity, and Indignation, partake of a pleasing sensation 

(from Book II.) 635 

Enjoyments of Genius in collecting her Stores for Composition (from Book III.) 535 

Conclusion (from the same) 536 

Inscription for a Bust of Shakspeare 637 

THOMAS CHATTERTON 537 

Bristowe Tragedie, or the Dethe of Syr Charles Bawdin 640 



xxTiii CONTENTS. 

PAOB 

ClIRISTOPHER SMART 544 

Soliloquy of the Princess Periwinkle (in the mock play of '* A Trip to Cambridge, or 

the Grateful Fair") 545 

Ode on an Eagle confined in a College Court 545 

THOMAS GRAY 546 

The Bard: a Pindnric Ode 547 

The Alliance of Education and Government. A Fragment. 548 

On Vicissitude 549 

The Tragedy of Agrippina. A Fragment 550 

CUTIIBERT SHAW 552 

From "A Monody to the Memory of his Wife" 552 

TOBIAS SMOLLETT 654 

The Tears of Scotland 565 

Ode to Leven Water. — Ode to Independence 556 

JOHN CUNNINGHAM 667 

Content: a Pastoral 557 

May-Eve; or, Kate of Aberdeen 658 

ANONYMOUS. — Song (from the Shamrock, or Hibernian Crosses, Dublin, 1772) 558 

Epigram on two Monopolists (from the same) 558 

GEORGE, LORD LYTTELTON 659 

From the "Monody" 659 

Prologue to "Coriolanus" 560 

ROBERT FERGUSON 560 

The Farmer's Ingle 561 

PHILIP DORMER STANHOPE, Earl op Chesterfield 662 

On Nash's Picture at full Length between the Busts of Sir I. Newton and Mr. Pope, 

at Bath 562 

THOMAS SCOTT 563 

Government of the Mind (from Lyric Poems) 563 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH 563 

The Traveller 568 

The Deserted Village 571 

The Haunch of Vuuison 575 

PAUL WHITEHEAD 676 

Hunting Song 577 

WALTER HARTE 577 

Eulogius: or, the Charitable Mason 579 

Contentment, Industry, and Acquiescence under the Divine Will: an Ode 681 

ANONYMOUS. — Verses copied from the Window of an obscure Lodging-house, in the Neigh- 
bourhood of London (from the Annual Register for 1774) 5S2 

EDWARD LOVIBOND 5S3 

The Teors of Old May-Day 5SS 

Song to » * * 5S4 

FRANCIS FAWKES 584 

The Brown Jug 584 



CONTENTS. 



xziz 



ANONYMOUS.— The Old Bachelor. After the manner of Spenser 585 

JOHN ARMSTRONG 586 

Opening of the Poem in an Invocation to Hygeia (from " The Art of Preserving Ilealth," 

Book I.) 588 

Choice of a Rural Situation, and an Allegorical Picture of the Quartan Ague (from the 

same) 589 

Recommendation of a high Situation on the Sea-coast (from the same) 589 

Address to the Naiads (from Book II.) 690 

RICHARDSON 590 

Ode to a Singing Bird 590 

JOHN LANGHORNE 591 

From "The Country Justice" 592^ 

Gipsies (from the same) 594 

From the same 594 

A Case where Mercy should have mitigated Justice (from the same) 595 

Owen of Carron 595 

THOMAS PENROSE 601 

The Helmets: a Fragment 601 

The Field of Battle 602 

SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE 602 

The Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse 602 

SIR JOHN HENRY MOORE, Bart. 603 

L'A mour Timide 603 

Song 603 

RICHARD JAGO 604 

Labour and Genius; or, the Mill-itream and the Cascade: a Fable 604 

Absence 605 

HENRY BROOKE 605 

The Reptile and Insect World (from "Universal Beauty," Book V.) 606 

JOHN SCOTT 608 

Ode on hearing the Drum 609 

Ode on Privnteering 609 

The Tempestuous Evening: an Ode '. 609 

GEORGE ALEXANDER STEVENS 610 

The Wine Vault 610 

DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON 611 

London , 611 

The Vanity of Human Wishes 61 1 

Drury-Lane Prologue 617 

On the Death of Robert Levett 618 

MRS. GREVILLE 613 

Prayer for IndiEFerence 618 

WILLIAM WHITEHEAD 619 

Ilyssus meeting Creusa (from his Tragedy of " CreugA") 6L'2 

Variety. — A Tale for Married People 623 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

RICHARD GLOVER 626 

Opening of the Poem of " Leonidas" 628 

From Book II 629 

From Book VI 630 

From Book VIII 632 

From Book IX 634 

From Book XII 636 

Admiral Hosier's Ghost 636 

JOHN HALL STEPHENSON 637 

The Blackbird 637 

To Miss 637 

EDWARD THOMPSON 638 

The Sailor's Farewell 638 

Song 639 

Song 639 

HENRY HEADLEY.. 639 

From his "Invocation to Melancholy" 640 

THOMAS RUSSELL 640 

Sonnet.— To Valclusa 640 

Sonnet — Supposed to be written at Lemnos 641 

JOHN LOGAN 641 

Ode to the Cuckoo 641 

The Lovers 642 

ROBERT NUGENT, Earl Nugent 643 

Ode to William Pulteney, Esq '. 644 

Ode to Mankind 644 

WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE 646 

From Syr Martyn 648 

NATHANIEL COTTON 652 

The Fireside » 652 

TIMOTHY DWIGHT 653 

Death of Irad, and Lamentation over his Body (from his "Conquest of Canaan") 653 

Prediction made by the Angel to Joshua of the future Discovery and Happiness of 

America, and of the Millennium (from the same) 654 

JAMES WHYTE 655 

Simile • > 655 

THOMAS WARTON 655 

Verses on Sir Joshua Reynolds's painted Window at New College, Oxford 657 

Inscription in a Hermitage 658 

The Hamlet , \ 659 

The Suicide 659 

The Crusade 660 

The Grave of King Arthur 661 

Sonnet, wrillen after seeing Wilton House 662 

THOMAS BLACKLOCK 662 

The Author's Picture 663 

Ode to Aurora. — On Melissa's Birth-day 664 



CONTENTS. xxxi 



PAGE 

WILLIAM HAYWARD ROBERTS 664 

From "Judah Restored" (Book I.) f'64 

From the same ti;i6 

From Book IV 663 

From Book VI 668 

SIR WILLIAM JONES 669 

A Persian Song of Hafiz 673 

An Ode. — In Imitation of Alcaeus 673 

SAMUEL BISHOP 674 

To Mrs. Bishop 674 

To the same 674 

Epigram. — Quod petls, hie est 674 

Epigram. — Splendeat usu 675 

Epigram. — Quocunque modo rem 675 

JOHN BAMPFYLDE 675 

Sonnet 675 

Sonnet.— To the Redbreast 675 

Sonnet. — On a wet Summer 675 

Sonnet 676 

ROBERT BURNS 676 

The Twa Dogs 680 

Address to the Deil 682 

To a Mountain Daisy 683 

Tam o' Shanter 684 

Song. — "0 poortith cauld," &c 685 

To Mary in Heaven 686 

Song.— To Jessy 686 

Bruce to his men at Bannockburn 686 

Song. — Mary Morison 686 

Song. — "Oh, were I on Parnassus Hill"..; 687 

Song. — "Had I a cave," &c 687 

WILLIAM MASON 687 

Opening Scene of "Caractacus" 690 

From the same 691 

From the same 693 

The Capture of Caractacus (from the same) 694 

Epitaph on Mrs. Mason 695 

An Heroic Epistle to Sir William Chambers 696 

JOSEPH WARTON 698 

Ode to Fancy 700 

The Dying Indian 701 

To Music 701 

WILLIAM COWPER 703 

From "The Task" (Book I.) 710 

Opening of the second Book of "The Task" 711 

From Book IV 712 

From Book VI 713 

On the Loss of the Royal George 714 

Yardley Oak 714 



xxxii CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

To Mary 716 

To Mrs. Anne Bodham 716 

Lines on his Mother's Picture 716 

ERASMUS DARWIN 717 

Destruction of Cambyses' Army (from "The Botanic Garden," Canto II.) 718 

Persuasion to Mothers to suckle their own Children (from Canto III.) 719 

Midnight Conflagration — Catastrophe of the Families of Woodmason and Molesworih 

(from the same) 719 

The heroic Attachment of the Youth in Holland, who attended his Mistress in the Plague 

(from Canto IV.) 720 

JAMES BEATTIE 720 

The Minstrel (Book I.) 722 

CHRISTOPHER ANSTEY 727 

From the New Bath Guide 728 

Appendix ....;.... 731 

Index 739 



ESSAY ON ENGLISH POETEY. 



PART I. 



The influence of the Norman conquest 
upon the language of England was like that 
of a great inundation, which at first buries 
the face of the landscape under its waters, 
but which at last subsiding, leaves behind it 
the elements of new beauty and fertility. 
Its first efi'ect was to degrade the Anglo-Saxon 
tongue to the exclusive use of the inferior 
orders ; and by the transference of estates, 
ecclesiastical benefices, and civil dignities, to 
Norman possessors, to give the French lan- 
guage, which had begun to prevail at court 
from the time of Edward the Confessor, a 
more complete predominance among the 
higher classes of society. The native gentry 
of England were either driven into exile, or 
depressed into a state of dependence on their 
conqueror, which- habituated them to speak 
his language. On the other hand, we re- 
ceived from the Normans the first germs of 
romantic poetry ; and our language was ulti- 
mately indebted to them for a wealth and 
compass of expression which it probably 
vvould not have otherwise possessed. 

The Anglo-Saxon, however, was not lost, 
though it was superseded by French, and 
disappeared as the language of superior life 
and of public business. It is found written 
in prose, at the end of Stephen's reign, nearly 



* As the Saxon Chronicle relates the dpfith of Stephen, 
it must have been written after that event. Ei.MS, Early 
Eng. Poe.ts, vol i. p. 60, and vol. iii. p. 404, Ed. 1801. 

What is commonly called the Saxon Chronicle is con- 
tiniud to the death of Stephen, in 1154, and in the same 
language, though with some loss of its purity. Besides 
the neglect of several grammatical rules, French words 
now and then ohtrude themselves, but not very frequently, 
in the latter pages of this Chronicle.— Hallam, Lit. Hist. 
vol. i. p. 59.— C. 

\ Intrnduction tn Johnson's Dictionary. Nor can it be 
expected, from the nature of things gradually changing, 
that any time can be assigned when Saxon may be said 
to cease, and the English to commence .... Total and 
sudden translormations of a language seldom happen. 
A 



a century after the Conquest; and the Saxon 
Chronicle, which thus exhibits it,* contains 
even a fragment of verse, professed to have 
been composed by an individual who had 
seen William the Conqueror. To fix upon ' 
any precise time when the national speech 
can be said to have ceased to be Saxon, and 
begun to be English, is pronounced by Dr. 
Johnson to be impossible.! It is undoubtr 
edly diificult, if it be possible, from the gra- 
dually progressive nature of language, as 
Avell as from the doubt, with regard to dates, 
which hangs over the small number of spe- 
cimens of the early tongue which we possess. 
Mr. Ellis fixes upon a period of about forty 
years, preceding the accession of Henry III., 
from 1180 to 1216, during which he conceives 
modern English to have been formed.^ The 
opinions of Mr. Ellis, which are always de- 
livered with candour, and almost always 
founded on intelligent views, are not to be 
lightly treated ; and I hope I shall not ap- 
pear to be either captious or inconsiderate in 
disputing them. But it seems to me, that 
he rather arbitrarily defines the number of 
years which he supposes to have elapsed in 
the formation of our language, when he as- 
signs forty years for that formation. He af- 
terwards speaks of the vulgar English having 



About the year 1150. the Saxon began to take a form in 
which the beginning of the present English may be plainly 
discovered : this change seems not to have been the effect 
of the Norman conquest, for very few French words are 
found to have been introduced in the first hundred years 
after it; the language must therefore have, been altered 
by causes lilie those which, notwithstanding the care of 
writers and societies instituted to obviate them, are even 
now daily making innovations in every living language. 
Johnson.— C. 

X It is only justice to Mr. Ellis to give his date correctly. 
1185. " We may fairly infer," Mr. Ellis writes, "that the 
Saxon language and literature began to be mixed with 
the Norman about 1185 ; and that in 1216 the change may 
be considered as complete." — C. 

1 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



mddenly superseded the pure and legitimate 
Saxon.* Now, if the supposed period could 
be fixed with any degree of accuracy to thirty 
01' forty years, one might waive the question 
whether a transmutation occupying so much 
time could, with propriety or otherwise, be 
called a sudden one ; but when we find that 
there are no sufficient data for fixing its 
boundaries even to fifty years, the idea of a 
sudden transition in the language becomes 
inadmissible. 

The mixture of our literature and language 
with the Norman, or, in other words, the 
formation of English, commenced, according 
to Mr. Ellis, in 1180 [5]. At that period, he 
calculates that Layamon, the first translator 
from French into the native tongue, finished 
his version of Wace's' " Brut." This trans- 
lation, however, he pronounces to be still un- 
mixed, though barbarous Saxon.f It is cer- 
tainly not very easy to conceive how the 
sudden and distinct formation of English can 
be said to have commenced with unmixed 
Saxon; but Mr. ElHs, possibly, meant the 
period of Layamon's work to be the date 
after, and not at which the change may be 
understood to have begun. Yet, while he 
pronounces Layamon's language unmixed 
Saxon, he considers it to be such a sort of 



* "The most strikinp; peculiarity," pays Mr. Ellis, "in 
the establishment of our vulgar English is, that it seems 
to have very suddenly superseded the pure and legitimate 
Saxon, from which its elements were principally derived, 
instead of becoming its successor, as generally has been 
supposed, by a slow and imperceptible process." Speci- 
mens of Early English Poetry, vol. iii. p. 404. Conclusion. 

t Mr. KUis (p. 73) says, ''very barbarous Saxon." '• So 
little," says Sir Walti'r Scott in his Review of Mr. Ellis's 
Specimens, "were the Saxon and Norman languagi'S cal- 
culated to amalgamate, that though I-nyamon wrote in 
tlie reign of Henry II., his language is almost pure 
S:ixon; and hence it is probable, that if the mixed lan- 
guage now called English at all existed, it was deemed as 
yet unfit for composition, and only u.sed as a piebald jar- 
gon for carrying on the indispensable intercourse betwixt 
the Anglo-Saxons and Normans. In process of time, 
however, the dialect so much despised made its way into 
the service of the poets, and seems to have superseded the 
use of the Saxon, although the French, being the court 
language, continued to maintain its ground till a later 
period." Misc. Pr. Works, vol. xvii. p. 8. — C. 

X It seems reasonable to infer that Layamon's work 
was composed at or very near the period when the Saxons 
and Normans in this country began to unite into one 
nation, and to adopt a common language. EUis, vol. i. 
p. 75.— C. 

I If Layamon's work was finished in 1180 [1185], the 
verses in the Saxon Chronicle, on the death of William 
the Conqueror, said to be written by one who had seen 



Saxon as required but the substitution of a 
few French for Saxon words to become Eng- 
lish. J Nothing more, in Mr. Ellis's opinion, 
was necessary to change the old into the new 
native tongue, and to produce an exact re- 
semblance between the Saxon of the twelfth 
century, and the English of the thirteenth; 
early in which century, according to Mr. Ellis, 
the new language was fully formed, or, as he 
afterwards more cautiously expresses him- 
self, was "in its far advanced state." The 
reader will please to recollect, that the two 
main circumstances in the change of Anglo- 
Saxon into English, are the adoption of 
French words, and the suppression of tlie in- 
flections of the Saxon noun and verb. Now, 
if Layamon's style exhibits a language need- 
ing only a few French words to be convert- 
ible into English, the Anglo-Saxon must have 
made some progress, before Layamon's time, 
to an English form. Whether that progress 
was made rapidly, or suddenly, we have not 
sufficient specimens of the language, anterior 
to Layamon, to determine. But that the 
change was not sudden but gradual, I con- 
ceive, is much more probably to be presumed.^ 
Layamon, however, Avhether we call him 
Saxon or English, certainly exhibits a dawn 
of English. And when did this dawn appear? 



that monarch, cannot be considered as a specimen of 
the language inimi-diately anterior to Layamon. But 
St. Godric is said to have died in 1170, and the verses 
ascribed to him might have been written at a time nearly 
preceding Layamon's work. Of St. Godric's verses a very 
few may be compared with a few of Layamou'e. 

ST. GODRIC. 

Saints Marie Christie's bur ! 

Maiden's clenhud, Modere's flur! 

Dillie mine sinnen, rix in mini^ mod, 

Bring me to winne with selfe God. 
In English. Saint Mary, Christ's bower — Maiden's pu- 
rity, Motherhood's flower — Destroy my sin, reign in my 
mood or mind — Bring me to dwell with the very God. 

L.WAMOX. 

And of alle than folke 

I'lie wuneden ther on folde, 

Wes thisses londes folk 

Leodeue hendest itald; 

And alswa the wimmen 

Wunliche on beow n. 
In English. And of all the tilk ttiat dwelt on earth was 
this land's folk the handsomest, (people told ;) and also 
the women handsome of hue. 

Here are four lines of St. Godric, in all probability 
earlier than Layamon's; and yet does the English reader 
find Layamon at all more intelligible, or does he seem to 
make any thing like a sudden transition to English, as 
the poetical successor of St. Godric ? 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



Mr. Ellis computes that it was in IISO [5], 
placing it thus late, because Waco took a 
great many years to translate his " Brut" 
from Geoffrey of Monmouth; and because 
Layamon, who translated that " Brut," was 
probably twenty-five years engaged in the 
task.* But this is attempting to be precise 
in dates, where there is no ground for pre- 
cision. It is quite as easy to suppose that 
the English translator finished his work in 
ten as in twenty years ; so that the change 
from Saxon to English would commence in 
12G5 [11G5?], and thus the forty years' ex- 
odus of our language, supposing it bounded 
to 121G, would extend to half a century. So 
difficult is it to fix any definite period for the 
commencing formation of English. It is 
easy to speak of a child being born at an ex- 
press time ; but the birth-epochs of languages 
are not to be registered Avith the same pre- 
cision and facility. t Again, as to the end 
of Mr. Ellis's period: it is inferred by him, 
that the formation of the language was either 
completed or fiir advanced in 12 IG, from the 
facility of rhyming displayed in Robert of 
Glouc3ster,J and in pieces belonging to the 
middle of the thirteenth century, or perhaps 
to an earlier date. I own that, to me, this 
theorizing by conjecture seems like stepping 
in quicksand, Robert of Gloucester wrote 
in 1280;^ and surely his rhyming with fa- 
cility then, does not prove the English lan- 
guage to have been fully formed in 121G. 



* Ware finished his translation in 1155, after, Mr. Ellis 
Bupposes, tliirty ycavo" labdur: l.ayuinun, he assumes, was 
the same prricxl. finishing it in 11S5: ■ perhaps," he says, 
"the earliest date that can be assifcneil to it." Specimens 
of Early English I'm try. vol. i. pp. 75, 76. 

'^Layainou's a^'e," says Mr. liallam, "is uncertain; it 
must have he^'n after 1155. when the orijrinal poem was 
conipli'teU, and can liardly hi; placed b.lnw 12iiO. His 
language is aecounted rather Anglo-Saxon than English." 
Lit. Hid. vol. i. p. .^(1.— C. 

t Nothing can he more difficult, except hy an arbitrary 
line, than todcterniine ihe c<immencemi'nt of the English 
language. When we compare the earliest English of the 
thirteenth century with the Anglo-Saxon of the twelfth, 
it seems hard to pronounce why it should pass for a sepa- 
rate language, rather llian a mo<Iification or siniplifeition 
of ihe former. We must conform, however, to usage, and 
say tliat the Anglo-Saxon was converted into Enjilish — 
It. by contracting or othirwise mudifying the pronun- 
ciation and orthography of words; 2(lly, by omitting 
many inHect on.e. especially of the nouns, and conse- 
quently making more n,«e of articles and auxiliaries; 
3dly, by the introduction of Kreueh derivatives: 4thly. by 
using less inversion and elli(isi.s. es|iecially in poetry. Of 
these, the second alone 1 think can be considered as suf.; 
fiiient to ilescphe a new foiui of language ; and tliis was 
bnnght about ^o i;r;iduall.v, that we are not relieved from 
much of our difScully — whether some compositions shall 



But we have pieces, it seems, which are su^v 
posed to have been written early in th*^ 
thirteenth century. To give any support to 
Mr. Ellis's theory, such pieces must be 
proved to have been produced very early in 
the thirteenth century. Their coming to- 
wards the middle of it, and shoAving facility 
of rhjaning at that late date, Avill prove little 
or nothing. 

But of these poetical fragments supposed 
to commence either Avith or early in the 
thirteenth century, our antiquaries afford us 
dates Avhich, though often confidently pro- 
nounced, are really only conjectural; and in 
fixing those conjectural dates, they are by 
no means agreed. Warton speaks of this and 
that article being certainly not later than 
the reign of Richard I.; but he takes no 
pains to authenticate Avhat he affirms. lie 
pronounces the loA^e-song, "Blow, northern 
wind, bloAV, bloAV, bloAV !" to be as old as the 
year 1200. || Mr. Ellis puts it off only to 
about half a century later. Ilickes places 
the " Land of Cokayne" just after the Con- 
quest. Mr. Warton Avould place it before 
the Conquest, if he Avere not deterred by the 
appearance of a fcAV Norman words, and by 
the learned authority of Ilickes.^ Layamon 
Avould thus be superseded, as quite a modern. 
The truth is, respecting the "Land of Co- 
kayne," that Ave are left in total astonishment 
at the circumstance of men, so well informed 
as Ilickes and Warton, placing it either be- 



pasR for the latest ofTspring of the mother, or the earliest 
fruits of Ihe daughter's f rtility. It is a proof of this di;'- 
ficulty. that the best masters of our ancient langnags 
have lately introduced the word Sinii-S-'axon, »heh is to 
cover every thing fiom 1150 to 1:;50. — U.\LL.iM, Lit. Hint. 
vol. i. p. 67.— C. 

X Kohert of Cjloucester. who is placed by the critics in 
tl e thirteenth century, seems to have useil a Kind of in- 
terundijiti! diction, mithiT Saxon nor English: in his 
work, therifore, we see the transition exhibited. Joii.n- 

SON. — C. 

§ As Robert of Gloucester alludes to the canonization 
of St. Louis in 1297, it is obvious, howevermuch he wrote 
before, he was writing after that event. <S"e Sir F. Mad- 
den's Hiifdnk, p. liH. — C. 

II AVarton says, '-before or about." which is lax enough. 
Piice's Warton. vol. i. p. 28. Ed. 1824.— C. 

% It is not of the '-Land of ("okavni"' that AVarton 
says this, but of a religious or moral ode. consisting of 
one bun red and ninety-one stanzas. I'l-ices Wirtn, 
Tol. i. p. 7. Of the '' hand of Cfikayne"' he has said that 
it is a satire, which clearly exeniiilifii-s th<! Saxon ailul- 
t rati d by the Norman, and was evidentlv wrilten si on 
after the Conquest, at least soon after the reign of Henry 
1 1., p. 9. Mr. Price (p. 7) follows Mr. Campbell in the age 
he would attach to the verse quoted in the first sn-tinn 
of Warton, which is, he says, very arbitrary and uncer 
tain.— C. 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



fore or immediately after the Conquest, as 
its language is comparatively modern. It 
contains allusions to pinnacles in buildings, 
which -were not introduced till the reign of 
Henry III.* Mr. Ellis is not so rash as to 
place that production, which Hickes and 
Warton removed to near the Conquest, ear- 
lier than the thirteenth century ; and I be- 
lieve it may be placed even late in that 
century. In short, where shall we fix upon 
the first poem that is decidedly English? 
and how shall wc ascertain its date to a 
certainty within any moderate number of 
years ? Instead of supposing the period of 
the formation of English to commence at 
1180 [1185?], and to end at 1216, we might, 
Avithout violence to any known fact, extend 
it back to several years earlier, and bring it 
down to a great viamj years later. In the 
fair idea of English we surely, in general, 
understand a considerable mixture of French 
words .f Now, whatever may have been 
done in the twelfth century, with regard to 
that change from Saxon to English Avhieh 
consists in the extinction of Saxon gram- 
matical inflections, it is plain that the other 
characteristic of English, viz. its Gallicism, 
was only beginning in the thirteenth cen- 
tury. The English language could not be 
"said to be saturated with French, till the 
days of Chaucer^ ?'. e. it did not, till his 
time, receive all the French words which it 
was capable of retaining. Mr. Ellis never- 
theless tells us that the vulgar English, not 
gradually, but suddenly, superseded the le- 
gitimate Saxon. When this sudden succes- 
sion precisely began, it seems to be as 
difficult to ascertain, as when it ended. The 
sudden transition, by Mr. Ellis's own theory, 
occupied about forty years ; and, to all ap- 
pearance, that term might be lengthened, 
with respect to its commencement and con- 
tinuance, to fourscore years at least. 

The Saxon language, we are told, had 
ceased to be poetically cultivated for some 
time previous to the Conquest. This' might 
j be the case with regard to lofty efforts of 
! composition; but Ingulphus, the secretary 
■ of William the Conqueror, speaks of the 
popular ballads of the English, in praise of 
their heroes, which were sung about the 

* So says Gray to Mason, {Wnrlcs by Mitford, toI. iii. 
p. 305) ; but this is endeavouring to settle a point by a 
questionable date — one uncertainty by another. — C. 

+ In comparing Robert of Gloucester with Layamon, 
a native of the same county, and a writer on the same 



streets ; and William of Malmsbury, in the 
twelfth centurj', continues to make mention 
of them. J The pretensions of these ballads 
to the name of poetry we are unhappily, 
from the loss of them, unable to estimate. 
For a long time after the Conquest, the na- 
tive minstrelsy, though it probably was 
never altogether extinct, may be supposed 
to have sunk to the lowest ebb. No human 
pursuit is more sensible than poetry to na- 
tional pride or mortification ; and a race of 
peasants, like the Saxons, struggling for 
bare subsistence, under all the dependence, 
and without the protection,- of the feudal 
system, were in a state the most ungenial to 
feelings of poetical enthusiasm. For more 
than one century after the Conquest, as we 
are informed, an Englishman was a term of 
contempt. So much has time altered the 
associations attached to a name, which we 
should now employ as the first appeal to the 
pride or intrepidity of those who bear it. 
By degrees, however, the Norman and na- 
tive races began to coalesce, and their pa- 
triotism and political interests to be iden- 
tified. The crown and aristocracy having 
become, during their struggles, to a certain 
degree, candidates for the favour of the peo- 
ple, and rivals in affording them protection, 
free burghs and chartered corporations were 
increased, and commerce and social intei-- 
course began to quicken. Mr. Ellis alludes 
to an Anglo-Norman jargon having been 
spoken in commercial intercourse, from 
which he conceives our synonym es to have 
been derived. That individuals, imperfectly 
understanding each other, might accidental- 
ly speak a broken jargon, may be easily 
conceived; but that such a lingua Franca 
was ever the distinct dialect, even o*f a mer- 
cantile class, Mr. Ellis proves neither by 
specimens nor historical evidence. The sy- 
nonymes in our language may certainly be 
accounted for by the gradual entrance of 
French words, without supposing an inter- 
mediate jargon. The national speech, it is 
true, received a vast influx of French words ; 
but it received them by degrees, and sub- 
dued them, as they came in, to its own 
idioms and grammar 

Yet, difficult as it may be to pronounce 

subject, it will appear that, a great quantity of French 
had flowed into the language since the loss of Xorraandy. 
II.\LT..\M, Lit. Hist. vol. i p. 61.— C. 

% William of Malmsbury dr»w much of hio ipforma- 
tion from those Saxon baDadfl. 



ENGLISH POETRy. 



precisely when Saxon can be said to have I 
ceased and English to have begun, it must | 
be supposed that the progress and improve- 
ment of the national speech was most con- 
siderable at those epochs which tended to 
restore the importance of the people. The 
hypothesis of a sudden transmutation of 
Saxon into English appears, on the whole, 
not to be distinctly made out. At the same 
time, some public events might be highly 
favourable to the progress and cultivation 
of the language. Of those events, the esta- 
blishment of municipal governments, and of 
elective magistrates in the towns, must have 
been verj- important, as they furnished ma- 
terials and incentives for daily discussion 
and popular eloquence. As property and 
security increased among the people, we may 
also suppose the native minstrelsy to have 
revived. The minstrels, or those who wrote 
for them, translated or imitated Norman ro- 
mances ; and in so doing, enriched the lan- 
guage with many new words, Avhich they 
borrowed from the originals, either from 

* A''ide Tyrwhitt's Preface to the Canterbury Tales, 
where a distinct account is given of the grammatical 
changes exhibited in the rise and progress of Knglish. 

f It is likely that the Normans would have taught us 
the use of rhyme and their own metres, wliether these 
had been known or not to the Anglo-Saxons before the 
Conquest. But respecting Mr. Tyrwhitt's position, that 
we owe all our forms of verse, and the use of rhyme, en- 
tirely to the Normans, I trust tlie reader will pardon me 
for introducing a mere doubt on a subject which cannot 
bo interesting to many. With respect to rhyme, I might 
lay some stress on the authority of Mr. Turner, who, in 
his History' of the Anglo-Saxons, says that the Anglo- 
Saxon Tersification possessed occasional rhyme ; but as 
he admits that rhyme formed no part of its constituent 
character, for fear of assuming Ujo much, let it be ad- 
mitted that we have no extant specimens of rhyme in 
our language before the Conquest. One stanza of a bal- 
lad shall indeed be mentioned, as an exception to this, 
which may be admitted or rejected, at the reader's plea- 
sure. In the mean time let it be recollected, that if we 
have not rhyme in the vernacular verse, we have exam- 
ples of it in the poetry of (he .\nglo-Saxon churchmen — 
abundance of it in Bede's and Boniface's Latin verses. 
We meet also, in the same writers, with lines which re- 
semble modern verse in their trochaic and iambic struc- 
ture, considering that structure not as classical but 
accentual metre. — Take, for example, these verses : 
"Quando Christus Deus noster 

Natus est ex Virgine — " 
which go precisely in the same cadence with such modern 
trochaics as 

" Would you hear how once repining 

Great Eliza captive lay." 
And we have many such lines as these : 
" Ut lloreas cum domino 

In sempiterno solio 

Qua Martyres in cuneo," &c. 
which flow exactly like the lines in L'AlIegro: 



want of corresponding terms in their own 
vocabulary, or from the words appearing to 
be more agreeable. Thus, in a generi;il view, 
we may say that, amidst the early growth 
of her commerce, literature, and civilization, 
England acquired the new form' of her lan- 
guage, which was destined to carry to the 
ends of the earth the blessings from which 
it sprung. 

In the formation of English from its Saxon 
and Norman materials, the genius of the 
native tongue might be said to prevail, as it 
subdued to Saxon grammar and construction 
the numerous French Avords which found 
their way into the language.* But it was 
otherwise with respect to our poetry — in 
which, after the Conquest, the Norman Muse 
must be regarded as the earliest preceptress 
of our own. Mr. Tyrwhitt has even said, 
and his opinion seems to be generally adopt- 
ed, that we are indebted for the use of 
rhyme, and for all the' forms of our versifi- 
cation, entirely to the Normans.f What- 
ever might be the case with regard to our 

"The Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty. 

And pomp, and feast, and revelry. 
With masque, and antique pageantry." 

Those Latin lines are, in fact, a prototype of our own 
eight-.«yll:ible iambic. It is singular that rhyme and such 
metres as the abov e, which are generally supposed to 
have come into the other modern languages from the 
Latin rhymes of the church, should not have found their 
way from thence into the Anglo-Saxon vernacular verse. 
But they certainly did not, we shall be told ; for there is 
no appearance of them in the specimens of Anglo-Saxon 
verse, before the Conquest. Of such specimens, however, 
it is not pretended that we have any thing like a full or 
regular series. On the contrary, many Saxon ballads, 
which have been alluded to by Anglo-Norman writers as 
of c-oufiilerable antiquity, have been lost with the very 
names of their composers. And from a few articles saved 
in sueh a Mieck, can we pronounce confidently on the 
whole contents of the cargo? The following solitary 
stanza, however, has been preserved, from a ballad at- 
tributed to Canute the Great. 

" Merry sungen the Muneches binnen Ely, 
The Cnut Ching reUther by, 
Koweth Cnites noer the land. 
And here we thes Muniches sang." 

" Jlerry sang the Monks in Ely, 
When Canute King was .sailing by : 
Bow,- ye knights, near the land. 
And let us hear these Monks' song." 

There is something very like rhyme in the Anglo-Saxon 

stanza. I have no doubt that Canute heard the monks 

singing Latin rhymes ; and I have .some suspicion that he 

I finished his Saxon ballad in rhyme also. Thomas of Ely, 

who knew the whole song, translates his specimen of it 

in Latin lines, which, whether by accident or design, 

I rhyme to each other. The genius of the ancient Anglo- 

i Saxon poetry, Mr. Turner observes, was obscure, peri- 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



forms of versification, the chief employment 
of our earliest versifiers certainly was to 
transplant the fictions of the Norman school, 
and to naturalize them in our language. 

The most liberal patronage was afforded 
to Norman minstrelsy in England by the 
first kings of the new dynasty. This en- 
couragement, and the consequent cultivation 
of tlie northern dialect of French, gave it 
so much the superiority over the southern or 
troubadour dialect, that the French language, 
according to the acknowledgment of its best 
informed antiquaries, received from England 
and Normandy the first of its works which 
deserve to be cited. The Norman trouveurs, 
it is allowed, were more eminent narrative 
poets than the Provengal troubadours. No 
people had a better right to be the founders 
of chivalrous poetry than the Normans. 
They were the most energetic generation of 
modern men. Their leader, by the conquest 
of England in the eleventh century, conso- 
lidated the feudal system upon a broader 
basis than it ever had before possessed. Be- 
fore the end of the same century. Chivalry 
rose to its full growth as an institution, by 
the circumstance of martial zeal being en- 
listed under the banners of superstition. 
The crusades, though they certainly did not 
give birth to jousts and tournaments, must 
have imparted to them a new spirit and in- 
terest, as the preparatory images of a con- 
secrated warfare. And those spectacles 
constituted a source of description to the 
romancers, to which no exact counterpart is 
to be found in the heroic poetry of antiquity. 
But the growth of what may properly be 
called romantic poetry was not instantane- 
ous after the Conquest ; and it was not till 
" English Richard ploughed the deep," that 
the crusaders seem to have found a place 
among the heroes of romance. Till the mid- 
dle of the twelfth century, or possibly later, 
no work of professed fiction, or bearing any 
semblance to epic fable, can be traced in 
Norman verse — nothing but songs, satires, 
chronicles, or didactic works, to all of which, 
however, the name of Romance, derived from 
the Roman descent of the French tongue, 

phrastical, and elliptical: but, according to that writer's 
conji'cture, a new and humble, but perspicuous Ptyle of 
jioetry was introduced at alatirtime, in the shape of the 
narrative ballad. In this plainer style we may conceive 
the possibiiity of rhyme havini; found a place: because 
the verse would stand in need of that ornament to dis- 
tinsiuish it from prose, more than in the elliptical and 
inverted manner. With regard to our anapaestic mea- 



Avas applied in the early and wide accepta- 
tion of the word. To these succeeded the 
genuine Metrical Romance, Avhich, though 
often rhapsodical and desultory, had still in- 
vention, ingenuity, and design, sufficient to 
distinguish it from the dry and dreary 
chronicle. The reign of French metrical 
romance may be chiefly assigned to the lat- 
ter part of the twelfth, and the whole of the 
thirteenth century ; that of English metrical 
romance, to the latter part of the thirteenth, 
and the whole of the fourteenth* century. 
Those ages of chivalrous song were, in the 
mean time, fraught with events which, while 
they undermined the feudal system, gradu- 
ally prepared the way for the decline of 
chivalry itself. Literature and science Avere 
commencing, and even in the improvement 
of the mechanical skill employed to heighten 
chivalrous or superstitious magnificence, the 
seeds of arts, industry, and plebeian inde- 
pendence Avere unconsciously soAvn. One 
iuA^ention, that of gunpowder, is eminently 
marked out as the cause of the extinction 
of Chivalry ; but even if that invention had 
not taken place, it may well be conjectured 
that the contrivance of other means of mis- 
sile destruction in Avar, and the improvement 
of tactics, would have narrowed that scope 
for the prominence of individual prowess 
which was necessary for the chivalrous cha- 
racter, and that the progress of civilization 
must have ultimately levelled its romantic 
consequence. But to anticipate the remote 
effects of such causes, if scarcely within the 
ken of philosophy, was still less within the 
reach of poetry. Chivalry Avas still in all 
its glory; and to the eye of the poet ap- 
peared as likely as ever to be immortal. 
The progress of civilization evpn ministered 
to its external importance. The early arts 
made chivalrous life, Avith all its pomp and 
ceremonies, more august and imposing, and 
more picturesque as a subject for descrip- 
tion. Literature, for a time, contributed to 
the same effect, by her jejune and fabulous 
efforts at history, in which the athletic Avor- 
thies of classical story and of modern ro- 
mance were gravely connected by an ideal 

sure, or triple-time verse. Dr. Percy has .shown that its ru- 
diments can he traced to Scaldic poetry, 1 1 is often found 
very di.stinct in Lani;lande: and that species of vi^rse, at 
least, I conceive, is not necessarily to be referred to a 
Norman origin. 

* The practice of translating French rhyn ing romances 
into English verse, however, continued down to the reign 
of Henry VII. 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



genealogy.* Thus the dawn of human im- 
provement smiled on the fabric which it was 
ultimately to destroy, as the morning sun 
gilds and beautifies those masses of frost- 
work, which are to melt before its noonday 
heat. 

The elements of romantic fiction have been 
traced up to various sources; but neither 
the Scaldic, nor Saracenic, nor Armorican 
theory of its origin can sufficiently account 
for all its materials. Many of them are 
classical, and others derived from the Scrip- 
tures. The migrations of Science are diffi- 
cult enough to be traced; but Fiction travels 
on still lighter wings, and scatters the seeds 
of her wild flowers imperceptibly over the 
world, till they surprise us by springing up 
with similarity in regions the most remotely 
divided.f There was a vague and unselect- 
ing love of the marvellous in romance, which 
sought for adventures, like its knights er- 
rant, in every quarter where they could be 
found; so that it is easier to admit of all 
the sources which are imputed to that species 
of fiction, than to limit our belief to any one 
of them.J 

Norman verse dwelt for a considerable 

time in the tedious historic style, before it 

Twelfth reached the shape of amusing fable ; 

ceuturj. j^j^^j ^^g gjjjj ^j^g earliest efforts of the 

Native Muse confined to translating Norman 



* Geoffrey of Monmouth's history, of which tlie modern 
opinion Sfems to be, that it was not a forgery, but de- 
rived from an Armorican orijrinal, and the pseudo-Tur- 
pin's Life of Charlemagne, were the prand historical 
magazines of the romancers. [Ellis's Net. Bom. vol. i. 
p. 75.] Popular songs about Arthur and Charlemagne 
(or. as some will have it, Charles Martel), were probably 
the main sources of Turpin's forgery and of Geoffrey's 
Armorican book. Even the proverbial mendacity of the 
pseudo-Turpin must have been indebted for the leading 
hints to songs that were extant respecting Charlemiigne. 
The stream of fiction having thus spread itself in those 
grand pro«e reservoirs, afterwards flowed out from thence 
again in the shape of verse, with a f<irce renewed by ac- 
oiimulation. Once more, as if destined to alternations, 
romance, after the fourteenth century, returned to the 
shape of prose, and in many instances made and carried 
preten.sions to the sober credibility of history. 

t It is common fairness to Mr. Campbell, to say that 
the late Mr. Price has cited this passage as one distin- 
guishable alike for its truth and its lieauly, — that esta- 
blishes the fact that popular fiction is in its nature 
traditive. Intrnd. to Wartnn's Hid. p. 92.— C. 

J Various theories have been proposed for the purpose 
of explaining the origin of romantic fiction. Percy con- 
tended tor a Scandinavian, Warton for an Arabijin, and 
Leyden for an Armorican birth, to which Ellis inclined; 
while some have supposed it to be of Provencal, and 
others of Norman invention. If every argument has not 
been exhausted, every hypothesis has. But all their 
^y.stems, as Sir Walter Scott says, seem to be inaccurate, 



verse, while it still retained its uninviting 
form of the chronicle. The first of the Nor- 
man poets, from whom any versifier in the 
language is known to have translated, was 
Wace, a native of Jersey, born in the reign 
of Henry 11.^ In the year 1155, Wace 
finislred his "Brut d'Angleterre," which is 
a French version of Geofi"rey of Monmouth's 
History of Great Britain, deduced from Bru- 
tus to Cadwallader, in 689. Layamon, a 
priest of Ernleye upon Severn, translated 
Wace's Metrical Chronicle into the verse of 
the popular tongue; and notwithstanding 
Mr. Ellis's date of 1180, [1185?] may be 
supposed, with equal probability, to have 
produced his work within ten or fifteen years 
after the middle of the tAvelfth century. || 
Layamon's translation may be considered as 
the earliest specimen of metre in the native 
language, posterior to the Conquest; except 
some lines in the Saxon Chronicle on the 
death of William I., and a few religious 
rhymes, which, according to Matthew Paris, 
the Blessed Virgin was pleased to dictate to 
St. Godric, the hermit, near Durham ; unless 
we add to these the specimen of Sasor 
poetry published in the Archgeologia by 
Mr. Conybeare, who supposes that compo- 
sition to be posterior to the Conquest, and 
to be the last expiring voice of the Saxon 
Muse.f Of the dialect of Layamon, Mr. 



in so far as they have been adopted exclusively of each 
other, and of the general proposition, — that fables of a 
nature .similar to the Komances of Chivalry, modified ac- 
cording to manners and the state of society, must neces- 
sarily be invented in every part of the world, for the 
same reason that grass grows upon the surface of the 
soil in every climate and in every country. (Misc. P. W. 
vol. vi. p. 174.) "In reality," says Southey, "mythologi- 
cal and romantic tales are current among all savages ot 
whom we have any full account; for man lia-s his intel- 
lectual as well as his bodily appetites, and the.se things 
are the food of his imagination and faith. They are 
found wherever there is language and discourse of reason, 
in other words, wherever there is man. And in similar 
stages of civilization, or states of .socii'ty, the fictions of 
different people will bear a corresponding resemblance, 
notwithstanding the difference of time and scene. Pref. 
to Slnrte. D' Arthur.— C. 

§ Ellis (p. 44) says. Henry I., whom he professes to have 
seen. Warton (p. G7) says he was educated at Caen, was 
canon of Rayeux, and chaplain to Henry II. — C. 

I Two copies of Layamon's or 1-azamon's Brut are in 
the British Museum, Cott. MSS. Calig. A ix. and Otbo C 
13. Warton and Price have only touched incidentally on 
Layamon, from Mr. Ellis and Mr. Campbell's showing, 
oue of the most important authors in the English lan- 
guage. — C. 

f Two specimens of the ancient state of the language, 
viz. the stanzas on old age, beginning " He may him .-ore 
adreden," and the quotation from the Ormulum, which 
Dr. Johnson placed, on the authority of Hickes, nonrly 



FATtLTSH POETRy. 



Mitford, in his Harmony of Languages) ob- 
serv(!S, th it it has " all the appearance of a 
language thrown into confusion by the cir- 
cumstances of those who spoke it. It is 
truly neither Saxon nor English."* Mr. 
Ellis's opinion of its being simple Saxon has 
been already noticed. So little agreed are 
the most ingenious speculative men on the 
characteristics of style, which they shall 
entitle Saxon or English. We may, how- 
ever, on the whole, consider the style of 
Layamon to be as nearly the intermediate 
state of the old and new languages as can 
be found in any ancient specimen: — some- 
thing like the new insect stirring its wings, 
before it has shaken off the aurelia state. 
But of this work, or of any specimen sup- 
posed to be written in the early part of the 
thirteenth century, displaying a sudden 
transition from Saxon to English, I am dis- 
posed to repeat my doubts. 

Without being over credulous about the 
antiquity of the Lives of the Saints, and the 
Thirteenth otlier fragmcuts of the thirteenth 
ceutui,. century, which Mr. Ellis places in 
chronological succession next to Layamon, 
we may allow that before the date of Robert 
of Gloucester, not only the legendary and 
devout style, but the amatory and satirical, 
had begun to be rudely cultivated in the 
language. It was customary, in that age, 
to make the minstrels sing devotional strains 
to the harp, on Sundays, for the edification 
of the people, instead of the verses on gayer 
subjects which were sung at public enter- 
tainments; a circumstance which, while it 
indicates the usual care of the Catholic 
church to make use of every hold over the 
popular mind, discovers also the fondness 
of the people for their poetry, and the attrac- 
tions which it had already begun to assume. 
Of the satirical style I have already alluded 
to one example in the " Land of Cokayne," 
an allegorical satire on the luxury of the 
church, couched under the description of an 
imaginary paradise, in which the nuns are 



after the Conquest, are considered by Mr. Tyrwhitt to be 
of a later date than Layamon's translation. Their lan- 
guage is certainly more modern. 

* Mi/ford, p. 170. In the specimen of Layamon pub- 
lished by Mr. Ellis, not a Gallici.«m is to be found, nor 
even a Norman U'rm : and so far from exhibiting any 
" appearance of a language thrown into confusion by the 
circumstances of those who spoke it," nearly every im- 
portant form of Anglo-Saxon grammar is rigidly adhered 
to; and so little was the language altered at this ad- 
vanced period of Norman influence, that a few slight 



represented as houris, and the black and 
gray monks as their paramours. This piece 
has humour, tliough not of the most deli- 
cate kind; and the language is easy and 
fluent, but it possesses nothing of style, sen- 
timent, or imagery, approaching to poetry. 
Another specimen of the pleasantry of tlie 
times is more valuable; because it exhibits 
the state of party feeling on real events, as 
Avell as the state of the language at a pre- 
cise time.f It is a ballad, entitled "Richard 
of Alemaigne," composed by one of the ad- 
herents of Simon de Montfort, earl of Lei- 
cester, after the defeat of the royal party at 
the battle of Lewes in 1264. In the year 
after that battle the royal cause was re- 
stored, and the earl of Warren and Sir Hugh 
Bigod returned from exile, and assisted in 
the king's victory. In this satirical ballad, 
those two personages are threatened with 
death, if they should ever fall into the 
hands of their enemies. Such a song and 
such threats must have been composed by 
Leicester's party in the moment of their 
triumph, and not after their defeat and dis- 
persion ; so that the date of the piece is as- 
certained by its contents. t This political 
satii-e leads me to mention another, which the 
industrious Ritson published,! and which, 
without violent anachronism, may be spoken 
of among the specimens of the thirteenth 
century; as it must have been composed 
within a few j^ears after its close, and relates 
to events within its vefge. It is a ballad on 
the execution of the Scottish patriots. Sir 
William Wallace and Sir Simon Eraser. 
The diction is as barbarous as we should 
expect from a song of triumph on such a 
subject. It relates the death and treatment 
of Wallace very minutely. The circum- 
stance of his being covered with a mock 
crown of laurel in Westminster Hall, Avhich 
Stowe repeats, is there mentioned ; and that 
of his legs being fastened with iron fetters 
" under his horses toomhe," is told with sa- 
vage exultation. The piece was probably 

variations might convert it into genuine Anglo-Saxon. 
Pkice, Warton, vol. i. p. 109.— C. 

f "Though some make slight of Libels," says Selden, 
"yet you may see by them how the wind sits; as, take a 
straw, and throw it up into the air, you shall see by that 
which way the wind is, which you shall not do by casting 
up a stone. More solid things do not show the complex- 
ion of the timi!S, so well as ballads and libels." — Table Talk. 

I See it in Percy's Reliques, and in Wright's PolUwii 
Songs of England, p. 69. — C. 

§ Ritson's Ancient Songs. 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



indited in the very year of the political 
murders which it celebrates: certainly be- 
fore 1314, as it mentions the skulking of 
Kobert Bruce, which, after the battle of 
Bannockburn, must have become a jest out 
of season.* 

A few love-songs of that early period have 
been preserved, which are not wholly desti- 
tute of beauty and feeling. Their expres- 
sion, indeed, is often quaint, and loaded with 
alliteration; yet it is impossible to look 
without a pleasing interest upon strains of 
tenderness which carry us back to so remote 
an age, and which disclose to us the softest 
emotions of the human mind, in times 
abounding with such opposite traits of his- 
torical recollection. Such a stanza as the 
following! would not disgrace the lyric poe- 
try of a refined age. 

For her love I cark and care, 
For her love I droop and dare ; 
For her love my bliss is bare, 

And all I wax wan. 
For her love in sleep I slake.J 
For her love all night I wake; 
For her love mourning I make 

More than any man. 

In another pastoral strain, the lover says : — 

When the nightingale singes the woods waxen green ; 
Leaf, and grass, and blosme, springs in Averyl, I ween: 
And love is to my heart gone with one spear so keen, 
Night and day my blood it drinks — my heart doth me teen. 

Robert, a monk of Gloucester, whose sur- 
name is unknown, is supposed to have 
finished his Rhyming Chronicle about the 
year 1280. § He translated the Legends of 
Geofi"rey of Monmouth, and continued the 
History of England down to the time of 
Edward I., in the beginning of whose reign 
he died. The topographical, as well as nar- 
rative, minuteness of his Chronicle, has 
made it a valuable authority to antiquaries ; 
and as such it was consulted by Selden, when 
he wrote his Notes to Drayton's "Polyol- 
bion." After observing some traits of hu- 
mour and sentiment, moderate as they may 
be, in compositions as old as the middle of 
the thirteenth century, we might naturally 
expect to find in Robert of Gloucester not 
indeed a decidedly poetical manner, but 
some approach to the animation of poetry. 

* Wright assigns it to 1306. Political Songs, p. 212. 
— C. 

t It is here stripped of its antiquated spelling 

t I am deprived of sleep. 

g Ellis, vol. i. p. 97. It was evidently written after 
the year 1278, as the poet mentions King Arthur's sump- ] 
tuous tomb, erected in that year before the high altar of i 



But the Chronicle of this English Ennius, 
as he has been called, || whatever progress in 
the state of the language it may display, 
comes in reality nothing nearer the charac- 
ter of a work of imagination than Laya- 
mon's version of Wace, which preceded it 
by a hundred years. One would not ima- 
gine, from Robert of Gloucester's style, that 
he belonged to a period when a single effu- 
sion of sentiment, or a trait of humour and 
vivacity, had appeared in the language. On 
the contrary, he seems to take u^ back to 
the nonage of poetry, when verse is em- 
ployed not to harmonize and beautify ex- 
pression, but merely to assist the memory. 
Were we to judge of Robert of Gloucester 
not as a chronicler, but as a candidate for 
the honours of fancy, we might be tempted 
to wonder at the frigidity with which he 
dwells, as the first possessor of such poetical 
ground, on the history of Lear, of Arthur, 
and Merlin ; and with which he describes a 
scene so susceptible of poetical effect as the 
irruption of the first crusaders into Asia, 
preceded by the sword of fire which hung 
in the firmament, and guided them eastward 
in their path. But, in justice to the ancient 
versifier, we should remember, that he had 
still only a rude language to employ — the 
speech of boors and burghers, which, though 
it might possess a few songs and satires, 
could afford him no models of heroic narra- 
tion. In such an age, the first occupant 
passes uninspired over subjects which might 
kindle the highest enthusiasm in the poet of 
a riper period ; as the savage treads uncon- 
sciously, in his deserts, over mines of incal- 
culable value, without sagacity to discover, 
or implements to explore them. In reality, 
his object was but to be historical. The 
higher orders of society still made use of 
French ; and scholars wrote in that lan- 
guage or in Latin. His Chronicle was there- 
fore recited to a class of his contemporaries 
to whom it must have been highly accept- 
able, as a history of their native country 
believed to be authentic, and composed in 
their native tongue. To the fabulou's legends 
of antiquity he added a record of more re- 

Glastonbury church: and he declares himself a living 
witness of the remarkably dismal weather which distin 
guished the day upon which the battle of Evesham was 
fought, in 1266. From these and other circumstances 
this piece appears to have been composed about the year 
1280. Wart ON, vol. i. p hi.—C. 
II By Tom Uearne, his very accurate editor. — C- 



10 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



cent events, with some of which he was con- 
temporary. As a relater of events, he is 
tolerably succinct and perspicuous ; and 
wherever the fact is of any importance, he 
shows a watchful attention to keep the read- 
er's memory distinct with regard to chrono- 
logy, by making the date of the year rhyme 
to something prominent in the narration of 
the fact. 

Our first known versifier of the fourteenth 
century is Robert, commonly called De 
Fourteenth Brunnc. IIc was born (according to 
oenturj. j^jg gditor Ileame) at Malton, in York- 
shire; lived for some time in the house of 
Sixhill, a Gilbertine monastery in Yorkshire ; 
and afterwards became a member of Brunne, 
or Browne, a priory of black canons in the 
same oounty. His real surname Avas Man- 
nyng; but the writers of history in those 
times (as Ilearne observes) were generally 
the religious, and when they became cele- 
brated, they were designated by the names 
of the religious houses to which they be- 
longed. Thus, William of Malmsbury, Mat- 
thew of Westminster, and John of Glaston- 
bui-y, received these appellations from their 
respective monasteries.* De Brunne was, 
as far as we know, only a translator. Ilis 
principal performance is a Rhyming Chron- 
icle of the History of England, in tAvo parts, 
compiled from the Avorks of Wace and Peter 
de Langtoft.t The declared object of his 
work is " Not for the lerid (learned) but for 
the lewed (the Ioav). 

" For thoo that in this land wonn,* 
That the latyn noc Frankysd conn.«" 

He seems to reckon, hoAvever, if not on the 
attention of the " lerid," at least on that of 
a class aboA-e the " lewed," as he begins his 
address to " Lordynges that be noAv here." 
He declares also that his verse Avas con- 
structed simply, being intended neither for 
seggers (reciters), nor harpours (harpers). 
Yet it is clear from another passage, that lie 

* Sir F. MadUen supposes, and on very fair grounds, 
that Mannyng was born at Brunne. Havelok, p. xiv. 
— C. 

+ Peter de Tianprtoft was an Augustine canon of Itrid- 
lington, in Yorkshire, of Norman orijrin. but born in 
Enf,'land. lie wrote an entire History of England in 
French rhymes, down to the end of the reign of Edward 
I. — ll<il>ert de Urunne, in his Chronicle, follows Wace in : 
the earlier part of his history, but translates the latter | 
part of it from I-angtoft. i 

X Virgil, when he carries us hack to very ancient man- j 
nevs, in the picture of Dido's fcas-t. appropriately makes 
aslroiioniy the first subject with which the bard lopas 
Qutertains his audien&t. 



intended his Chronicle to be sung, at least 
by parts, at public festivals. In the present 
day it would require considerable vocal 
powers to make so dry a recital of facts as 
that of De Brunne's work entertaining to an 
audience ; but it appears that he could offer 
one of the most ancient apologies of author- 
ship, namely, " the request of fi-iends" — 
for he says, 

" Men besoght me many a time 
To torn it hot in light rhyme." 

His Chronicle, it seems, was likely to be an 
acceptable work to social parties, assembled 

"For to haf solace and gamen/ 
In follawship when they sit samen.f" 

In rude states of society, A'erse is attached 
to many subjects from which it is aftei'Avards 
divorced by the progress of literature ; and 
primitive poetry is found to be the organ 
not only of history, but of science,t theo- 
logy, and of laAV itself. The ancient laAvs 
of the Athenians Avere sung at their public 
banquets. Even in modern times, and Avithin 
the last century, the laAvs of SAveden Avere 
published in verse. 

De Brunne's versification, throughout the 
body of the Avork, is sometimes the entire 
Alexandrine, rhyming in couplets; but for 
the most part it is only the half Alexandrine, 
with alternate rhymes. He thus affords a 
ballad metre, Avhich seems to justify the 
conjecture of Ilearne, that our most ancient 
ballads Avere only fragments of metrical 
histories. § By this time (for the date of De 
Brunne's Chronicle brings us doAvn to the 
year 1339 1|) our popular ballads must have 
long added the redoubted names of Randal 
[Earl] of Chester, and Robin Hood, to their 
list of native subjects. Both of these Avor- 
thies had died before the middle of the pre- 
ceding century, and, in the course of the 
next hundred years, their names became 
so popular in English song, that Langlande, 
in the fourteenth century, makes it part of 

Cithara crinitus lopas 
Personal aurata, dncuitquse maximus Atlas; 
llic canit errantem lunam, solisque labores. 

jEneid I. 
g "The conjectures of Ilearne," says Warton, (vol. i. 
p, 91), '"were generally wrong." An opinion re-echoed 
in part by Ellis. Sjiec. vol. i. p. 117.— C. 

II Robert De Brunne, it appears, from internal eyi- 
dence, finished his Chronicle in May of that year, — Kit- 
son's Hivot. xn. 

lie began it in 1303, as he tells us himself, in very or 
dinary verse. — C. . 
o Those. — * Live. — c Nor. — <* French. — « Know. 
/ Game. — e Together. 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



11 



the confession of a sluggard, that he was 
unable to repeat his paternoster, though he 
knew plenty of rhymes about Randal of 
Chester and Robin Ilood.* None of the 
extant ballads about Robin Hood are, how- 
ever, of any great antiquity. 

The style of Robert de Brunne is less 
marked by Saxonisms than that of Robert 
of Gloucester; and though he can scarcely 
be said to come nearer the character of .a 
true poet than his predecessor, he is cer- 
tainly a smoother versifier, and evinces more 
facility in rhyming. It is amusing to find 
his editor, Iloarne, so anxious to defend the 
moral memory of a writer, respecting whom 
not a circumstance is known, beyond the 
date of his works, and the names of the 
monasteries where he wore his cowl. From 
his willingness to favour the people with 
historic rhymes for their "fellawship and 
gamen," Ilearne infers that he must have 
been of a, jocular temper. It seems, how- 
ever, that the priory of Sixhill, where he 
lived for some time, was a house which con- 
sisted of women as well as men, a discovery 
Avhich alarms the good antiquary for the 
f\ime of his author's personal purity. " Can 
we therefore think," continues Ilearne, 
" that since he was of a jocular temper, he 
could be wholly free from vice, or that he 
should not sometimes express himself loosely 
to the sisters of that place? This objection 
(he gravely continues) would have had some 
weight, had the priory of Sixhill been any 
way noted for luxury or lewdness; but 
whereas every member of it, both men and 
women, were very chaste, we ought by no 
means to suppose that Robert of Brunne 
behaved himself otherwise than became a 
good Christian, during his whole abode 
there." This conclusive reasoning, it may 
be hoped, will entirely set at rest any idle 
suspicions that may have crept into the 
reader's mind respecting the chastity of Ro- 
bert de Brunne. It may be added, that his 
writings betray not the least symptom of 
his having been either an Abelard among 
priests, or an Ovid among poets. 

Considerably before the date of Robert de 
Brunne's Chronicle, as we learn from De 
Brunne himself, the English minstrels, or 
those who wrote for them, had imitated from 

* PiiTce Plowman's Visions, as quoted by Wurton, (vol. 
i. p. 92.) Langlanile tells it of a friar, purbaps with 
truthful severity.— C. 



the French many compositions more foetical 
than those historical canticles, namely, gen 
nuine romances. In most of those metrical 
stories, irregular and shapeless as they Averc, 
if we compare them with the symmetrical 
structure of epic fable, there was still some 
portion of interest, and a catastrophe brought 
about, after various obstacles and difficul- 
ties, by an agreeable surprise. The names 
of the Avriters of our early English romances 
have not, except in one or two instances, 
been even conjectured, nor have the dates 
of the majority of them been ascertained 
with any thing like precision. But in a 
general view, the era of English metrical 
romance may be said to have commenced to- 
wards the end of the thirteenth century. 
Warton, indeed, would place the commence- 
ment of our romance poetry considerably 
earlier ; but Ritson challenges a proof of any 
English romance being known or mentioned 
before the close of Edward the First's reign, 
about which time, that is, the end of the 
thirteenth century, he conjectures that the 
romance of Ilornchild may have been com- 
posed. It would be pleasing, if it were 
possible, to extend the claims of English 
genius in this department to any considera- 
ble number of original pieces. But English 
romance poetry, having grown out of that 
of France, seems never to have improved 
upon its original, or, rather, it may be al- 
lowed to have fallen beneath it. As to the 
originality of old English poems of this 
kind, we meet, in some of them, with heroes, 
whose Saxon names might lead us to sup- 
pose them indigenous fictions, which had 
not come into the language through a French 
medium. Several old Saxon ballads are al- 
luded to, as extant long after the Conquest, 
by the Anglo-Norman historians, who drew 
from them many facts and inferences; and 
there is no saying how many of these bal- 
lads might be recast into a romantic shape 
by the composers for the native minstrelsy. 
But, on the other hand, the Anglo-Normansi 
appear to have been more inquisitive into 
Saxon legends than the Saxons themselves ; 
and their Muse was by no means so illiberal 
as to object to a hero, because he was not of 
their own generation. In point of fact, 
whatever may be alleged about the min- 
strels of the North Country, it is difficult, 
if it be possible, to find an English romance 
which contains no internal allusion to a 



12 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



Freuch prototype. Ritson very grudgingly 
allows, that three old stories may be called 
original English romances, until a Norman 
original shall be found for them;* while 



* Those are, " The Squire of Low Degree," " Sir Try- 
amour," and " Sir Eglamour." Respecting two of those, 
Mr. Ellis shows, that Ritson might have spared himself 
the trouble of making any concession, as the antiquity 
of The Squire of Low Degree [Ritson, vol. iii. p. 145] re- 
mains to be proved, it being mentioned by no writer be- 
fore the sixteenth century, and not being known to be 
extant in any ancient MS. Sir Eglamour contains allu- 
sions to its Norman pedigree. 

The difficulty of finding an original South British ro- 
mance of this period, unborrowed from a French original, 
seems to remain undisputed : but Mr. Walter Soott, in 
his edition of "Sir Tristrom," has presented the public 
with an ancient Scottish romance, whieli, according to 
Mr. Scott's theorj', would demonstrate the English lan- 
guage to have been cultivated earlier in Scotland than 
in England." In a different part of these Selections 
(p. 17), I have expressed myself in terms of more un- 
qualified assent to the supposition of Thomas of Ercel- 
doune having been an original romancer, than I should 
be inclined to use upon mature consideration Robert 
De Bruune certainly alludes to Sir Tristrem, as "the 
most famous of all gests'' in his time.* He mentions Er- 
celdoune, its author, and another poet of the name of 
Kendale. Of Kendale, whether he was Scotch or Eng- 
lish, nothing seems to be known with certainty. With 
respect to Thomas of Erceldouiie, or Thomas the Rhymer, 
the Auchinleck MS. published by my illustrious friend, 
professes to be the work not of Erceldoune himself, but 
of some minstrel or reciter who had heard the story 
from Thomas. Its language is confessed to be that of the 
fourteenth century, and the MS. is not pretended to be 
less than eighty years older than the supposed date of 
Thomas of Ereeldoune's romance. Accordingly, what-- 
ever Thomas the Rhymer's production might be, this 
Auchinleck MS. is not a transcript of it, but the trans- 
cript of the composition of ."-ome one, who heard the 
story from Thomas of Erceldoune. It is a specimen of 
Scottish poetry not in the thirteenth but the fourteenth 
century. How much of the matter or manner of Thomas 
the Rhymer was retained by his deputy reciter of the 
story, eighty years after the assumed date of Thomas's 
work, is a subject of mere conjecture. 

Still, however, the fame of Erceldoune and Tristrem 
remain attested by Robert De Brunne : and Mr. Scott's 
doctrine is, that Thomas the Rhymer, having picked up 
the chief materials of his romantic history of Sir Tris- 
trem from British traditions surviving on the border, 
was not a translator from the French, but an original 
authority to the continental romancers. It is neverthe- 
less acknowledged, that the story of Sir Tristrem had 
been told in French, and was familiar to the romancers 
of tliat language, long before Thomas the Khymer could 
have set about picking up British traditions on the bor- 
der, and in all probability before he was born. The pos- 
sibility, therefore, of his having heard the story in 
Norman minstrelsy, is put beyond the reach of denial.' 
On the other hand, Mr. Scott argues, that the Scottish 
hard must have been an authority to the continental 
romancers, from two circumstances. In the first place, 
there are two metrical fragments of French romance 
preserved in the library of Mr. Douce,'' which, according 
to Mr. Scott, tell the story of Sir Tristrem in a manner 
corresponding with the same tale as it is told by Thomas 
of Erceldoune, and in which a reference is made to the 
w -thority of a T/tomas. But the whole force of this ar- 



Mr. Tyrwhitt conceives, that we have not 
one English romance anterior to Chaucer, 
which is not borrowed from a French one. 
In the reign of Edward II., Adam Davie, 

gument evidently depends on the supposition of Mr. 
Douce's fragments being the work of one and the sauK 

a " The strange appropriation of the Auchinleck po»>m 
as a Scottish production, when no single trace of the 
Scottish dialect is to be found throughout the whole ro- 
mance, which may not with equal truth be claimed as 
current in the north of England, while every marked 
peculiarity of the former is entirely wanting, can hardly 
require serious investigation. From this opinion the in- 
genious editor himself must long ago have been re- 
claimed. The singular doctrines relative to the rise ami 
progress of the English language in North and South 
Britain may al.so be dismissed, as not immediately rele- 
vant. But when it is seriously affirmed, that the Eng- 
lish language was once spuken with greater purity in tlie 
Lowlands of Scotland, than in this country, we ' Sothrons' 
receive the communications with the same smile of in- 
credulity that we bestow upon the poetic dogma of the 
honest Frieslander : — 

Buwter, breat en green tzies, 
Is guth Inglisch en guth Fries. 
Butter, bread, and green cheese, 
Is good English and good Friese." 
—Price, Wartori's' Hist. vol. i. p. 196. Ed. 1824. 

" As to the Essayist's a-ssertion (Mr. Price'.s) that the 
language of Sir Tristrem has in it nothing distinctively 
Scottish — this is a point on which tlie reader will, per- 
haps, consider the authority of Sir Walter Scott as suffi 
cient to countervail that of the most accomplished Eng- 
lish antiquary " — Lockhart, Advt. to Sir Tristrem, 1S3;5. 
No one has yet satisfactorily' accounted for the Eliza- 
bethian-like Iiiglis of Barbour and Blind Harry, or tlie 
Saxon l.ayamon-like liiglis of Gawain Douglas. Did 
Barbour, who wrote in 1375, write in advance of his age, 
and Douglas, who began and ended his " .^Eueid" in 
1513-14, behind his age? Or did each represent the 
spoken language of the times they wrote in ? For philo- 
logical and poetical inquiry this is matter of moment. 
But is there sufficient material for more than felicitous 
conjecture; and who is equal to the task? If Barbour 
wrote his •' Bruce" a3 we have it, it is perhaps the most 
extraordinary poem in the English language. For the 
age of the fir.st manuscript known, (1488), supposing it to 
have been then written, it is still, though not equally so, 
a wonder. 

Scott's view of the priority in cultivation of Inglis in 
Scotland over England is sanciioned by Ellis in the In- 
troduction (p. 127), to his Metrical Romances. — C. 
t> Over gestes it has the steem 
Over all that is or was, 
If men it sayd as made Thomas.— C. 
c Sir Tristrem, like almost all our Romances, had a 
foreign origin — its language alone is ours. Three copies 
in French, in Anglo-Norman, and in Greek, composed in 
the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, and edited by Frau- 
cisque Michel, appeared in two vols. 8vo, at Loudon in 
1835. But Scott never stood out for Thomas's invention. 
" The tale,'-' he says, '• lays claim to a much higher anti- 
quity." (P. 27. Ed. 1833.) To a British antiquity, how- 
ever. See also Scott's Essay on Romance, in Misc. Prose 
Worlcs, (vol. vi. p. 201,) where he contends that it was de- 
rived from Welsh traditions, though told by a Saxou 
poet.— C. 

d Now, by Mr. Douoe's WiJl, among the Bodleian 
hooks,— C. 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



13 



who was marshal of Stratford-le-Bow, near 
London, wrote " Visions" in verse, which 
appear to be original; and the " Battle of 
Jerusalem," in which he turned into rhyme 
the contents of a French prose romance.* 
In the course of Adam Davie's account of 
the siege of Jerusalem, Pilate challenges 
our Lord to single combat. From the spe- 
cimens afforded by Warton, no very high 
idea can be formed of the genius of this 
poetical marshal. Warton anticipates the 
surprise of his reader, in finding the Eng- 
lish language improve so slowly, Avhen we 
reach the verses of Davie. The historian 
of our poetry had, in a former section, 
treated of Robert de Brunne as a writer 
anterior to Davie ; but as the latter part of 
De Brunne's Chronicle was not finished till 
1339, in the reign of Edward IIL, it would 
be surprising indeed if the language should 
seem to improve when we go back to the 
reign of Edward Il.f Davie's work may be 
placed in our poetical chronology, posterior 
to the first part of De Brunne's Chronicle, 
but anterior to the latter. 

Richard Rolle, another of our earliest 
versifiers, died in 1349. J He was a hermit, 

author — whereas they are not, to all appearance, by the 
same author. A single perusal wiH enable us to observe 
how remarkably they differ in style. They have no ap- 
pearance of being parts of the same story, one of them 
placing the court of King Mark at Tintacjil, the other at 
London. Only one of the fragments refers to the au- 
thority of a Thomas, and the style of that one bears very 
strong marks of being French of the twelfth century, a 
date which would place it beyond the possibility of its 
refirring to Thomas of Erceldoune.o The second of Mr. 
Scott's proofs of the originality of the Scottish Romance 
is, that Gotfried von Strasburg, in a German romance, 
written about the middle of the thirteenth century, refers 
to Thomas of Britania as his original. Thomas of Bri- 
tania is, however, a vague word ; and among the Anglo- 
Norman poets there might be one named Thomas, who 
might have told a story which was confessedly told in 
many shapes in the French language, and which was 
known in Franco before the Rhymer could have flour- 
ished ; and to this Anglo-Norman Thomas, Gotfried might 
refer. Eichorn, the German editor, says, that Gotfried 
translated his romance from the Norman French. Mr. 
Scott, in his edition of Sir Tristrem, after conjecturing 
one date for the birth of Thomas the Rhymer, avowedly 
alters it for the sake of identifying the Rhymer with 
Gotfried's Thomas of Britania, and places his birth before 
the end of the twelfth century. Thi.s, he allows, would 
extend the Rhymer's life to upwards of ninety years, a 
pretty fair age for the Scottish Tiresias ; but if he sur- 
vived 1296, as Harry the Minstrel informs us, he must 
have lived to beyond an hundred.* 

* Ilis other works were, the Legend of St. Alexius, 
from the Latin; Scripture Histories; and Fifteen Tokens 
before the Day of Judgment. The last two were para- 
phrases of Scripture. Mr. Ellis ultimately retracted his 
opinion, adopted from Warton, that he was the author of 
ititled the " Life of Alexander." Printed in 



and led a secluded life, near the nunnery of 
Ilampole, in Yorkshire. Seventeen of his 
devotional pieces are enumerated in Ritson'.s 
" Bibliographia Poctica." The penitential 
psalms and theological tracts of a hermit 
were not likely to enrich or improve the 
style of our poetry; and they are accord- 
ingly confessed, by those who have read 
them, to be very dull. His name challenges 
notice, only from the paucity of contempo- 
rary writers. 

Laurence Minot, although he is conjec- 
tured to have been a monk, had a Muse of 
a livelier temper; and, for want of a better 
poet, he may, by courtesy, be called the Tyr- 
taeus of his age. His few poems which have 
reached us are, in fact, short narrative bal- 
lads on the victories obtained in the reign 
of Edward IIL, beginning with that of Ilal- 
lidown Hill, and ending with the siege of 
Guisnes Castle. As his poem on the last 
of these events was evidently written re- 
cently after the exploit, the era of his poet- 
ical career may be laid between the years 
1332 and 1352. Minot's works lay in ab- 
solute oblivion till late in the last century, 
in a MS. of the Cotton Collection, which was 



AVeber's Collection.— See Elus's Met. Rmn. vol. i. p. 130. 
— C. 

t In this the usual accxiracy and candour of Mr. 
Campbell appear to have forsaken him, Warton's obser- 
vation is far from being a general one, and might have 
been interpreted to the exclusion of De Brunne. That 
such was Warton's intention is obvious, Ac. — Price, 
Warton, vol. ii. p. 62.— C. 

I Ellis, vol. i. p. 146. Warton (vol. ii. p. 90) calls him 
Richard Hampole. — C. 

o This passage is quoted by the late learned Mr. Price 
in his Note to Sir Tristrem, appended to his edition of 
Warton's History. " In addition," says Price, " it may be 
observed that the language of this fragment, so far from 
vesting Thomas with the character of an original writer, 
affirms directly the reverse. It is clear that in the wri- 
ter's opinion the earliest and most authentic narrative 
of Tristrem's story was to be found in the work of Breri. 
From his relation later minstrels had chosen to deviate ; 
but Thoma.s, who had also composed a romance upon the 
subject, not only accorded with Breri in the order of his 
events, but entered into a justification of himself and 
his predecessor, by proving the inconsistency and absur- 
dity of these new-fangled variations. If, therefore, the 
romance of Thomas be in existence, it must contain this 
vindication; the poem in the Auchinleck MS. is entirely 
silent on the subject." — C. 

* There is now but one opinion of Scott's Sir Tristrem 
— that it is not, as he would have it, the work of Thomas 
of Erceldoune, but the work of some after bard, that had 
heard Thomas tell the story — in other words, an imper- 
fect transcript of the Erceldoune copy. Thomas's own 
tale is something we may wish for, but we may despair 
of finding. That Kendale wrote Scott's Sir Tristrem ir 
the fair enough supposition of Mr. David Laing. — Dunbar 
vol. i. p. 38.— 0. 



14 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



supposed to be a transcript of the works of 
Chaucer. The name of. Richard Chawfir 
having been accidental]}^ scrawled on a spare 
leaf of the MS. (probably the name of its 
ancient possessor), the framer of the Cotton 
'catalogue, very good-naturedlj' converted it 
into Geoffrey Chaucer. By this circum- 
stance Mr. Tyrwhitt, when seeking materials 
for his edition of the " Canterbury Tales," 
accidentally discovered an English versifier 
older than Chaucer himself. The style of 
Minot's ten military ballads is frequently 
alliterative, and fias much of the northern 
dialect. He is an easy and lively versifier, 
though not, as Mr. G. Chalmers denominates 
him, either elegant or energetic* 

In the course of the fourteenth century, 
our language seems to have been inundated 
with metrical romances, until the public 
taste had been palled by the mediocrity and 
monotony of the greater part of them. At 
least, if Chaucer's host in the " Canterbury 
Tales" be a fair representation of contem- 
porary opinion, they were held in no great 
reverence, to judge by the comparison which 
the vintner applies to the " drafty rhymings" 
of Sir Topaz.f The practice of translating 
Fi-ench metrical romances into English did 
not, however, terminate in the fourteenth 
century. Nor must we form an indiscrimi- 
nate estimate of the ancient metrical ro- 
mances, either from Chaucer's implied con- 
tempt for them, nor from mine host of the 
Tabard's ungainly comparison with respect 
to one of them. The ridiculous style of Sir 
Topaz is not an image of them all. Some 
of them, far from being chargeable with im- 
pertinent and pi'olix description, are concise 
in narration, and paint, with rapid but dis- 
tinct sketches, the battles, the banquets, and 
the rites of worship of chivalrous life. 
Classical poetry has scarcely ever conveyed 
in shorter boundaries so many interesting 
and complicated events, as may be found in 
the good old romance of Le Bone Florence. J 
(.Miaucer himself, when he strikes into the 
new or allegorical school of romance, has 
many passages more tedious and less afiect- 
ing than the better parts of those simple 
old fablers. For in spite of their puerility 
in the excessive use of the marvellous, their 

* An ctlition of Minot's poi'ms wns one of Ritson's 
many roiitr.butions to tlie elucidation of early Kujjlish 
laii(.'na!,'p and literature. — C. 

t Tlie Lime of Sir Topaz, whieh Chaucer introfluces as 
a parody, undoubtedly, of the rhythmical romances of 



simplicity is often touching, and they have 
many scenes that would form adequate sub- 
jects for the best historical pencils. 

The reign of Edward III. was illustrious 
not for military achievements alone ; it was 
a period when the English character dis- 
played its first intellectual boldness. It is 
true that the history of the times presents 
a striking contrast between the light of in- 
telligence which began to open on men's 
minds, and the frightful evils which were 
still permitted to darken the face of society. 
In the scandalous avarice of the church, in 
the corruptions of the courts of judicature, 
and in the licentiousness of a nobility who 
countenanced disorders and robbery, we 
trace the unbanished remains of barbarism; 
but, on the other hand, we may refer to this 
period for the genuine commencement of our 
literature, for the earliest difi"usion of free 
intjuiry, and for the first great movement of 
the national mind towards emancipation 
from spiritual tyranny. The abuses of reli- 
gion were, from their nature, the most 
powerfully calculated to arrest the public 
attention; and poetry was not deficient in 
contributing its influence to expose those 
abuses, both as subjects of ridicule and of 
serious indignation. Two poets of this pe- 
riod, Avith very different powers of genius, 
and prol)ably addressing themselves to dif- 
ferent classes of society, made the cornip- 
tions of ihe clergy the objects of their satire 
— taking satire not in its mean and personal 
acceptation, but understanding it as the 
moral warfare of indignation and ridicule 
against turpitude and absurdity. Those 
writers Mere Langlande and Chaucer, both 
of whom have been claimed as primitive re- 
formers by some of the zealous historians 
of the Reformation. At the idea of a full 
separation from the Catholic church, both 
Langlande and Chaucer would possibly have 
been struck with horror. The doctrine of 
predostinaticin, which was a leading tenet 
of the first Protestants ; is not, I believe, 
avowed in any of Chaucer's writings, and 
it is expressly reprobated by Langlande. It 
is, nevei-theless, very likely that their works 
contributed to promote the Reformation. 
Langlande, especially, who was an earlier 



the Bire, is interrupted by mine host Tlnrry Ts'IIy with 
the strnniri'St iiml niostenerjietic e.xpn-ssions of total and 
absolute coutempt.— Sir Walter Scott, Misc. I'roie 
Wirl.s, vol. vi. )i. 209.-0. 
X Given iu lUtsou's Old Metrical Romances. 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



15 



Batirist and painter of manners than Chau- 
cer, is undaunted in reprobating the cor- 
ruptions of the papal government. lie prays 
to Heaven to amend the Pope, whom he 
charges with pillaging the Church, interfer- 
ing unjustly with the king, and causing the 
blood of Christians to be wantonly shed; 
and it is a curious circumstance, that he pre- 
dicts the existence of a king, Avho, in his 
vengeance, Avould destroy tlie monasteries. 

The work entitled " Visions of AVilliam 
concerning Piers Plowman,"* and concern- 
ing the origin, progress, and perfection of 
the Christian life, which is the earliest 
known original poem, of any extent, in the 
English language, is ascribed to Robei't 
Langlande [or Longlande], a secular priest, 
born at Mortimer's Cleobury, in Shropshire, 
and educated at Oriel College, Oxford. That 
it was written by Langlande, I believe, can 
be traced to no higher authority than that 
of Bale, or of the printer Crowley ; but his 
name may stand for that of its author, until 
a better claimant shall be found. 

Those Visions, from their allusions to 
events evidently recent, can scarcely be sup- 
posed to have been finished later than the 
year 1302, almost thirty years before the ap- 
pearance of the Canterbury Tales.f 

It is not easy, even after Dr. Whitaker's 
laborious analj'sis of this work, to give any 
concise account of its contents. The gene- 
ral object is to expose, in allegory, the ex- 
isting abuses of society, and to inculcate the 
public and private duties both of the laity 
and clergy. An imaginary seer, afterwards 
described by the name of William, wander- 
ing among the bushes of the Malvern hills, 
is overtaken by sleep, and dreams that he 
beholds a magnificent tower, which turns 
out to be the tower or fortress of Truth, and 
a dungeon, which, we soon after learn, is 
the abode of Wrong. In a spacious plain in 
front of it, the whole race of mankind are 
employed in their respective pursuits; such 
as husljandm,en, merchants, minstrels with 
their audiences, begging friars, and itinerant 
venders of pardons, leading a dissolute life 
under the cloak of religion. The last of 



* The work is commonly cntitli'rt tin' "Visions of Piers 
riowmaii," but incorrwtl.v, for Pii-rs is not the dn-Brarr 
Wlio sees the visions, but one of the rharaclerg who ig 
behelil, and wlio represents the Christiai) life. 

t See Mr. Price's Note in Warlon, vol. ii. p. 101, and 
ilppeudix to the same volume. — C. 



these are severely satirized, A transition is 
then made to the civil grievances of society; 
and the policy, not the duty, of sul^mitting 
to bad princes, is illustrated by the parable 
of the Rats and Cats. In the second canto. 
True Religion descends, and demonstrates, 
with many precepts, how the conduct of in- 
dividuals, and the general management of 
society, may be amended. In the third and 
fourth canto, Mede or Bribery is exhibited, 
seeking a marriage with Falsehood, and at- 
tempting to make her way to the courts of 
justice, where it appears that she has many 
friends, both among the civil judges and 
ecclesiastics. The poem, after this, becomes 
more and more desultory. The author 
awakens more than once ; but, forgetting 
that he has told us so, continues to converse 
as freely as ever with the moral phantasma- 
goria of his dream. A long train of allego- 
rical personages, Avhom it would not be very 
amusing to enumerate, succeeds. In fact, 
notwithstanding Dr. Whitaker's discovery 
of a plan and unitj- in this work, I cannot 
help thinking with Warton, that it possesses 
neither; at least, if it has any design, it is 
the most vague and ill-constructed that ever 
entered into the brain of a waking dreamer. 
The appearance of the visionary personages 
is often sufficiently whimsical. The power 
of Grace, for instance, confers upon Piers 
Plowman, or " Christian Life," four stout 
oxen, to cultivate the field of Truth; these 
are, Matthew, Mark. Luke, and John, the 
last of whom is described as the gentlest i)f 
the team. She afterwards assigns him the 
like number of stots or bullocks, to harrow 
what the evangelists had ploughed; and this 
new horned team consists of saint or stot 
Ambrose, stot Austin, stot Gregory, and 
stot Jerom'e.J 

The verse of Langlande is alliterative, 
without rhyme, and of triple time. In mo- 
dern pronunciation it divides the ear be- 
tween an anapcestic and dactylic cadence; 
though some of the verses are reducible to 
no perceptible metre. Mr. Mitford, in his 
" Harmony of Languages," thinks that the 
more we accommodate the reading of it to 



J Tf some of the eriticisms in this peninl Kssa.v prove 
radier startling to Ihi- zealous admirer of our early lite- 
rature, he will attribute them to the sami- ratise which, 
durinfr an ajre of romantic poetry, makes the rfTusionsot 
Mr. Campbell's Muse appear an echo of the chnste sim- 
plicity and m-asuri'd energy of Attic song.— PracB, War- 
ton, vol. i. p. 107. — C. 



ENGLISH POETRY, 



ancient pronunciation, the more generally 
■we shall find it run in an anapjestic mea- 
sure. His stj^e, even making allowance for 
its antiquity, has a vulgar air, and seems to 
indicate a mind that would have been coarse, 
though strong, in any state of society. But, 
on the other hand, his work, with all its 
tiresome homilies, illustrations from school 
divinity, and uncouth phraseology, has some 
interesting features of originality. He em- 
ploys no borrowed materials ; he is the ear- 
liest of our writers in whom there is a tone 
of moral reflection ; and his sentiments are 
those of bold and solid integrity. The zeal 
of truth was in him ; and his vehement man- 
ner sometimes rises to eloquence, when he 
denounces hypocrisy and imposture. The 
mind is struck with his rude voice, proclaim- 
ing independent and popular sentiments, 
from an age of slavery and superstition, 
and thundering a prediction in the ear of 
papacy, which was doomed to be literally 
fulfilled at the distance of nearly two hun- 
dred years. His allusions to contemporary 
life afibrd some amusing glimpses of its 
manners. There is room to suspect that 
Spenser was acquainted with his works ; and 
Milton, either from accident or design, has 
the appearance of having had one of Lang- 
lande's passages in his mind, when he wrote 
the sublime description of the lazar-house, 
in " Paradise Lost."* 

Chaucer was probably known and distin- 
guished as a poet anterior to the appearance 
of Langlande's Visions. Indeed, if he had 
produced nothing else than his youthful 
poem, " The Court of Love," it was suffi- 
cient to indicate one destined to harmonize 
and refine the national strains. But it is 
likely, that before his thirty-fourth year, 
about which time Langlande's Visions may 
be supposed to have been finished, Chaucer 
had given several compositions to the public. 

The simple old narrative romance had be- 
come too familiar in Chaucer's time to invite 
him to its beaten track. The poverty of his 
native tongue obliged him to look round for 
subsidiary materials to his fancy, both in 
the Latin languagfe, and in some modern 
foreign source that should not appear to be 
trite and exhausted. His age was, unfortu- 
nately, little conversant with the best Latin 

* B. xi. 1. 475, &e. This coincidence is remarked by 
Mrs. Cooper, in her Mutes' Library. — Ellis, vol. i. p. 167 
-C. 

t The Consolation of Boethius was translated by Al- 



classics. Ovid, Claudian, and Statins, were 
the chief faA^ourites in poetry, and Boethius 
in prose.f The allegorical style of the last 
of those authors seems to have given an 
early bias to the taste of Chaucer. In mo- 
dern poetry, his first and long continued 
predilection was attracted by the new and 
allegorical style of romance which had 
sprung up in France in the thirteenth cen- 
tury, under AYilliam de Lorris. We find 
him, accordingly, during a great part of his 
poetical career, engaged among the dreams, 
emblems, flower-worshippings, and amatory 
parliaments of that visionary school. This, 
we may say, was a gymnasium of rather too 
light and jjlayful e.\ercise for so strong a 
genius; and it must be owned, that his alle- 
gorical poetry is often puerile and prolix. 
Yet. even in this walk of fiction, we never 
entirely lose sight of that peculiar grace and 
gayety which distinguish the muse of Chau- 
cer ; and no one who remembers his produc- 
tions of the "House of Fame," and "The 
Flower and the Leaf," will regret that he 
sported for a season in the field of allegory. 
Even his pieces of this description, the most 
fantastic in design and tedious in execution, 
are generally interspersed with fresh and 
joj'ous descriptions of external nature. 

In this new species of romance, we per- 
ceive the youthful muse of the language in 
love with mystical meanings and forms of 
fancy, more remote, if possible, from reality 
than those of the chivalrous fable itself; and 
we could sometimes wish her back from her 
emblematic castles to the more solid ones of 
the elder fable ; but still she moves in pur- 
suit of those shadows with an impulse of 
novelty, and an exuberance of spirit, that 
is not wholly without its attraction and de- 
light. 

Chaucer was afterwards happily drawn to 
the more natural style of Boccaccio, and 
from him he derived the hint of a subject, J 
in which, besides his own original portraits 
of contemporary life, he could introduce 
stories of every description, from the most 
heroic to the most familiar. 

Gower, though he had been earlier distin- 
guished in French poetry, began later than 
Chaucer to cultivate his native tongue. His 
" Confessio Amantis," the only work by 

fred the Oreat and by Quoen Elizabeth. No unfair proof 
of its extraordinnry popularity may lie derived from The 
Quair of King James I. It seems to have been a truly 
regal book.— C. J The Canterbury Tales.— C. 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



which he is known as an English poet, did 
not appear till the sixteenth year of Richard 
II. He must have been a highly accom- 
plished man for his time, and imbued with 
a studious and mild spirit of reflection. His 
French sonnets are marked by elegance and 
sensibility, and his English poetry contains 
a digest of all that constituted the know- 
ledge of his age. His contemporaries greatly 
esteemed him; and the Scottish, as well as 
English writers of the subsequent period, 
speak of him with unqualified admiration. 
But though the placid and moral Gower 
might be a civilizing spirit among his con- 
temporaries, his character has none of the 
bold originality which stamps an influence 
on the literature of a country. He was not, 
like Chaucer, a patriarch in the family of 
' .lius, the scattered traits of whose resem- 
blance may be seen in such descendants as 
Shakspeare and Spenser.* The design of 
his " Confessio Amantis" is peculiarly ill- 
contrived. A lover, whose case has not a 
particle of interest, applies, according to the 
Catholic ritual, to a confessor, Avho, at the 
same time, whimsically enough, bears the 
additional character of a pagan priest of 
Venus. The holy father, it is true, speaks 
like a good Christian, and communicates 
more scandal about the intrigues of Venus 



than pagan author ever told. A pretext is 
afforded by the ceremony of confession, for 
the priest not only to initiate his pupil in 
the duties of a lover, but in a wide range 
of ethical and physical knowledge; and at 
the mention of every virtue and vice, a tale 
is introduced by way of illustration. Does 
the confessor wish to warn the lover against 
impertinent curiosity ? he introduces, apropos 
to that failing, the history of Actaeon, of 
peeping memory. The confessor inquires if 
he is addicted to a vain-glorious disposition ; 
because if he is, he can tell him a story 
about Nebuchadnezzar. Does he wish to 
hear of the virtue of conjugal patience? it is 
aptly inculcated by the anecdote respecting 
Socrates, who, when he received the con- 
tents of Xantippe's pail upon his head, re- 
plied to the provocation with only a witti- 
cism. Thus, with shrieving, narrations, and 
didactic speeches, the work is extended to 
thirty thousand lines, in the course of which 
the virtues and vices are all regularly alle- 
gorized. But in allegory Gower is cold and 
uninventive, and enumerates qualities when 
he should conjure up visible objects. On 
the whole, though copiously stored with 
facts and fables, he is unable either to make 
truth appear poetical, or to render fiction 
the graceful vehicle of truth. 



PART 11. 



Warton, with great beauty and justice, 
compares the appearance of Chaucer in our 
Fifteenth language to a premature day in an 
oentury. j^Qgiig^ sprlug ; aftcr which the gloom 
of winter returns, and the buds and blos- 
soms, which have been called for by a tran- 
sient sunshine, are nipped by frosts, and 
scattered by storms. The causes of the re- 
lapse of our poetry, after Chaucer, seem but 
too apparent in the annals of English his- 
tory, which during five reigns of the fif- 
teenth century continue to display but a 
tissue of conspiracies, proscriptions, , and 
bloodshed. Inferior even to France in lite- 
rary progress, England displays in the fif- 



* Milton was the poetical son of Spenser, and Mr. 
Waller of Fairfax. Spenser more than once insinuatds 
that the soul of Chaucer was transfused iuto his body. 



teenth century a still more mortifying con- 
trast with Italy. Italy too had her religious 
schisms and public distractions; but her 
arts and literature had always a sheltering 
place. They were even cherished by the 
rivalship of independent communities, and 
received encouragement from the opposite 
sources of commercial and ecclesiastical 
wealth. But we had no Nicholas the Fifth, 
nor house of Medicis. In England, the evils 
of civil war agitated society as one mass. 
There was no refuge from them — no enclos- 
ure to fence in the field of improvement — 
no mound to stem the torrent of public 
troubles. Before the death of Henry VI., 

and that he was begotten by him two hundred years af- 
ter his decease. — Driden. Malone, vol. iv. p. 592.— C. 



18 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



it is said that one-liRlf of the nobility and 
gentry in the kingdom had perislied in the 
field, or on the scaffold. Whilst in England 
the public spirit was thus brutalized, whilst 
the value and security of life were abridged, 
■whilst the wealth of the rich was employed 
only in war, and the chance of patronage 
taken from the scholar; in Italy, princes 
and magistrates vied with ea(!h other in call- 
ing men of genius around them, as the 
brightest ornaments of their states and 
courts. The art of printing came to Italy 
to record the treasures of its literary attain- 
ments ; but when it came to England, with 
a very few exceptions, it could not be said, 
for the purpose of diffusing native literature, 
to be a necessary art. A circumstance, ad- 
ditionally hostile to the national genius, may 
certainly be traced in the executions for re- 
ligion, which sprung up as a horrible novelty 
in our country in the fifteenth century. The 
clergy were determined to indemnify them- 
selves for the exposures which they had met 
with in the preceding age, and the unhal- 
lowed compromise which Henry IV. made 
with them, in return for supporting his ac- 
cession, armed them, in an evil hour, with 
the torch of persecution. In one point of 
improvement, namely, in the boldness of re- 
ligious inquiry, the North of Europe might 
already boast of being superior to the South, 
with all its learning, wealth, and elegant 
acquirements. The Scriptures had been 
opened by Wickliff, but they were again to 
become " a fountain sealed, and a spring 
shut up." Amidst the progress of letters in 
Italy, the fine arts threw enchantment 
around superstition; and the warm imagi- 
nation of the South was congenial with the 
nature of Catholic institutions. But the 
English mind had already shown, even 
amidst its comparative barbarism, a stern 
independent spirit of religion ; and from this 
single proud and elevated point of its cha- 
racter, it was now to be crushed and beaten 
down. Sometimes a baffled struggle against 
oppression is more depressing to the human 
faculties than continued submission. 

Our natural hatred of tyranny, and we 
may safely add, the general test of history 
and experience, would dispose us to believe 
religious persecution to be necessarily and 
essentially baneful to the elegant arts, no 
less than to the intellectual pursuits of man- 
kind. It is natural to think, that when pun- 



ishments are let loose upon men's opinions, 
they will spread a contagious alarm from 
the understanding to the imagination. They 
will make the heart grow close and insensi- 
ble to generous feelings, whei-e it is unac- 
customed to express them freely; and the 
graces and gayety of fancy will be dejected 
and appalled. In an age of persecution, 
even the living study of his own species 
must be comparatively darkened to th? poet. 
He looks round on the characters and coun 
tenances of his fellow-creatures ; and instead 
of the naturally cheerful and eccentric va- 
riety of their humours, he reads only a sul- 
len and oppressed uniformity. To the spirit 
of poetry we should conceive such a period 
to be an impassable Avernus, where she 
would drop her wings and expire. Un- 
doubtedly this inference will be found war- 
ranted by a general survey of the history of 
Genius. It is, at the same time, impossible 
to deny, that wit and poetry have in some 
instances flourished coeval with ferocious 
bigotry, on the same spot, and under the 
same government. The literary glory of 
Spain Avas posterior to the establishment of 
the Inquisition. The fancy of Cervantes 
sported in its neighbourhood, though he de- 
clared that he could have made his Avritings 
still more entertaining, if he had not dreaded 
the Holy Office. But the growth of Spanish 
genius, in spite of the co-existence of reli- 
gious tyranny, was fostered by uncommon 
and glorious advantages in the circum- 
stances of the nation. Spain (for we are 
comparing Spain in the sixteenth with Eng- 
land in the fifteenth century) was, at the 
period alluded to, great and proud in an em- 
pire, on which it was boasted that the sun 
never set. Her language was widely dif- 
fused. The wealth of America for a while 
animated all her arts. Robertson says, that 
the Spaniards discovered at that time an ex- 
tent of political knowledge, which the Eng- 
lish themselves did not attain for more than 
a century afterwards. Religious persecu- 
tions began in England, at a time when she 
was comparatively poor and barbarous ; yet 
after she had been awakened to so much in- 
telligence on the subject of religion, as to 
make one-half of the people indignantly im- 
patient of priestly tyranny. If we add to 
the political troubles of the age, the circum- 
stance of religious opinions being silencei? 
and stifled by penal horrors, it will seer 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



more wonderful that the spark of literature 
was kept alive, than that it did not spread 
more widely. Yet the fifteenth century had 
its redeeming traits of refinement, the more 
wonderful for appearing in the midst of such 
unfavourable circumstances. It had a For- 
tescue, although he wandered in exile, un- 
protected by the constitution which he ex- 
plained and extolled in his writings. It had 
a noble patron and lover of letters in Tip- 
toft,* although he died by the hands of the 
executioner. It witnessed the founding of 
many colleges, in both of the universities, 
although they were still the haunts of scho- 
lastic quibbling; and it produced, in the 
venerable Pecock, one conscientious digni- 
tary of the church, who wished to have con- 
verted the Protestants by appeals to reason, 
though for so doing he had his books, and, 
if he had not recanted in good time, would 
have had his body also, committed to the 
flames. To these causes may be ascribed 
the backwardness of our poetry between the 
dates of Chaucer and Spenser. I speak of 
the chasm extending to, or nearly to Spen- 
ser; for, without undervaluing the elegant 
talents of Lord Surrey, I think we cannot 
consider the national genius as completely 
emancipated from oppressive circumstances, 
till the time of Elizabeth. There was indeed 
a commencement of our poetry under Henry 
VIII. It was a fine, but a feeble one. Eng- 
lish genius seems then to have come forth, 
but half assured that her day of emancipa- 
tion was at hand. There is something me- 
lancholy even in Lord Surrey's strains of 
gallantry. The succession of Henry YIII. 
gave stability to the government, and some 
degree of magnificence to the state of so- 
ciety. But tyranny was not yet at an end; 
and to judge, not by the gross buffoons, but 
by the few minds entitled to be called poeti- 
cal, which appear in the earlier part of the 
sixteenth century, we may say that the 
English Muse had still a diffident aspect and 
a faltering tone. 



* Earl of Worcester. f In his Bibliographia Poetica. 

J Vide p. 15 of these Selections. lie translated lari;ely 
from the French and Latin. His principal poems are, 
"The Fall of Princes," "the Siejre of Thfbes," and "The 
Destruction of Troy." The first of these is from Lau- 
rent's French version of Boccaccio's book " De Casibus 
virorum et feminarum illustrium." His "Siege of 
Thebes," which was intended as an additional Canterbury 
Tale, and in the introduction to which he feigns himself 
in company with "the host of the Tabard and the Pil- 
grims," is compiled from Guido Colonua, Statins, and 



There is a species of talent, however, 
which may continue to indite what is called 
poetry, without having its sensibilities deep- 
ly affected by the circumstances of society; 
and of luminaries of this descijiption our 
fifteenth century was not destitute. Ritson 
has enumerated about seventy of them.f 
Of these, Occleve and Lydgate were the 
nearest successors to Chaucer. Occleve 
speaks of himself as Chaucer's scholar. He 
has, at least, the merit of expressing the 
sincerest enthusiasm for his master. But it 
is difficult to controvert the character which 
has been generally assigned to him, that of 
a flat and feeble writer. Excepting the 
adoption of his story of Fortunatus, by 
William Browne, in his pastorals, and the 
modern republication of a few of his pieces, 
I know not of any public compliment 
which has ever been paid to his poetical me- 
mory. 

Lydgate is ailtogether the most respectable 
versifier of the fifteenth century. A list of 
two hundred and fifty of the productions 
ascribed to him (which is given in Ritson's 
Bibliographia Poetica) attests, at least, the 
fluency of his pen; and he seems to have 
ranged with the same facility through the 
gravest and the lightest subjects of compo- 
sition. Ballads, hymns, ludicrous stories, 
legends, romances, and allegories, Avere 
equally at his command. Verbose and dif- 
fuse as Dan John of Bury must be allowed 
to have been, he is not Avithout occasional 
touches of pathos. The poet Gray was the 
first in modern times who did him the jus- 
tice to observe them. J His " Fall of Princes" 
may also deserve notice, in tracing back the 
thread of our national poetry, as it is more 
likely than any other English production to 
have suggested to Lord Sackville the idea 
of his " Mirror for Magistrates." The " Mir- 
ror for Magistrates" again gav6 hints to 
Spenser in allegory, and may also have pos- 
sibly suggested to Shakspeare the idea of 
his historical plays. 



Seneca. His " Destruction of Troy" is from the work of 
Guido Colonna, or from a French translation of it. His 
" London Lickpenny" is curious, for the minute picture 
of the metropolis, which it exhibits, in the fifteenth cen- 
tury. A specimen of liydi.'ate's humour may be seen in 
his tale of "The Prioress and her Three Wooers," whicti 
Mr. Jamieson has given in his "Popular Ballads and 
Songs," [vol. i. pp. 249—266]. I had transcribed it from 
a manuscript in the British Museum, fHarl. MS. 7S] 
thinking that it was not in print, but found that Mr 
Jamiesou had anticipated me. 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



I know not if Hardynge,* who belonged 
to the reign of Edward IV., be worth men- 
tioning, as one of the obscure luminaries of 
this benighted age. He left a Chronicle of 
the History of England, which possesses an 
incidental interest from his having been 
himself a witness to some of the scenes 
which he records ; for he lived in the family 
of the Percys, and fought under the ban- 
ners of Hotspur; but from the style of his 
versified Chronicle, his head would appear 
to have been much better furnished for su.s- 
taining the blows of the battle, than for 
contriving its poetical celebration. 

The Scottish poets of the fifteenth, and 
of a part of the sixteenth century, would 
End of the also justly demand a place in any 
fifternth and historv of our poetry that meant to 

beginning of -^ . , . 

thesiiteenth bc copious aud minutc ; as the 
northern "makers," notAvithstand- 
ing the diiference of dialect, generally de- 
nominate their language " Inglis." Scotland 
produced an entire poetical version of the 
^neid, before Lord Surrey had translated 
a single book of it; indeed before there was 
an English version of any classic, excepting 
Boethius, if he can be called a classic. 
Virgil was only known in the English lan- 
guage through a romance on the Siege of 
Troy, published by Caxton, which, as Bishop 
Douglas observes, in the prologue to his 
Scottish Jllneid, is no more like Virgil than 
the devil is like St. Austin. f Perhaps the 
resemblance may not even be so great. But 
the Scottish poets, after all that has been 
said of them, form nothing like a brilliant 
revival of poetry. They are, on the whole, 
Superior indeed, in spirit and originality to 
their English cotemporaries, which is not 
paying much; but their style is, for the most 
part, cast, if possible, in a worse taste. The 
prevailing fault of English diction, in the 
fifteenth century, is redundant ornament, 
and an affectation of anglicising Latin 
words. In this pedantry and use of " aureate 
terms," the Scottish versifiers Avent even be- 



* A kind of Robert of Gloucester redivimis. Sir Wal- 
ter Scott, Misc. Pr. Works, vol. xvii. p. 13. — C. 

t Warton, vol. iii. p. 112. Douglas is said to have writ- 
ten his translation in the short space of sixteen months, 
and to have finished it in 1513. This was before Surrey 
was horn. — C. 

X To the reign of Henry VI. belongs Henry Lonelich, 
who plied the unpoetical trade of a skinner, and who 
translated the French romance of St. Graal ; Thomas 
Cbestre, who made a free and enlarged version of the Lai 
do Lanval, of the French poetess Marie; and Robert 



yond their brethren of the south. Some 
exceptions to the remark, I am aware, may 
be found in Dunbar, who sometimes exhibits 
simplicity and lyrical terseness; but even 
Ids style has frequent deformities of quaint- 
ness, false ornament, and alliteration. The 
rest of them, when they meant to be most 
eloquent, tore up words from the Latin, 
which never took root in the language, like 
children making a mock garden with floAv- 
ers and branches stuck in the ground, which 
speedily wither. 

From Lydgate down to Wyat and Surrey, 
there seem to be no southern writers deserv- 
ing attention, unless for the purposes of the 
antiquary, excepting Ilawes, Barklay, and 
Skclton ; and even their names might per- 
haps be omitted, without treason to the 
cause of taste. J 

Stephen HaAves,| who Avas groom of the 
chamber to Henry VII., is said to have been 
accomplished in the literature of France and 
Italy, and to have travelled into those coun- 
tries. His most important production is the 
" Pastyme of Pleasure," || an allegorical ro- 
mance, the hero of which is Grandamour or 
Gallantry, and the heroine La Belle Pucelle, 
or Perfect Beauty. In this work the per- 
sonified characters have all the capricious- 
ness and A'ague moral meaning of the old 
French allegorical romance; but the pueril- 
ity of the school remains, Asdiile the zest of 
its novelty is gone. There is also in his 
foolish personage of Godfrey Gobelive, some- 
thing of the burlesque of the Avorst taste of 
Italian poetry. It is certainly very tiresome 
to folloAvIIawes'shero, Grandamour, through 
all his adventures, studying grammar, rlie- 
toric, and arithmetic, in the tOAver of Doc- 
trine; afterAvards slaughtering giants, who 
have each two or three emblematic heads ; 
sacrificing to heathen gods ; then marrying 
according to the Catholic rites ; and, finally, 
relating his own death and burial, to which 
he is so obliging as to add his epitaph. Yet, 
as the story seems to be of HaAves's inven- 



Thornton, who versified the "Morte Arthur" in the, al- 
literative me.asure of Langlande. 

2 A bad imitator of Lydgate, ten times more tedious 
than his original. Sir Walter Scott, ^fisc. Pr. Works, 
vol. xvii. p. 13. — C. 

II He also wrote the "Temple of Glass," the substance 
of which is taken from Chaucer's "House of Fame." 

The Temple of Glass is now, as Mr. Hallam observes, by 
general consent, restored to Lydgate. — Lit. Hist. vol. I 
p. 432 ; and Price's Warton, vol. iii. pp. 46, 47.— C. 



ENGLISH POETRY, 



21 



tion, it ranks liim above the mere chroniclers 
and translators of the age. Warton praises 
him for improving on the style of Lydgate.* 
His language may be somewhat more mo- 
dern, but in vigour or harmony, I am at a 
loss to perceive in it any superiority. The 
indulgent historian of our poetry has, how- 
ever, quoted one fine line from him, describ- 
ing the fiery breath of a dragon, which 
guarded the island of beauty: 

"The fire was great; it made the island light." 

Every romantic poem in his own language 
is likely to have interested Spenser; and if 
there were many such glimpses of magnifi- 
cence in Hawes, we might suppose the au- 
thor of " The Fairy Queen" to have cher- 
ished his jj^outhful genius by contemplating 
them; but his beauties are too few and 
faint to have afforded any inspiring example 
to Spenser. 

Alexander Barklay was a priest of- St. 
Mary Otterburne, in Devonshire, and died 
at a great age at Croydon, in the year 1552. 
His principal work was a free translation of 
Sebastian Brandt' sf " Navis Stultifera," en- 
larged with some satirical strictures of his 
own upon the manners of his English con- 
temporaries. His " Ship of Fuols" has been 
as often quoted as most obsolete English 
poems ; but if it were not obsolete it would 
not be quoted. He also wrote Eclogues, 
which are curious as the earliest pieces of 
that kind in our language. From their title 
we might be led to expect some interesting 
delineations of English rural customs at 
that period. But Barklay intended to be a 
moralist, and not a painter of nature ; and 
the chief, though insipid moral which he 
inculcates is, that it is better to be a clown 
than a courtier.J The few scenes of country 
life which he exhibits for that purpose are 
singularly ill fitted to illustrate his docti-ine, 
and present rustic existence under a mise- 
rable aspect, more resembling the cai-icature 
of Scotland in Churchill's " Prophecy of 
Famine," than any thing which we can 
imagine to have ever been the general con- 
dition of English peasants. The speakers, in 



* Hist. vol. iii. p. hi. " Hawes has added new graces 
to Lydgate's manner." — C. 

t Sebastian Brandt was a civilian of Basil. 

X Barklay gives some sketches of uianni^rs: hut they 
are those of the town, not the country. Warton is partial 
to his black-letter eclogues, because they contain allu- 
sions to the customs of the age. They certainly inform 
us at what hour our ancestors usually dined, supped, and 
went to bed ; that they were lond of good eating ; and 



one of his eclogues, lie littered among straw, 
for want of a fire to keep themselves warm ; 
and one of them expresses a wish that the 
milk for dinner may be curdled, to save 
them the consumption of bread. As the 
writer's object was not to make us pity but 
esteem the rustic lot, this picture of English 
poverty can only be accounted for by sup- 
posing it to have been drawn from partial 
observation, or the result of a bad taste, 
that naturally delighted in sqvialid subjects 
of description. Barklay, indeed, though he 
has some stanzas which might be quoted for 
their strength of thought and felicity of ex- 
pression, is, upon the whole, the least ambi- 
tious of all writers to adorn his conceptions 
of familiar life with either dignity or beauty. 
An amusing instance of this occurs in one 
of his moral apologues : Adam, he tells us 
in verse, was one day abroad at his work — 
Eve was at the door of the house, with her 
children playing about her; some of them 
she was " kembing," says the poet, prefix- 
ing another participle not of the most deli- 
cate kind, to describe the usefulness of the 
comb. Her Maker having deigned to pay 
her a visit, she was ashamed to be found 
with so many ill-dressed children about her, 
and hastened to stow a number of them out 
of sight ; some of them she concealed under 
hay and straw, others she put up the chim- 
ney, and one or two into ^ " tub of draff." 
Having produced, however, the best looking 
and best dressed of them, she was delighted 
to hear their Divine Visitor bless them, and 
destine some of them to be kings and em- 
perors, some dukes and barons, and others 
sheriffs, mayors, and aldermen. Unwilling 
that any of her family should forfeit bless- 
ings whilst they were going, she immediately 
drew out the remainder from their conceal- 
ment ; but when they came forth, they were 
so covered Avith dust and cobwebs, and had 
so many bits of chaff and straw sticking to 
their hair, that instead of receiving bene- 
dictions and promotion, they were doomed 
to vocations of toil and poverty, suitable to 
their dirty appearance. 

that it was advisable, in the poet's opinion, for any one 
who attempted to help himself to a favourite dish at 
their bamiuets to wear a gauntlet of mail. Quin. tlie 
player who probably never had beard of Barklay. deli- 
vend at a much later period a similar observation on 
city feasts: namely, that the candidate fur a good dish nl 
turtle ought never to be without a basket-hiltod knife 
and fork. 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



Jolm Skelton, who was the rival and con- 
temporary of Barklay, was laureate to the 
University of Oxford, and tutor to the prince, 
afterwards Henry YIII. Erasmus must 
have been a bad judge of English poetry, or 
must have alluded only to the learning of 
Skelton, when in one of his letters he pro- 
nounces him " Britannicarum literarum 
lumen et d^cus." There is certainly a ve- 
hemence and vivacity in Skelton, which was 
worthy of being guided by a better taste; 
and the objects of his satire bespeak some 
degree of public spirit.* But his eccen- 
tricity in attempts at humour is at once vul- 
gar and flippant; and his style is almost a 
texture of slang phrases, patched with 
shreds of French and Latin. We are told, 
indeed, in a periodical work of the present 
day, that his manner is to be excused, be- 
cause it was assumed for " the nonce," and 
was suited to the taste of his contemporaries. 
But it is surely a poor apology for the satir- 
ist of any age, to say that he stooped to hu- 
mour its vilest taste, and could not ridicule 
vice and folly without degrading himself to 
buffoonery. t Upon the whole, we might 
regard the poetical feeling and genius of 
England as almost extinct at the end of the 
fifteenth century, if the beautiful ballad of 
the " Nut-brown Maid" were not to be re- 
ferred to that period. J It is said to have 
been translated J'rom the German ; but even 



* He was the determined enemy of the mendicant 
friars and of Cardinal Wolsey. The courtiers of Henry 
Till., whilst obliged to flatter a minister whom they de- 
tested, could not but be (rratified with Skelton's boldness 
in singly daring to attack him. In his picture of Wolsey 
at the Council Board, he thus describes the imperious 
minister : 

" in chamber of Stars 

All matters there he mars; 

Clapping his rod on the board, 

No man dare speak a word ; 

For he hath all the saying, 

Without any renaying. 

He rolleth in his Records, 

He sayeth. How say ye, my lords. 

Is not my reason good ? 

Good even, good Robin Hood. 

Some say yes, and some 

Sit still, as they were dumb." 
These lines are a remarkable anticipationa of the vei-y 
words in the fifteenth article of the charges preferred 
agJiinst Wolsey by the Parliament of 1529. "That the 
said Lord Cardinal, sitting among the Lords and other of 
your majesty's most honourable council, used him.self .so, 
that if any man would show his mind according to his 
duty, he would so take him up with his accustomable 
words, that they were better to hold their peace than to 
speak, so that he would hear no more speak, but one or 
two great personages, so that he would have all the words 



considered as a translation, it meets us as a 
surprising flower amidst the winter-solstice 
of our poetry. 

The liteiary character of England was 
not established till near the end of the six- 
Biiieenth tecuth ccutury, at the beginning of 
Century, ^j^j^j. ceutury, immediately anterior to 
Lord Surrey, we find Barklay and Skelton 
popular candidates for the foremost honours 
of English poetry. They are but poor 
names. Yet slowdy as the improvement of 
our poetry seems to proceed in the early part 
of the sixteenth century, the circumstances 
which subsequently fostered the national 
genius to its maturity and magnitude, begin 
to be distinctly visible even before the year 
1500. The accession of Henry VII., by 
fixing the monarchy and the prospect of its 
regular succession, forms a great era of com- 
mencing civilization. The art of printing, 
which had been introduced in a former pe- 
riod of discord, promised to difi"use its light 
in a steadier and calmer atmosphere. The 
great discoveries of navigation, by quicken- 
ing the intercourse of European nations, 
extended their influence to England. In 
the short portion of the fifteenth century 
during which printing was known in this 
country, the press exhibits our literature at 
a lower ebb than even that of France ; but 
before that century was concluded, the tide 
of classical learning had fairly set in, Eng- 

himself, and consumed much time without a fair tale." 
His ridicule drew down the wrath of Wolsey, who or- 
dered him to be apprehended. But Skelton fled to the 
sanctuary of Westminster Abbey, where he was pro- 
tected ; and died in the same year in which Wolsey's 
prosecutors drew up the article of impeachment, so simi- 
lar to the satire of the poet. 

+ I know Skelton only by the modern edition of his 
works, dated 1736. But from this stupid publication I 
can easily discover that he was no ordinary man. Why 
Warton and the writers of his school rail at him vehe- 
mently I know not; he was perhaps the lie.«t scholar of 
his day, and displays on many occasions strong powers 
of description, and a vein of poetry that shines through 
all the rubbish which ignorance has spread over it. He 
flew at high game, and therefore occasionally called in 
the aid of vulgar ribaldry to mask the direct attack of 
his satire. — Gifford, Jims'm. vol. viii. p. 77. 

The power, the strangeness, the volubility of his lan- 
guage, the intrepidity of his satire, and the perfect origi- 
nality of his manner, render Skelton one of the most 
extraordinary poets of any age or country. — Southet, 
Specimens and Quar. Hev. vol. xi. p. 485. 

Mr. Hallam is not so kind : but till Mr. Dyce gives us 
his long-promised edition of Skelton. we know the old 
rough, ready-witted writer very imperfectly.— C. 

J Warton places it about the year 1500. It was in print 
in 1521, if not a little earlier.— C. 

a Neve's Cursory Remarks on the English Poets 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



23 



land had received Erasmus, and had pro- 
duced Sir Thomas More. The English 
poetry of the last of these great men is in- 
deed of trifling consequence, in comparison 
with the general impulse which his other 
writings must have given to the age in which 
he lived. But every thing that excites the 
dormant intellect of a nation must be re- 
garded as contributing to its future poetry. 
It is possible, that in thus adverting to the 
diffusion of knowledge (especially classical 
knowledge) which preceded our golden age 
of originality, we may be challenged by the 
question, how much the greatest of all our 
poets was indebted to learning. We are apt 
to compare such geniuses as Shakspeare to 
comets in the moral universe, which baffle 
all calculations as to the causes which ac- 
celerate or retard their appearance, or from 
which we can predict their return. But 
those phenomena of poetical inspiration are, 
in fact, still dependent on the laws and light 
of the system which they visit. Poets may 
be indebted to the learning and philosophy 
of their age, without being themselves men 
of erudition, or philosophers. When the 
fine spirit of truth has gone abroad, it 
passes insensibly from mind to mind, inde- 
pendent of its direct transmission from 
books ; and it comes home in a more wel- 
come shape to the poet, when caught from 
his social intercoui-se with his species, than 
from solitary study. Shakspeare's genius 
was certainly indebted to the intelligence 
and moral principles which existed in his 
age, and to that intelligence and to those 



* Namely, in the year 1535. The decline of Aristotle's 
authority, and that of scholastic divinity, though to a 
certain degree connected, are not, however, to be identi- 
fied. What were called the doctrines of Aristotle by the 
schoolmen, were a mass of metaphysics estaljlished in 
his name, first by Arabic commentators, and afterwards 
by Catholic doctors : among the latter of whom, many 
expounded the philosophy of the Stagyrite without un- 
derstanding a word of the original language in which his 
doctrines were written. Some Platonic opinions had also 
mi.xed with the metaphysics of the schoolmen. Aristotle 
was nevertheless their main authority ; though it is pro- 
bable that, if he had come to life, he would not have 
fathered much of the philosophy which rested on his 
name. Some of the reformers threw off scholastic divi- 
nity and Aristotle's authority at once ; but others, while 
they aljured the schoolmen, adhered to the Peripatetic 
system. In fact, until the revival of letters, Aristotle 
could not be said, with regard to the modern world, to be 
either fully known by his own works, or fairly tried by 
his own merits. Though ultimately overthrown by Ba- 
con, his writings and his name, in the age immediately 
preceding Bacon; had ceased to be a mere stalking-horse 
to the schoolmen, and he was found to contain heresies 
which the Catholic metaphysicians had little suspected. 



moral principles, the revival of classical 
literature undoubtedly contributed. So also 
did the revival of pulpit eloquence, and the 
restoration of the Scriptures to the people 
in their native tongue. The dethronement 
of scholastic philosophy, and of the supposed 
infallibility of Aristotle's authority, an au- 
thority at one time almost paramount to that 
of the Scriptures themselves, was another 
good connected with the Reformation; for 
though the logic of Aristotle long continued 
to be formally taught, scholastic theology 
was no longer sheltered beneath his name. 
Bible divinity superseded the glosses of the 
schoolmen, and the writings of Duns Scotus 
were consigned at Oxford to proclaimed con- 
tempt.* The reign of true philosophy was 
not indeed arrived, and the Reformation it- 
self produced events tending to retard that 
progress of literature and intelligence, which 
had sprung up under its first auspices. 
Still, with partial interruptions, the culture 
of classical literature proceeded in the six- 
teenth century ; and, amidst that culture, it 
is difficult to conceive that a system of Greek 
philosophy more poetical than Aristotle's, 
was without its influence on the English 
spirit — namely, that of Plato. That Eng- 
land possessed a distinct school of Platonic 
philosophy in the sixteenth century, cannot, 
I believe, be affirmed,! but we hear of the 
Platonic studies of Sir Philip Sydney ; and 
traits of Platonism are sometimes beauti- 
fully visible in the poetry of Surrey and 
of Spenser.J The Italian Muse communi- 
cated a tinge of that spirit to our poetry, 

■f- Enfield mentions no English school of Platonism 
before the time of Gale and Cudworth. 
Hallam is equally silent.— C. 

X In one of Spenser's hymns on Love and Beauty, he 
breathes tliis Platonic doctrine. 

«' Every spirit, as it is most pure 

And hath in it the more of heavenly light, 
So it the fairer body doth procure 
To habit in, and it more fairly dight 
With cheerful grace and amiable sight; 
For of the soul the body form doth take, 
For soul is form, and doth the body make." 
So, also, Surrey to his fair Geraldine. 

"The golden gift that Nature did thee give, 
To fasten friends, and feed them at thy will 
With form and favour, taught me to believe 
How thou art made, to shoiv her gre.atest sl-ill." 
This last thought was probably suggested by the line« 
in Petrarch, which express a doctrine of the Platonir 
school, respecting the idea or origin of beauty. 
" In qual parte del ciel', in quale idea 
Era I'esempio onde Natura tolse 
Quel be! viso leggiadro, in che ella vrlse 
Mostrar quaggiCl, quant6 lassi potea." 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



which must have been farther excited in the 
minds of poetical scholars by the influence 
of Grecian literature. Hurd indeed ob- 
serves, that the Platonic doctrines had a 
deep influence on the sentiments and cha- 
racter of Spenser's age. They certainly 
form a very poetical creed of philosophy. 
The Aristotelian system was a vast me- 
chanical labyrinth, which the human facul- 
ties were chilled, fatigued, and darkened by 
exploring. Plato, at least, expands the ima- 
gination, for he was a great poet ; and if he 
had put in practice the law respecting poets, 
which he prescribed to his ideal republic, he 
must have begun by banishing himself. 

The Reformation, though ultimately bene- 
ficial to literature, like all abrupt changes in 
society, brought its evil with its good. Its 
establishment under Edward VI. made the 
English too fanatical and polemical to attend 
to the finer objects of taste. Its commence- 
ment under Henry VIII., however promis- 
ing at first, was too soon rendered frightful, 
by bearing the stamp of a tyrant's charac- 
ter, who, instead of opening the temple of 
religious peace, established a Janus-faced 
persecution against both the old and new 
opinions. On the other hand, Henry's power, 
opulence, and ostentation, gave some en- 
couragement to the arts. He himself, mon- 
ster as he was, afiected to be a poet. His 
masques and pageants assembled the beauty 
and nobility of the land, and prompted a 
gallant spirit of courtesy. The cultivation 
of musical talents among his courtiers fos- 
tered our eai-ly lyrical poetry. Our inter- 
course with Italy was renewed from more 
enlightened motives than superstition ; and 
under the influence of Lord Surrey, Italian 
poetry became once more, as it had been in 
the days of Chaucer, a source of refinement 
and regeneration to our own. I am not in- 



* Our father Chaucer hath used the same liberty in 
feet and measures that the Latinists do use: and whoso- 
ever do peruse and well consider his works, he shall find 
that although his lines are not always of one self-same 
uumber of syllables, yet being read by one tliat hath 
understanding, the longest Terse, and that which hath 
most syllables, will fall (to the ear) correspondent unto 
that which hath iti it fewest syllables, shall be found yet 
to consist of words that have such natural sound, as may 
seem equal in length to a verse which hath many more 
syllables of lighter accents.— Gascoione. 

But if some Englishe woorde. herein seem sweet. 

Let Chaucer's name exalted be therefore ; 

Yf any verse, doe passe on plesant feet, 

The praise thereof redownd to Petrark's lore. 

GASCOiQjiE, The Grief of Joy. 



deed disposed to consider the influence of 
Lord Surrey's works upon our language in 
the very extensive and important light in 
which it is viewed by Dr. Nott. I am doubt- 
ful if that learned editor has converted many 
readers to his opinion, that Lord Surrey 
was the first who gave us metrical instead 
of rhythmical versification; for, with just 
allowance for ancient pronunciation, the 
heroic measure of Chaucer will be found in 
general not only to be metrically correct, 
but to possess considerable harmony.* Sur- 
rey was not the inventor of our metrical 
versification ; nor had his genius the potent 
voice and the magic spell which rouse all the 
dormant energies of a language. In certain 
walks of composition, though not in the 
highest, viz. in the ode, elegy, and epitaph, 
he set a chaste and delicate example ; but he 
was cut off" too early in life, and cultivated 
poetry too slightly, to carry the pure stream 
of his style into the broad and bold chan- 
nels of inventive fiction. Much undoubtedly 
he did, in giving sweetness to our numbers, 
and in substituting for the rude tautology 
of a former age a style of soft and brilliant 
ornament, of selected expression, and of 
verbal arrangement, which often winds into 
graceful novelties ; though sometimes a little 
objectionable from its involution. Our lan- 
guage was also indebted to him for the in- 
troduction of blank verse. It may be noticed 
at the same time that blank verse, if it had 
continued to be written as Surrey wrote it, 
would have had a cadence too uniform and 
cautious to be a happy vehicle for the dra- 
matic expression of the passions. Grimoald, 
the second poet who used it after Lord Sur- 
rey, gave it a little more variety of pauses ; 
but it was not till it had been tried as a 
measure by several composers, that it ac- 
quired a bold and flexible modulation.! 



It is a disputed question whether Chaucer's verses be 
rhythmical or metrical. I believe them to have been 
written rhythmically, upon the same principle on which 
Coleridge composed his Christabel — that the number of 
beats or accentuated syllables in every line should be the 
game, although the number of syllables themselves 
might vary. A'erse so composed will often be strictly 
metrical ; and because Chaucer's is frequently so. the ar- 
gument has been raised that it is alvi-ays so if it be read 
properly, according to the intention of the author. — 
SouTHET, Cowper, vol. ii. p. 117. — C. 

f Surrey is not a great poet, but he was an influen- 
tial one; we owe to him the introduction of the Sonnet 
into our language, and the first taste for the Italian 
poets. — C. 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



25 



The genius of Sir Thomas Wyat was re- 
fined and elevated like that of his noble 
friend and contemporary; but his poetry is 
more sententious and sombrous, and in his 
lyrical effusions he studied terseness rather 
than suavity. Besides these two interest- 
ing men, Sir Francis Bryan, the friend of 
Wyat, George Viscount Rochford, the bro- 
ther of Anna Boloyne, and Thomas Lord 
Vaux, were poetical courtiers of Henry VIII. 
To the second of these Ritson assigns, 
though but by conjecture, one of the most 
beautiful and plaintive strains of our elder 
poetry, "0 Death, rock me on sleep." In 
Totell's Collection, the earliest poetical mis- 
cellany in our language, two pieces have 
been ascribed to the same nobleman, the one 
entitled " The Assault of Cupid," the other 
beginning, " I loath that I did love," which 
have been frequently reprinted in modern 
times. 

A poem of uncommon merit in the same 
collection, which is entitled " The restless 
state of a Lover," and which commences 
with these lines, 

"The Sun, when he hath spread his rays. 
And show'd his face ten thousand ways," 

has been ascribed by Dr. Nott to Lord Sur- 
rey, but not on decisive evidence. 

In the reign of Edward VI. the effects of 
the Reformation became visible in our poe- 
try, by blending religious with poetical en- 
thusiasm, or rather by substituting the one 
for the other. The national muse became 
puritanical, and was not improved by the 
change. Then flourished Sternhold and 
Hopkins, who, with the best intentions and 
the worst taste, degraded the spirit of He- 
brew psalmody by flat and homely phrase- 
ology ; and mistaking vulgarity for simpli- 
city, turned into bathos what they found 
Bublime. Such was the love of versifying 
holy writ at that period, that the Acts of the 

* To the reign of Edward VI. and Mary may be referred 
two or three contributors to the " Paradise of Dainty 
Devices" [1576], who, though their lives extended into the 
reign of Elizabeth, may exemplify the state of poetical 
language before her accession. Among these may be 
placed Edwards, author of the pleasing little piece, 
" Amantium iras amoris integratio est," and Hunnis, au- 
thor of the following song. [See p. 34, and HaUam, 
vol. ii. p. 303.] 

"When first minn eyes did view and mark 
Thy beauty fair for to behold, 
And when mine ears 'gan first to hark 
The pleasant words that Ihdu me told, 
I would as then I had been free, 
from ears to bear, and eyes to see. 
4 



Apostles were rhymed, and set to music by 
Christopher Tye.* 

Lord Sackville's name is the next of any 
importance in our poetry that occurs after 
Lord Surrey's. The opinion of Sir Egerton 
Brydges, with respect to the date of the first 
appearance of Lord Sackville's " Induction 
to the Mirror for Magistrates," would place 
that production, in strictness of chronology, 
at the beginning of Elizabeth's reign. As 
an edition of the " Mirror," however, ap- 
peared in 1559, supposing Lord SaiAville 
not to have assisted in that edition, the first 
shape of the work must have been Cii«c and 
composed in the reign of Mary. From the 
date of Lord Sackville's birth,t it is also 
apparent, that although he flourished under 
Elizabeth, and lived even to direct the coun- 
cils of James, his prime of life must have 
been spent, and his poetical character 
formed, in the most disastrous period of the 
sixteenth century, a period when we may 
suppose the cloud that was passing over the 
public mind to have cast a gloom on the 
complexion of its literary taste. During 
five years of his life, from twenty-five to 
thirty, the time when sensibility and reflec- 
tion meet most strongly, Lord Sackville Avit- 
nessed the horrors of Queen Mary's reign; 
and I conceive that it is not fanciful to trace 
in his poetry the tone of an unhappy age. 
His plan for " The Mirror of Magistrates" 
is a mass of darkness and despondency. 
He proposed to make the figure of Sorrow 
introduce us in Hell to every unfortunate 
great character of English history. The 
poet, like Dante, takes us to the gates of 
Hell ; but he does not, like the Italian poet, 
bring us back again. It is true that those 
doleful legends were long continued, during 
a brighter period ; but this was only done 
by an inferior order of poets, and was owing 
to their admiration of Sackville. Dismal aa 



And when in mind I did consent 
To follow thus my fancy's will. 
And when my heart did first relent 
To taste such bait myself to spill, 
I would my heart had been as thine 
Or else thy heart as soft as mine. 

flatterer false! thou traitor born. 
What mischief more might thou devise, 
Than thy dear friend to have in scorn. 
And him to wound in sundry wise ; 
Which still a friend pretends to bo, 
And art not so by proof I see? 
Fie, fie upon such treachery." 



t 1536, if not ; 



little earlier. — C. 
C 



26 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



his allegories may be, his genius certainly 
displays in them considerable power. But 
better times were at hand. In the reign of 
Elizabeth, the English mind put forth its 
energies in every direction, exalted by a 
purer religion, and enlarged by new views 
of truth. This was an age of loyalty, ad- 
venture, and generous emulation. The 
chivalrous character was softened by intel- 
lectual pursuits, while the genius of chivalry 
itself still lingered, as if unwilling to de- 
part, and paid his last homage to a warlike 
and female reign. A degree of romantic 
fancy remained in the manners and super- 
stitions of the people; and allegory might 
be said to parade the streets in their public 
pageants and festivities. Quaint and pe- 
dantic as those allegorical exhibitions might 
often be, they were nevertheless more ex- 
pressive of erudition, ingenuity, and moral 
meaning than they had been in former 
times. The philosophy of the highest minds 
still partook of a visionary character. A 
poetical spirit infused itself into the prac- 
tical heroism of the age; and some of the 
worthies of that period seem less like ordi- 
nary men than like beings called forth out 
of fiction, and arrayed in the brightness of 
her dreams. They had "high thoughts 
seated in a heart of courtesy."* The life 
of Sir Philip Sydney was poetry put into 
action. 

The result of activity and curiosity in the 
public mind Avas to complete the revival of 
classical literature, to increase the importa- 
tion of foreign books, and to multiply trans- 
lations, from which poetry supplied herself 
with abundant subjects and materials, and 
in the use of which she showed a frank and 
fearless energy, that criticism and satire had 
not yet acquired power to overawe. Ro- 
mance came back to us from the southern 
languages, clothed in ncAV luxury by the 
warm imagination of the south. The growth 
of poetry under such circumstances might 



♦ An expression used by Sir P. Sydney. 

(• Of Shakspeare's career a part only belongs to Elizar 
oeth's reign, and of Jonson's a still smaller. 

J The tragedy of Gorboduc, by Sackville and Norton, 
was represented in 1561-62. Spenser's Pastorals were 
published in 1579; and the three first books of The Fairy 
Queen in 1590. 

§ Ben Jonson applied his remark to Spenser's Pastorals. 

Malone was very rash in his correction : " Spenser, in 
affecting the ancients," says Jonson, "writ no language; 
yet I would haTe him read for his matter, but as Virgil 
read Ennius." { Worlcs, ix. 215.) Jonson's remark is a 



indeed be expected to be as irregular as it 
was profuse. The field was open to daring 
absurdity, as well as to genuine inspiration ; 
and accordingly there is no period in Avhich 
the extremes of good and bad writing are so 
abundant. Stanihurst, for instance, carried 
the violence of nonsense to a pitch of which 
there is no preceding example. Even late 
in the reign of Elizabeth, Gabriel Harvey 
was aided and abetted by several men of 
genius in his conspiracy to subvert the ver- 
sification of the language ; and Lyly gained 
over the court, for a time, to employ his cor- 
rupt jargon called Euphuism. Even Put- 
tenham, a grave and candid critic, leaves an 
indication of crude and puerile taste, Avhen, 
in a laborious treatise on poetry, he directs 
the composer how to make verses beautiful 
to the eye, by writing them "in the shapes 
of eggs, turbots, fuzees, and lozenges." 

Among the numerous poets belonging ex- 
clusively to Elizabeth's reign, f Spenser 
stands without a class and without a rival. 
To proceed from the poets already mentioned 
to Spenser, is certainly to pass over a con- 
siderable number of years, which are im- 
portant, especially from their including the 
dates of those early attempts in the regular 
drama Avhich preceded the appeai-ance of 
Shakspeare.J I shall, therefore, turn back 
again to that period, after having done ho- 
mage to the name of Spenser. 

He brought to the subject of " The Fairy 
Queen," a new and enlarged structure of 
stanza, elaborate and intricate, but well con- 
trived for sustaining the attention of the 
ear, and concluding with a majestic ca- 
dence. In the other poets of Spenser's age 
we chiefly admire their language, Avhen it 
seems casually to advance into modern po- 
lish and succintness. But the antiquity of 
Spenser's style has a peculiar charm. The 
mistaken opinion that Ben Jonson censured 
the antiquity of the diction in the " Fairy 
Queen,"! has been corrected by Mr. Malone, 



general censure, not confined to the Shepherd's Calendar 
alone. " Some," hi' says in another place, " seek Chaucer- 
isms with us, which were better expunged and banished.'' 
( Wirrks, ix. 220.) Here we conceive is another direct al- 
lusion to Spenser. 

If Spenser's language is the language of his age, who 
among bis contemporaries is equally obsolete in phrase- 
ology ? The letters of the times have none of his words 
borrowed of antiquity, nor has the printed prose, the 
poetry contradistinguished from the drama, or the draniti, 
which is always the language of the day. His anti- 
quated words were his choice, not bis necessity. Uas 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



Avho pronounces it to be exactly that of his 
contemporaries. His authority is weighty ; 
still, however, without reviving the exploded 
error respecting Jonson's censure, one might 
imagine the difference of Spenser's style 
from that of Shakspeare's, whom he so 
shortly preceded, to indicate that his gothic 
subject and story made him lean towards 
words of the elder time. At all events, 
much of his expression is now become anti- 
quated; though it is beautiful in its anti- 
quity, and like the moss and ivy on some 
majestic building, covers the fabric of his 
language with romantic and venerable as- 
sociations. 

His command of imagery is wide, easy, 
and luxuriant. He threw the soul of har- 
mony into our verse, and made it more 
warmly, tenderly, and magnificently de- 
scriptive than it ever was before, or, with a 
few exceptions, than it has ever been since. 
It must certainly be owned that in descrip- 
tion he exhibits nothing of the brief strokes 
and robust power which characterize the 
very gi-eatest poets ; but we shall nowhere 
find more airy and expansive images of vi- 
sionary things, a sweeter tone of sentiment, 
or a finer flush in the colours of language, 
than in this Rubens of English poetry. His 
fancy teems exuberantly in minuteness of 



Drayton, or Daniel, or Peele, Marlowe, or Shakspeare the 
obscure words found constantly recurrinj; in Spenser ? 
" Let others," says Daniel (the well-languaged Daniel, as 
Coleridge calls him) — 

"Let others sing of knights and paladines. 
In aged accents and untimely words, 
I sing of Delia in the language of those who are about 
her and of her day." Davenant is express on the point, 
and speaks of Spenser's new grafts of old withered words 
and exploded expressions. Surely the writers of his own 
age are better authorities than Malone, who read ver- 
bally, not spiritually, and, emptying a commonplace book 
of obsolete words, called upon us to see in separate ex- 
amples what collectively did not then exist. It is easy to 
find many of Spenser's Chaucerisms in his contempora- 
ries, but they do not crowd and characterize their writ- 
ing's: they tincture, but they do not colour; they are 
there, but not for ever there. 

Bolton, who wrote in 1622of language and style, speaks 
to this point in his Ilypercritica. He is recommending 
authors for imitation and study — '-Those authors amonor 
us, whose English hath in my conceit most propriety, and 
is nearest to the phrase of court, and to the' speech used 
among the noble, and among the better sort in London : 
tlie two sovereign seats, and as it were Parliament tri- 
bunals, to try the question in." •' In verse there are," 
he say.s, '• to furnish an English Historian with copy and 
tongue, Ed. Spenser's Hymns. I cannot advise the al- 
lowance of other of bis Poems, as for practiok English, 
no more than I can do Jeff. Chaucer, Lydgate, Peirce 
Plowman, or Laureat Skelton. It was laid as a fault to 



circumstance, like a fertile soil ' sending 
bloom and verdure through the utmost ex- 
tremities of the foliage which it nourishes. 
On a comprehensive view of the whole Avork, 
Ave certainly miss the charm of strength, 
symmetry, and rapid or interesting progi-ess ; 
for, though the plan Avhich the poet designed 
is not completed, it is easy to see that no 
additional cantos could have rendered it less 
perplexed.* But still there is a richness in 
his materials, even where their coherence is 
loose, and their disposition confused. The 
clouds of his allegory may seem to spread 
into shapeless forms, but they are still the 
clouds of a glowing atmosphere. Though 
his story grows desultory, the sweetness and 
grace of his manner still abide by him. He 
is like a speaker whose tones continue to be 
pleasing, though he may speak too long; or 
like a painter a\ ho makes us forget the de- 
fect of his design, by the magic of his co- 
louring. We always rise from perusing him 
with melody in the mind's ear, and Avith 
pictures of romantic beauty impressed on 
the imagination.! For these attractions 
" The Fairy Queen" will ever continue to be 
resorted to by the poetical student. It is 
not, however, very popularly read, and sel- 
dom perhaps from beginning to end, even by 
those who can fully appreciate its beauties. 

the charge of Sallust, that he used some old outworn 
words, stolen out of Cato his Books de Originibus. And 
for an Historian in our tongue to affect the like out of 
those our Poets would be accounted a foul oversight. 
That therefore must not be." 

Gray has a letter to prove that the language of the age 
is never the language of poetry. AVas Spen.«er behind or 
Shakspeare in advance? Stage language must neces- 
sarily be the language of the time; and Shakspeare gives 
us words pure and neat, yet plain and customary — the 
style that Ben Jon.»on loved, the eldest of the present 
and the newest of the past — while Spenser fell back on 
Chaucer as the 

Well of English undefilde, 

as he was pleased to express it. (See AVarton's Essny on 
Spenser, vol. i., and Hall.\m, Lit. Hist. vol. ii. p. .328.) 
"The language of Spenser," says Ilallam, "like that ol 
Shakspeare, is an instrument manufactured for the sake 
of the work it was to perform." — C. 

* Mr. Campbell has given a character of Spenser, not 
so enthusiastic as th,^t to which I have alluded, but so 
discriminating, and in general sound, that I shall take 
the liberty of extracting it from his Specimens of the 
British Poets.— Hallam, Lit. Hist. vol. ii. p. 3.34.— C. 

t Spenst'r's allegorical story resembles, methinks, a 
continuance of extraordinary dreams. — Sib AV. Davb- 

NANT. 

After my rejiding a canto of Spenser two or three days 
ago, to an old lady between seventy and eighty, she said 
that I had been showing her a collection of pictures Sh» 
said very right. — PoP£ to Spence. — C. 



This cannot be ascribed merely to its pre- 
senting a few words which are now obso- 
lete; nor can it be owing, as has been 
sometimes alleged, to the tedium inseparable 
from protracted allegory. Allegorical fable 
may be made entertaining. With every dis- 
advantage of dress and language, the hum- 
ble John Banyan has made this species of 
writing very amusing. 

The reader may possibly smile at the 
names of Spenser and Bunyan being brought 
forward for a moment in comparison ; but it 
is chiefly because the humbler allegorist is 
so poor in language that his power of inte- 
resting the curiosity is entitled to admira- 
tion. We are told by critics that the 
passions may be allegorized, but that Holi- 
ness, Justice, and other such thin abstrac- 
tions of the mind, are too unsubstantial 
machinery for a poet ; — yet we all know hoAv 
well the author of the Pilgrim's Progress 
(and he was a poet, though he wrote in 
prose) has managed such abstractions as 
Mercy and Fortitude. In his artless hands, 
those attributes cease to be abstractions, and 
become our most intimate friends. Had 
Spenser, with all the wealth and graces of 
his fancy, given his story a more implicit 
and animated form, I cannot believe that 
there was any thing in the nature of his 
machinery to set bounds to his power of 
enchantment. Yet, delicious as his poetry 
is, his stor}^ considered as a romance, is 
obscure, intricate, and monotonous. He 
translated entire cantos from Tasso, but 
adopted the wild and irregular manner of 
Ariosto. The difference is, that Spenser 
appears, like a civilized being, slow and 
sometimes half forlorn, in exploring an un- 
inhabited country, while Ariosto traverses 
the regions of romance like a hardy native 
of its pathless wilds. Kurd and others, who 
forbid us to judge of " The Fairy Queen" 
by the test of classical unity, and who com- 
pare it to a gothic church, or a gothic gar- 
den, tell us what is little to the purpose. 
They cannot persuade us that the story is 
not too intricate and too diffuse. The thread 
of the narrative is so entangled, that the 
j)oet saw the necessity for explaining the 
design of his poem in prose, in a letter to 
Sir Walter Raleigh ; and the perspicuity of 
a poetical design which requires such an ex- 
planation may, with no great severity, be 
pronounced a contradiction in terms. It is 



degrading to poetry, we shall perhaps be 
told, to attach importance to the mere story 
which it relates. Certainly the poet is not 
a great one whose only charm is the manage- 
ment of his fa.ble ; but where there is a fa- 
ble, it should be perspicuous. 

There is one peculiarity in " The Fairy 
Queen," which, though not a deeply pervad- 
ing defect, I cannot help considering as an 
incidental blemish; namely^ that the alle- 
gory is doubled and crossed with compli- 
mentary allusions to living or recent pei-- 
sonages, and that the agents are partly 
historical and partly allegorical. In some 
instances the characters have a threefold 
allusion. Gloriana is at once an emblem of 
true glory, an empress of fairy-land, and 
her majesty Queen Elizabeth. Envj'^ is a 
personified passion, and also a witch, and, 
with no very charitable insinuation, a type 
of the unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots. 
The knight in dangerous distress is Henry 
IV. of France; and the knight of magnifi- 
cence, Prince Arthur, the son of Uther 
Pendragon, an ancient British hero, is the 
bulwark of the Protestant cause in tlie 
Netherlands. Such distraction of allegory 
cannot well be said to make a fair experi- 
ment of its power. The poet may cover his 
moral meaning under a single and transpa- 
rent veil of fiction ; but he has no right to 
muffle it up in foldings which hide the form 
and symmetry of truth. 

Upon the whole, if I may presume to 
measure the imperfections of so groat and 
venerable a genius, I think we may say 
that, if his popularity be less than universal 
and complete, it is not so much owing to his 
obsolete language, nor to degeneracy of 
modern taste, nor to his choice of allegory 
as a subject, as to the want of that consoli- 
dating and crowning strength, which alone 
can establish works of fiction in the favour 
of all readers and of all ages. This want 
of strength, it is but justice to say, is either 
solely or chiefly apparent when we examine 
the entire structure of his poem, or so large 
a portion of it as to feel that it does not im- 
pel or susjain our curiosity in proportion to 
its length. To the beauty of insulated pas- 
sages who can be blind ? The sublime de- 
scription of " Him who with the Night dttrst 
ride," " The House of Riches," " The Canto 
of Jealousy," "The Masque of Cupid," and 
other parts, too many to enumerate, are so 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



splendirl, that after reading them, -^e feel it 
for the moment invidious to ask if they are 
symmetrically united into a ^vhole. Suc- 
ceeding generations have acknoAvledged the 
pathos and richness of his strains, and the 
new contour and enlarged dimensions of 
grace vrhich he gave to English poetry. He 
is the poetical father of a Milton and a 
Thomson. Gray habitually read him when 
he wished to frame his thoughts fur compo- 
sition ; and there are few eminent poets in 
the language who have not been essentially 
indebted to him. 

" Hitber, as to their fountain, other stars 
Repair, and in their urns draw golden light." 

The publication of " The Fairy Queen," 
and the commencement of Shakspeare's dra-- 
matic career, may be noticed as contempo- 
rary events; for by no supposition can 
Shakspeare's appearance as a dramatist be 
traced higher than 1589,* and that of Spen- 
ser's great poem was in the year 1590. I 
turn back from that date to an earlier pe- 
riod, when the first lineaments of our regu- 
lar drama began to show themselves. 

Before Elizabeth's reign we had no dra- 
matic authors more important than Bale and 
Heywood the Epigrammatist. Bale, before 
the titles of tragedy and comedy were well 
distinguished, had written comedies on such 
subjects as the Resurrection of Lazarus, and 
the Passion and Sepulture of our Lord. He 
was, in fact, the lagt of the race of mystery- 
writers. Both Bale and Heywood died about 
the middle of the sixteenth century, but 
flourished (if such a word can be applied to 
them) as early as the reign of Henry VIII. 



* It is clear that before 1591, or even 1592, Shakspeare 
bad no celebrity as a writer of plays ; he must, therefore, 
have been valuable to the theatre chiefly as an actor; 
and if this was the case, namely, that he speedily trode 
the stage with some respectability, Mr. Rowe's tradition 
that he was at first admitted in a mean capacity mu.st be 
taken with a bushel of doubt. — Campbell, Life of ShaJc- 
speare, 8vo, 1838, p. xxii. — C. 

t The MyHeries Jlr. Collier would have called Miracle- 
Plays, and the Mnralities, Morals or Moral-Plays. — C. 

X AVarton also mentions Rastell, the brother-in-law of 
Sir Thomas More, who was a printer ; but who is believed 
by the historian of our poetry to have been also an au- 
thor, and to have made the moralities in some degree the 
vehicle of science and philosophy. He published [about 
1519] a new interlude on The Nature of the Four Ele- 
ments, in which The Tracts of America lately discovered 
and the manners of the natives are described. — [See 
Collier's Annals, vol. ii. p. 319.] 

g Sackville became a statesman, and forsook the plear 
sant paths of poetry ; nor does he appear to have encou- 
raged it in others ; for in an age rife with poetical 



Until the time of Elizabeth, the public was 
contented with mysteries, moralities, or in- 
terludes, too humble to deserve the name of 
comedy. The first of these, the mysteries, 
originated almost as early as the Conquest, 
in shows given by the church to the people. 
The moralities,! which were chiefly allego- 
rical, probably arose about the middle of 
the fifteenth century, and the interludes be- 
came prevalent during the reign of Henry 
Vlll.t 

Lord Sackville's Gorboduc, first repre- 
sented in 1561-62, and Still's Gammer Gur- 
ton's Needle, about 1566, were the earliest, 
though faint, drafts of our regular tragedy 
and comedy. § They did not, however, im- 
mediately supersede the taste for the allego- 
rical moralities. Sackville even introduced 
dumb show in his tragedy to explain the 
piece, and he was not the last of the old 
dramatists who did so. One might conceive 
the explanation of allegory by real person- 
ages to be a natural complaisance to an 
audience ; but there is something peculiarly 
ingenious in making allegory explain reality, 
and the dumb interpret for those who could 
speak. In reviewing the rise of the drama. 
Gammer Gurton's Needle, and Sackville's 
Gorboduc, form convenient resting-places 
for the memory ; but it may be doubted if 
their superiority over the mysteries and 
moralities be half so great as their real dis- 
tance from an affecting tragedy, or an exhi- 
larating comedy. The main incident in 
Gammer Gurton's Needle is the loss of a 
needle in a man's small-clothes. || Gorboduc 
has no interesting plot or impassioned dia- 



commendations, he seems to have drawn but one solitary 
sonnet, and that attached to a book where praises were 
made cheap — "The Faerie Queene." He died, and re- 
ceived a funeral sermon from Abbot, but no tears of re- 
gret from the Muses; — he who should have been a second 
Pembroke or Southampton. Still took to the church and 
became a bishop — but not before the creator of our 
comedy had written a supplicatory letter that, for acting 
at Cambridge, a Latin play should be preferred to an 
English one.— C. 

II Speaking of Gammer Gurton, Scott writes, "It is a 
piece of low humour; the whole jest turning upon the 
loss and the recovery of the needle with which Gammer 
Gurton was to repair the breeches of her man Hodge; 
but in point of manners, it is a great curiosity, as the 
ca7-ta snpellfx of our ancestors is scarcely anywhere so 
well described." "The unity," he continues, "of time, 
place, and action, are observed through the play, with an 
accuracy of which France might be jealous." And adds 
alluding to Gorboduc, "It is remarkable, that the earliest 
English tragedy and comedy are both works of conside 
rable merit ; that each partakes of the distinct charactoi 
C2 



ENGLISH rOETRY. 



logue ; but it dignified the stage with moral 
reflection and stately measure. It first in- 
troduced blank verse instead of ballad 
rhymes in the drama. Gascoigne gave a 
farther popularity to blank verse by his 
paraphrase of Jocasta, from Euripides, 
which appeared in 1566. The same author's 
" Supposes," translated from Ariosto, was 
our earliest prose comedy. Its dialogue is 
easj' and spirited. Edward's Palamon and 
Arcite was acted in the same year, to the 
great admiration of Queen Elizabeth, who 
called the author into her presence, and 
complimented him on having justly drawn 
the character of a genuine lover. 

Ten tragedies of Seneca were translated 
into English verse at different times, and by 
different authors, before the year 1581. One 
of these; translators was Alexander Neyvile, 
afterwards secretary to Archbishop Parker, 
whose CEdipus came out as early as 1563 ; 
and though he was but a youth of nineteen, 
his style has considerable beauty. The fol- 
lowing lines, which open the first act, may 
serve as a specimen : 

" The nignt is gone, and dreadful day begins at length 

t' appear. 
And Phoebus, all bedimm'd with clouds, himself aloft 

doth rear ; 
And, gliding forth, with deadly hue and doleful blaze in 

skies, 
Doth bear great terror and dismay to the beholder's eyes. 
Now shall the houses void be seen, with plague devoured 

quite. 
And slaughter which the night hath made shall day 

bring forth to light. 
Doth any man in princely thrones rejoice ? brittle joy I 
How many ills, how fair a face, and yet how much annoy 
In thee doth lurk, and hidden lies what heaps of endless 

strife ! 
They judge amiss, that deem the Prince to have the 

happy life." 

In 1568 was produced the tragedy of 
•' Tancred and Sigismunda," by Robert Wil- 
mot, and four other students of the Inner 
Temple. It is reprinted in Reed's plays; 
but that reprint is taken not from the first 
edition, but from one greatly polished and 
amended in 1592.* Considered as a piece 

of its class; that the tragedy is without intermixture of 
comedy; the comedy without any intermixture of tra- 
gedy." — Misc. Prose Works, vol. vi. p. 333. — C. 

* Newhj revived, and polished according to the de- 
corum of these days. That is, as Mr. Collier supposes, 
by the removal of the rhymes to a blank verse fashion. 
— C. 

t In the title-page it is denominated "A lamentable 
Tragedy, mixed full of pleasant Mirth." 

t Thp Tamerlanes and Tamer-chams of the late age 
had nothing in them but the sceuical strutting, and furi- 



coming within the verge of Shakspcare's 
age, it ceases to be wonderful. Immediately 
subsequent to these writers we meet with 
several obscure and uninteresting dramatic 
names, among which is that of Wlietstone, 
the author of "Promos and Cassandra," 
[1578], in which piece there is a partial an- 
ticipaticm of the plot of Shakspcare's Mea- 
sure for Measure. Another is that of 
Preston, whose tragedy jf Cambysesf is 
alluded to by Shakspeare, when Falstaff 
calls for a cup of sack, that he may weep 
" in King Cambyses' vein. "J There is, in- 
deed, matter for weeping in this tragedy; 
for, in the course of it, an elderly gentleman 
is flayed alive. To make the skinning more 
•pathetic, his own son is witness to it, and 
exclaims, 
" What child is he of Nature's mould could bide the same 

to see. 
His father fleaed in this wise? how it grievcth me !" 

It may comfort the reader to know that this 
theatric decortication was meant to be alle- 
gorical ; and we may believe that it was per- 
formed with no degree of stage illusion that 
could deeply affect the spectator.^ 

In the last twenty years of the sixteenth 
century', we come to a period when the in- 
creasing demand for theatrical entertain- 
ments produced play-writere by profession. 
The earliest of these appears to have been 
George Peele, who was the city poet and con- 
ductor of the civil pageants. His "Arraign- 
ment of Paris" came out in 1584. Nash 
calls him an Atlas in poetry. Unless Ave 
make allowance for his antiquity, the expres- 
sion will appear hyperbolical ; but, with that 
allowance, we may justly cherish the me- 
mory of Peele as the oldest genuine dramatic 
poet of our language. His " David and 
Bethsabe" is the earliest fountain of pathos 
and harmony that can be traced in our dra- 
matic poetry. Ilis fancy is rich and his 
feeling tender, and his conceptions of dra- 
matic character have no inconsiderable mix- 
ture of solid veracity and ideal beauty. 

ous vociferation, to warrant them to the ignorant gapers. 
—Ben Joxson. (Giffhrd, vol. ix. p. 180.) 

I suspect that Shakspeare confounded King Cambyses 
with King Darius. Falstaff's solemn fustian bears not 
the slightest resemblance, either in metre or in matter, 
to the vein of King Cambyses. Ki/ng Dari/us, whose 
dole/id strain is here burlesqued, vrso' n jnlhie and ple^aunt 
Enterlude-, printed about the middle of the sixteenth 
century. — Gifford. Note on Jonson's Poetaster, Works, 
vol. ii. p. 455.— C. 

§ Tlie stage direction excites a smile. Plea him with a 
false skin. — C. 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



There is no such sweetness of versification 
and imagery to be found in our blank verse 
anterior to Shakspeare.* David's character 
— the traits both of his guilt and sensibility 
— his passion for Bethsabe — his art in in- 
flaming the military ambition of Urias, and 
his grief for Absalom, are delineated with 
no vulgar skill. The liixuriant image of 
Bethsabe is introduced by these lines: 

Come, gentle Zephyr, trick'd with those perfumes 
That erst in Kden sweeten'd Adam's love, 
And stroke my bosom with thy gentle fan: 
This shade, sun-proof, is yet no proof for thee. 
Thy bodj', smoother than this waveless spring, 
And purer than the substance of the same. 
Can creep through that his lances cannot pierce. 
Thou and thy sister, soft and sacred Air, 
Goddess of life, and governess of health, 
Keeps every fountain fresh, and arbour sweet. 
No brivzen gate her passage can refuse, 
Nor bushy thicket bar thy subtle breath : 
Then deck thee with thy loose delightsome robes, 
And on thy wings bring delicate perfumes, 
To play the wanton with us through the leaves. 
David. What tunes, what words, what locks, what 
wonders pierce 
My soul, incensed with a sudden fire? 
What tree, what shade, what spring, what paradise, 
Enjoys the beauty of so fair a dame ? 
Fair Eviu placed in perfect happiness, 
trending her praise-notes to the liberal heaTens, 
Strook with the accents of archangels' tunes. 
Wrought not more pleasure to her husband's thoughts, 
Thau this fair woman's words and notes to mine. 
May that sweet plain, that bears her pleasant weight, 
B« still enamell'd with discolour'd flowers! 
That precious fount bear sand of purest gold ; 
Ai d, for the pebble, let the silver streams 
Pli.y upon rubies, sapphires, chrysolites; 
The brims let be embraced with golden curls 
Of moss, that sleeps with sound the waters make ; 
Ftr joy to feed the fount with their recourse 
Let all the grass that beautifies her bower 
Boar manna every morn instead of dew. 



Joab thus describes the glory of David: 

Beauteous and bright is he among the tribes; 

As when the sun, attired in glistering robe. 

Comes dancing from his oriental gate. 

And, bridegroom-like, hurls through the gloomy air 

His radiant beams : such doth King David show, 

Crown'd with the honour of his enemies' town, 

Shining in riches like the firmament, 

The starry vault that overhangs the earth ; 

So looketh David, King of Israel. 



* Mr. Dyce, in his edition of Peele, has quoted this 
passage from Mr. Campbell, "a critic," he styles him, 
"who is by no means subject to the pardonable weak- 
ness of discovering beauties in every writer of the olden 
time." — p. xxxviii. 

It is quoted too by Mr. Ilallam, (Lit. TTist. vol. ii. p. 
378), who concurs with Mr. Collier in thinking these com- 
pliments excessive. — C. 

t An interesting subject of inquiry in Shakspeare's 
literary history, is the state of our dramatic poetry when 
he began to alter and originate English plays. Before 
hia time mere mysteries and miracle plays, in which 
Adam and Eve appeared naked, in which the devil dis- 



At the conclusion of the tragedy, when 
David gives way to his grief for Absalom, he 
is roused with great dignity and energy by 
the speech of Joab. When informed by 
Joab of the death of his son, David ex- 
claims : 

David. Thou man of blood I thou sepulchre of death' 
Who.se marble lireast entombs my bowels quick, 
Did I not charge thee, nay, entreat thy hand, 
Even for my sake, to spare my Absalom ? 
And hast thou now, in spite of David's health. 
And scorn to do my heart some happiness. 
Given him the sword, and spilt his purple soul ? 

Joab. What! irks it David, that he victor breathes. 
That Juda, and the fields of Israel 
Should cleanse their faces from their children's blood f 
What! art thou weary of thy royal rule? 
Is Israel's throne a serpent in thine eyes. 
And he that set thee there, so far from thanks, 
That thou must curse his servant for his sake? 
Hast thou not said, that, as the morning light, 
The cloudless morning, so should be thine house, 
And not as flowers, by the brightest rain, 
Which grow up quickly, and as quickly fade? 
Hast thou not said, the wicked are as thorns, 
That cannot be preserved with the hand ; 
And that the man shall touch them must be arm'd 
With coats of iron, and garments made of steel, 
Or with the shaft of a defenced spear? 
And art thou angry he is now cut off. 
That led the guiltless swarming to their deaths. 
And was more wicked than an host of men ? 
Advance thee from thy melancholy den. 
And deck thy body with thy blissful robes, 
Or, by the Lord that sways the Heaven, I swear, 
I'll lead thine armies to another king. 
Shall cheer them for their princely chivalry ; 
And not sit daunted, frowning in the dark. 
When his fair looks, with oil and wine refresh'd, 
Should dart into their bosoms gladsome beams. 
And fill their stomachs with triumphant feasts ; 
That, when elsewhere stern War shall sound his trump. 
And call another battle to the field, 
Fame still nL-iy bring thy valiant soldiers home, 
And for their service happily confess 
She wanted worthy trumps to sound their prowess; 
Take thou this course, and live ; — Be/use, and die. 

Lyly, Peele, Greene, Kyd, Nash, Lodge, 
and Marlowe, were the other writers for our 
early stage, a part of whose career preceded 
that of Shakspeare.f Lyly, whose dramatic 
language is prose, has traits of genius which 
we should not expect from his generally de- 
praved taste, and he has several graceful 



played his horns and tail, and in which Noah's wife boxed 
the patriarch's ears before entering the ark, had fallen 
comparatively into disuse, after a popularity of four cen- 
turies : and, in the course of the sixteenth century, the 
clergy were forbi Iden by orders from Rome to perform 
in them. Meanwhile " Moralities," which had made 
their appearance about the middle of the fifteenth cen- 
tury, were also hastening their retreat, as well as those 
pageants and masques in honour of royalty, which 
nevertheless aided the introduction of the drama. But 
we owe our first regular dramas to the universities, the 
inns of court, and public seminaries. The scholars ot 
these establishments engaged in free translations of clas- 



32 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



interspersions of " sweet lyric song." But 
his manner, on the whole, is stilted. "Brave 
Marlowe, bathed in the Thespian springs,"* 
of whose " mighty muse" Ben Jonson him- 
self speaks reverentially, had powers of no 
ordinary class, and even ventured a few 
steps into the pathless sublime. But his 
pathos is dreary, and the terrors of his JNIuse 
remind us more of Minerva's gorgon than 
her countenance. The first sober and cold 
school of tragedy, which began with Lord 
Sackville's Gorboduc, was succeeded by one 
of headlong extravagance. Kyd's bombast 
was proverbial in his own day. AVith him 
the genius of tragedy might be said to have 
run mad; and, if we may judge of one 
work, the joint production of Greene and 
Lodge, to have hardly recovered her wits in 
the company of those authors. The piece 
to which I allude is entitled "A Looking- 
glass for London" [1594]. There, tlie Tam- 
burlane of Kyd is fairly rivalled in rant and 
blasphemy by the hero Rasni, King of 
Nineveh, who boasts 

"Great Jewry's God, that foil'd stout Benhadad, 
Could not rebate the strength that Rasni brought; 
For be he God in Heaven, yet viceroys know 
Rasni is God on earth, and none but he." 



sical dramatists, though with so little taste, that Seneca 
was one of their favourites. They caught the coldness 
of that model, however, without the feeblest trace of his 
slender graces; they looked at the ancients without un- 
derstanding them; and they brought to their plots nei- 
ther unity, design, nor affecting interest. There is a 
general similarity among all the plays that preceded 
Shakspeare in their ill-conceived plots, in the bombast 
and dulness of tragedy, and in the vulgar buffoonery of 
comedy. 

Of our great poet's immediate predecessors, the most 
distinguished were Lyly, Peele, Greene, Kyd, Nush, 
Lodge, and Marlowe. Lyly was not entirely devoid of 
poetry, for we have some pleasing lyrical verses by him; 
but in the drama he is cold, mythological, and conceited, 
and he even polluted for a time the juvenile age of our 
literature with his abominable Euphuism. Pecle has 
left some melodious and fanciful passages in his " David 
and Bethsabe." Greene is not unjustly praised for his 
comedy " Kriar Bacon and Friar Bungay." Kyd's " Span- 
ish Tragedy" was at first admired, but, subsequently, 
quoted only for its samples of the mock sublime. Nash 
wrote no poetry except for the stage ; but he is a poor 
dramatic poet — though his pro.se satires are remarkably 
powerful. Lodge was not much happier on the stage 
than Nash; his prose works are not very valuable; but 
he wrote one satire in verse of considerable merit, and 
various graceful little lyrics. Marlowe was the only 
great man among Shakspeare's precursors ; his concep- 
tions were strong and original; his intellect grasped his 
subject as a whole : no doubt he dislocated the thews of 
his language by overstrained efforts at the show of 
strength, but he delineated character with a degree of 
truth unknown to his predeces.'ors : his "Edward the 
Second" is pathetic; and his "Faustus" has real gran- 



In the course of the play, the imperial 
swaggerer mai-ries his own sister, who is 
quite as consequential a character as him- 
self; but finding her struck dead hj light- 
ning, he deigns to espouse her la<ly-in- 
waiting, and is finally converted after his 
wedding, by Jonah, who soon afterwards 
arrives at Nineveh. It would be perhaps 
unfair, however, to assume this tragedy as 
a fair test of the dramatic talents of either 
Greene or Lodge. Ritson recommended the 
dramas of Greene as well worthy of being 
collected. The taste of that antiquary was 
not exquisite, but his knowledge may en- 
title his opinion to consideration.! 

Among these precursors of Shakspeare 
we may trace, in Peele and MarloAve, a 
pleasing dawn of the drama, though it was 
hy no means a dawn corresponding to so 
bright a sunrise as the appearance of hia 
mighty genius. He created our romantic 
drama, or if the assertion is to be qualified, 
it requires but a small qualification. J There 
were, undoubtedly, prior occupants of the 
dramatic ground in our language; but they 
appear only like unprosperous settlers on 
the patches and skirts of a wilderness, 



deur. If Marlowe had lived, Shakspeare might have had 
something like a competitor. — Campbell, Life of Shak- 
speare, p. xxiii. — C. 

* Drayton. — C. 

t His Dramas and Poems were printed together in 
1831, by Mr. Dyce. " In richness of fancy, Greene," says 
Mr. Dyce. "is inferior to Peele; and with the exception 
of his amusing comedy Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay, 
there is, perhaps, but little to admire in his dramatic 
productions." — C. 

J Untaught, unpractised, in a-barbarous age, 
I found not, but created first the stage, — 
And if I drain'd no Greek or Latin store, 
'Twas that my own abundance gave me more. 

DuTDEX nf Shahfpeare. 

The English stage might be considered equally without 
rule and without model when Shakspeare arcse. The 
effect of the genius of an individual upon the taste of 
a nation is mighty ; but that genius, in its turn, is formed 
according to the opinions prevalent at the period when it 
comes into existence. Such was the case with Shakspeare. 
Had he received an education more extensive, and pos- 
sessed a taste refined by the classical models, it is probable 
that he also, in admiration of the ancient drama, might 
have mistaken the form for the essence, and subscribed 
to those rules which had produced such masterpieces of 
art. Fortunately for the full exertion of a genius, as 
comprehensive and versatile as intense and powerful, 
Shakspeare had no a^-cess to any models of which the 
commanding merit might have controlled and limited hia 
own exertions. He followed the path which a nameless 
crowd of obscure writers had trodden before him; but be 
moved in it with the grace and majestic step of a being 
of a superior order ; and vindicated for ever the British 
theatre from a pedantic restriction to classical rule 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



33 



which he converted into a garden. He is, 
therefore, never compared with his native 
predecessors. Criticism goes back fur names 
worthy of being put in competition with 
his, to the first great masters of dramatic 
invention ; and even in the points of dissi- 
milarity between them and him, discovers 
some of the highest indications of his genius. 
Compared with the classical composers of 
antiquity, he is to our conceptions .nearer 
the character of a universal poet; more ac- 
quainted with man in the real world, and 
more terrific and bewitching in the preter- 
natural. He expanded the magic circle of 
the drama beyond the limits that belonged 
to it in antiquity; made it embrace more 
time and locality ; filled it with larger busi- 
ness and action — with vicissitudes of gay 
and serious emotion, which classical taste 
had kept divided — with characters which 
developed humanity in stronger lights and 
subtler movements — and with a language 
more wildly, more playfully diversified by 
fancy and passion, than was ever spoken on 
any stage. Like Nature herself, he presents 
alternations of the gay and the tragic ; and 
his mutability, like the suspense and pre- 
cariousness of real existence, often deepens 
the force of our impressions. He converted 
imitation into illusion. To say that, magi- 
cian as he was, he was not faultless, is only 
to recall the flat and stale truism, that every 
thing human is imperfect. But how to esti- 
mate his imperfections!* To praise him is 
easy — In facili cmisa cuivis licet esse diserto 
— But to make a special, full, and accurate 



Nothing went before Shakspeare which in any respect 
was fit to fix and stamp the charactei;^of a national 
Drama; and certainly no one will succeed him capable 
of establishing, by mere authority, a form more restricted 
than that which Shakspeare used.— Sir Walter Scott, 
Misc. Pr. WoHs, vol. iii. p. 336. 

Shakspeare began his literary career by alterations and 
adaptations nf former dramas and copyright pieces to 
more popular and poetical purposes. He seems to have 
extended his desire for emendation to the works of living 
writers; and, taught by nature, to have done for the 
writings of University Men what Pope did (with equal 
offence) for the rhymes and lines of Wycherley. It was 
the common practice of his age to call in the pen of a 
living writer to aid with additions the Muse of a fellow- 
dramatist. He soon, however, learned to depend on his 
own myriad-minded genius, on his own thousand- 
tonguod soul. — C. 

* He (Shakspeare) was the man who of all modern, 
and perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most com- 
prehensive soul. All the images of nature were still pre- 
sent to him, and he drew them not laboriously but 
luckily: when he describes any thing, you more than 
see it, you feel it too. Those who accuse him to have 
& 



estimate of his imperfections would require 
a delicate and comprehensive discrimination, 
and an authority which are almost as seld(jm 
united in one man as the powers of Shak- 
speare himself. He is the poet of the world. 
The magnitude of his genius puts it beyond 
all private opinion to set defined limits to 
the admiration which is due to it. We know, 
upon the whole, that the sum of blemishes 
to be deducted from his merits is not great,t 
and we should scarcely be thankful to one 
who should be anxious to make it. No other 
poet triumphs so anomalously over eccen- 
tricities and peculiarities in composition 
which would appear blemishes in others ; so 
that his blemishes and beauties have an af- 
finity which we are jealous of trusting any 
hand with the task of separating. "We dread 
the interference of criticism with a fascina- 
tion so often inexplicable by critical laws, 
and justly apprehend that any man in 
standing between us and Shakspeare may 
show for pretended spots upon his disk only 
the shadows of his own opacity. 

Still it is not a part even of that enthu- 
siastic creed, to believe that he has no exces- 
sive mixture of the tragic and comic, no 
blemishes of language in the elliptical throng 
and impatient pressure of his images, no 
irregularities of plot and action, which 
another Shakspeare would avoid, if "nature 
had not broken the mould in which she 
made him," or if he should come back into 
the world to blend experience with inspira- 
tion. J 

The bare name of the dramatic unities is 



wanted learning, give him the greater commendation : 
he was naturally learned; he needed not the spectacles 
of books to read nature ; he looked inwards, and found 
her there. I cannot say he is everywhere alike ; were 
he so, I should do him injury to compare him with the 
greatest of mankind. He is many times flat, insipid ; his 
comic wit degenerating into clenches, his serious swelling 
into bombast. But he is always great, when great occa- 
sion is presented to him; no man can say he ever had a 
fit subject for his wit, and did not then raise himself as 
high above the rest of poets — 

Quantum lenta solent inter viburna cupressi. 

Drtben.! — C. 
t If Shakspeare's embroideries were burnt down, there 
would still be silver at the bottom of the melting-pot.— 
Dktden, Malime, vol. ii. p. 295.— C. 

+ Of the learning of Shakspeare, Mr. Campbell says 
elsewhere : "There is not a doubt that he lighted up his 
glorious fancy at the lamp of classical mythology: — 
Hyperion's curls — the front of Jove himself. 
An eye like Mars, to threaten and command; 
A station like the herald Mercury, 
New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill— 



84 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



apt to excite revolting ideas of pedantry, 
arts of poetry, and French criticism. With 
none of these do I wish to annoy the reader. 
I conceive that it may be said of those uni- 
ties as of fire and water, that they are good 
servants but bad masters. In perfect rigour 
they were never imposed by the Greeks, and 
they would be still heavier shackles if they 
were closely riveted on our own drama. It 
would be worse than useless to confine drsr 
matic action literally and immovably to one 
spot, or its imaginary time to the time in 
which it is represented. On the other hand, 
dramatic time and place cannot surely admit 
of indefinite expansion. It would be better, 
for the sake of illusion and probability,* to 
change the scene from Windsor to London, 
than from London to Pekin; it would look 
more like reality if a messenger, who went 
and returned in the course of the play, told 
us of having performed a journey of ten or 
twenty, rather than of a thousand miles; 
and if the spectator had neither that nor 
any other circumstance to make him ask 
how so much could be performed in so short 
a time. 

In an abstract view of dramatic art, its 
principles must appear to lie nearer to unity 
than to the opposite extreme of disunion, in 
our conceptions of time and place. Giving 
up the law of unity in its literal rigour, 
there is still a latitude of its application 
which may preserve proportion and har- 
mony in the drama.f 

The brilliant and able Schlegel has traced 
the principles of what he denominates the 
romantic, in opposition to the classical 
drama ; and conceives that Shakspeare's 
theatre, when tried by those principles, will 
be found not to have violated any of the 
unities, if they are largely and liberally un- 



Who can read these lines without perceiving that Shak- 
speare had imbibed a deeper feeling of the beauty of 
Pagan mythology than a thousand pedants could have 
imbibed in their whole lives?" — Life of Shakspeare, 
p. xvi. — C. 

* Dr. Johnson has said, with regard to local unity in 
the drama, that we can as easily imagine ourselves in 
one place as another. So we can, at the beginning of a 
play; but having taken our imaginary .station with the 
poet in one country, I do not believe with Dr. Johnson, 
that we change into a different one with perfect fitcility 
to the imagination. Lay the fir.st act in Evirope, and we 
surely do not naturally expect to find the second in 
America. 

+ For some admirable remarks on dramatic unities, 
Fee .Scott's Essay on the Drama (Misc. Pr. Wrrls, vol. vi. 
pp. 298—321.) Dr. Johnson has numerous obligations to 



derstood. . I have no doubt that Mr. Schle- 
gel's criticism will be found to have proved 
this point in a considerable number of the 
works of our mighty poet. There are traits, 
however, in Shakspeare, which, I must own, 
appear to my humble judgment incapable 
of being illustrated by any system or prin- 
ciples of art. I do not allude to his histo- 
rical plays, which, expressly from being 
historical, may be called a privileged class. 
But in those of purer fiction, it strikes me 
that there are licenses conceded indeed to 
imagination's " chartered libertine," but 
anomalous with regard to any thing which 
can be recognised as principles in dramatic 
art. When Perdita, for instance, grows 
from the cradle to the marriage altar in the 
course of the play, I can perceive no unity 
in the design of the piece, and take refuge 
in the supposition of Shakspeare's genius 
triumphing and trampling over art. Yet 
Mr. Schlegel, as far as I have observed, 
makes no exception to this breach of tem- 
poral unity; nor, in proving Shakspeare a 
regular artist on a mighty scale, does he 
deign tn notice this circumstance, even as 
the ultima Tlmle of his license. t If a man 
contends that dramatic laws are all idle 
restrictions, I can understand him ; or if he 
says that Perdita's growth on the stage is a 
trespass on art, but that Shakspeare's fasci- 
nation over and over again redeems it, I can 
both understand and agree with him. But 
when I am left to infer that all this is right 
on romantic principles, I confess that those 
principles become too romantic for my con- 
ception. If Perdita may be born and mar- 
ried on the stage, why may not Webster's 
Duchess (#f Malfi lie-in between the acts, 
and produce a fine family of tragic chil- 
dren ? Her grace actually does so in Web- 



an excellent paper of Farquhar's; a fact not generally 
enough known. — C. 

J Mitis. How comes it that in some one play we see 
so many scaP, countries, and kingdoms, passed over with 
such admirable dexterity ? 

Cwdatus. 0, that but shows how well the authors can 
travel in their vocation, and outrun the apprehension of 
their auditory. — Every Man out of his Humour. 

This was said in liiy9, and at T/ie Globe., when Shak- 
speare, that very year, perhaps the performance before, 
had crossed the seas in his chorus from England to 
France, and from France to England, with admirable 
dexterity. Jonson wrote to recommend his own unities, 
and to instruct his audience ; not, as the Shakspeare 
commentators would have us believe, toabu.se Shakspeare, 
if not in his own hou.se, in the very theatre in which he 
was a large sharer, and unquestionably the main-stay. — C 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



35 



ster's drama, and he is a poet of some genius, 
though it is not quite so sufficient as Shak- 
speare's, to give a "sweet oblivious antidote" 
to such " perilous stuff." It is not, however, 
either in favour of Shakspeare's or of 
"Webster's genius that we shall be called on 
to make allowance, if we justify in the 
drama the lapse of such a number of years 
as may change the apparent identity of an 
individual. If romantic unity is to be so 
largely interpreted, the old Spanish dramas, 
where youths grow graybeards upon the 
stage, the mysteries and moralities, and pro- 
ductions teeming with the wildest anachron- 
ism, might all come in with their grave or 
laughable claims to romantic legitimacy. 

Nam sic 
Et Laberi mimos ut pulchra poemata mircr. — IIor. 

On a general view, I conceive it may be 
said, that Shakspeare nobly and legitimately 
enlarged the boundaries of time and place 
in the drama ; but in extreme cases, I would 
rather agree with Cumberland, to waive all 
mention of his name in speaking of dramatic 
laws, than accept those licenses for art which 
are not art, and designate irregularity by 
the name of order. 

There were other poets who started nearly 
coeval with Ben Jonson in the attempt to 
give a classical form to our drama. Daniel, 
for instance, brought out his tragedy of 
Cleopatra in 1594; but his elegant genius 
Avanted the strength requisite for great dra- 
matic efforts. Still more unequal to the task 
was the Earl of Sterline, who published his 
cold " monarchic tragedies," in 1G04. The 
triumph of founding English classical come- 
dy belonged exclusively to Jonson. In his 
tragedies it is remarkable that he freely 
dispenses Avith the unities, though in those 
tragedies he brings classical antiquity in the 
most distinct and learnedly authenticated 
traits before our eyes. The vindication of 
his great poetic memory forms an agreeable 
contrast in modern criticism with the bold 
bad things which used to be said of him in 



* "If the atioipntp," says TIeadley, "wpre to reclaim 
their own, Jonson would not have a rap: to cover his na- 
kedness:" a remark that called a taunting nply from 
Gifford in one of his most bitter moods. Dryden lias 
beautifully said of .Tonson. that you niny track him 
everywhere in the snow of the ancients. — C. 

t Namely, the .«ong of Night, in the masque of "The 
Vision of Delight." 

"Break, Phant'sie, from Oiy care of cloud."— p. 117. 

His lyrical poetry forms, perhaps, the most delightful 



a former period ; as M'hen Young compared 
him to a blind Samson, who pulled down 
the ruins of antiquity on his head and 
buried his genius beneath them.* Ilurd, 
though he inveighed against the too abstract 
conception of his characters, pronouncing 
them rather personified humours than natu- 
ral beings, did him, nevertheless, the justice 
to quote one short and lovely passage from 
one of his masques, and the beauty of that 
passage probably turned the attention of 
many readers to his then neglected compo- 
sitions.f It is indeed but one of the many 
beauties which justify all that has been said 
of Jonson's lyrical powers. In that fanciful 
region of the drama (the Masque) he stands 
as pre-eminent as in comedy ; or if he can 
be said to be rivalled, it is only by Milton. 
And our surprise at the wildness and sweet- 
ness of his fancy in one walk of composition 
is increased by the stern and rigid (some- 
times rugged) air of truth which he pre- 
serves in the other. In the regular drama 
he certainlj' holds up no romantic mirror to 
nature. His object was to exhibit human 
characters at once strongly comic and se- 
verely and instructively true ; to nourish the 
understanding, while he feasted the sense 
of ridicule. He is more anxious for verisi- 
militude than even for comic effect. He 
understood the humours and peculiarities 
of his species scientifically, and brought 
them forward in their greatest contrasts and 
subtlest modifications. If Shakspeare care- 
lessly scattered illusion, Jonson skilfully 
prepared it. This is speaking of Jonson in 
his happiest manner. There is a great deal 
of harsh and sour fruit in his miscellaneous 
poetiy. It is acknowledged that in the 
drama he frequently overlabours his delinea- 
tion of character, and wastes it tediously 
upon uninteresting humours and peculiari- 
ties. He is a moral painter, who delights 
overmuch to show his knowledge of moral 
anatomy. Beyond the pale of his three 
great dramas, " The Fox," " The Epicene, 

part of his poetical character. Tn .songs and masques, 
and interludes, his fancy has a wildness and a sweetness 
that we should not expect from the severity of his dra- 
matic ta«te. It cannot be said, imleed, that he is alwiiys 
free from metaphysical conceit, but his languaL'i- is 
■weighty with thought, and poli.^hed with elegance. Upon 
the whole, his merits, after every fair deduction, leave 
him in pos.«ession of a high niche in onr literature, and 
entitle him to be ranked (next to Shakspenre) as the 
most important benefactor of our early irama.— Camk 
BELL, article Jonson, in Brewster's EncycUrpadia.—C. 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



or Silent Woman," and " The Alchemist," 
it -would not be difficult to find many strik- 
ing exceptions to that love of truth and 
probability, which, in a general view, may 
be regarded as one of his best characteris- 
tics. Even vrithin that pale, namely, in his 
masterly character of Volpone, one is struck 
with what, if it be not an absolute breach, 
is at least a very bold stretch, of probability. 
It is true that Volpone is altogether a being 
daringly conceived; and those who think 
that art spoiled the originality of Jonson, 
may well rectify their opinion by consider- 
ing the force of imagination which it re- 
quired to concentrate the traits of such a 
character as "The Fox;" not to speak of 
his Mosca, who is the phoenix of all para- 
sites. Volpone himself is not like the com- 
mon misers of comedy, a mere money-loving 
dotard — a hard, shrivelled old mummy, with 
no other spice than his avarice to preserve 
him ; he is a happy villain, a jolly misan- 
thrope — a little god in his own selfishness, 
and Mosca is his priest and prophet. Vigor- 
ous and healthy, though past the prime of 
life, he hugs himself in his arch humour, 
his successful knavery and imposture, his 
sensuality and his wealth, with an unhal- 
lowed relish of selfish existence. His 
passion for wealth seems not to be so great 
as his delight in gulling the human " vul- 
tures and gorecrows" who flock round him 
at the imagined approach of his dissolution; 
the speculators who put their gold, as they 
conceive, into his dying gripe, to be returned 
to them a thousand-fold in his will. Yet 
still, after this exquisite rogue has stood his 
trial in a sweat of agony at the scrntineum, 
and blest his stars at having narrowly 
escaped being put to the torture, there is 
something (one would think) a little too 
strong for probability, in that mischievous 
mirth and love of tormenting his own dupes, 
which bring him, by his own folly, a second 
time within the fangs of justice. " The 
Fox" and " The Alchemist" seem to have 
divided Jonson's admirers as to which of 
them may be considered his masterpiece. 
In confessing my partiality to the prose 
comedy of " The Silent Woman," consi- 

* The plot of The Fox is admirably conceived ; and 
that of The Alchemist, though faulty in the conclusion, 
is nearly equal to it. In the two comedies of Every Man 
in his Humours and Every Man out of his Humour, the 
plot deserves much less praise, and is deficient at once in 
interest and unity of action ; but in that of The SHent 



dered merely as a comedy, I am by no means 
forgetful of the rich eloquence which poetry 
imparts to the two others. But " The Epi- 
cene," in my humble apprehension, exhibits 
Jonson's humour in the most exhilarating 
perfection.* With due admiration for "The 
Alchemist," I cannot help thinking the jar- 
gon of the chemical jugglers, though it 
displays the learning of the author, to be 
tediously profuse. " The Fox" rises to 
something higher than comic effect. It is 
morally impressive. It detains us at parti- 
cular points in serious terror and suspense. 
But " The Epicene" is purely facetious. I 
know not, indeed, why we should laugh 
more at the sufferings of Morose than at 
those of the sensualist. Sir Epicure Mam- 
mon, who deserves his miseries much better 
than the rueful and pitiable Morose. Yet 
so it is, that, though the feelings of pathos 
and ridicule seem so widely different, a cer- 
tain tincture of the pitiable makes comic 
distress more irresistible. Poor Morose suf- 
fers what the fancy of Dante could not have 
surpassed in description, if he had sketched 
out a ludicrous Purgatory. A lover of quiet 
— a man exquisitely impatient of rude 
sounds and loquacity, who lived in a retired 
street — who barricadoed his doors with mat- 
resses to prevent disturbance to his ears, 
and who married a wife because he could 
with difiiculty prevail upon her to speak to 
him — has hardly tied the fatal knot when 
his house is tempested by female eloquence, 
and the marriage of him who had pensioned 
the city-wakes to keep away from his neigh- 
bourhood, is celebrated by a concert of 
trumpets. He repairs to a court of justice 
to get his marriage, if possible, dissolved, 
but is driven back in despair by the intole- 
rable noise of the court. For this marriage' 
how exquisitely we are prepoxed by the 
scene of courtship ! When Morose ques- 
tions his intended bride about her likings 
and habits of life, she plays her part so 
hypocritically, that he seems for a moment 
impatient of her reserve, and with the most 
ludicrous cross-feelings wishes her to speak 
more loudly, that he may have a proof of 
her taciturnity from her own lips ; but, re- 



Woman, nothing can exceed the art with which the cir- 
cumstance upon which the conclusion turns is, until the 
very last scene, concealed from the knowledge of the 
reader, while he is tempted to suppose it constantly 
within his reach. — Sir Walter Scott, Misc. Prose Works, 
vol. vi. p. 341.— C. 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



collecting himself, he gives way to the rap- 
turous satisfaction of having found a silent 
woman, and exclaims to Outbeard, " Go thy 
ways and get me a clergyman presently, 
with a soft, low voice, to marry us, and pray 
him he will not be impertinent, but brief as 
he can." 

The art of Jonson Avas not confined to the 
cold observation of the unities of place and 
time, but appears in the whole adaptation 
of his incidents and characters to the sup- 
port of each other. Beneath his learning 
and art he moves with an activity which 
may be compared to the strength of a man 
who can leap and bound under the heaviest 
armour.* 

The works of Jonson bring us into the 
seventeenth century ; and early in that cen- 
tury, our language, besides the great names 
already mentioned, contains many other 
poets whose works may be read with a plea- 
sure independent of the interest which we 
take in their antiquity. 

Drayton and Daniel, though the most op- 
posite in the cast of their genius, are pre- 
eminent in the second poetical class of their 
age, for their common merit of clear and 
harmonious diction. Drayton is prone to 
Ovidian conceits, but he plays with them so 
gayly, that they almost seem to become him 
as if natural. His feeling is neither deep, 
nor is the happiness of his fancy of long 
continuance, but its short April gleams are 
very beautiful. His Legend of the Duke 
of Buckingham opens with a fine descrip- 
tion. Unfortunately, his descriptions in long 
poems are, like many fine mornings, suc- 
ceeded by a cloudy day. 

"The lark, that holds observance to the sun, 
(Juaver'd her clear notes in the quiet air. 
And on the river's murmuring base did run. 
Whilst the pleased heavens her fairest livery wear ; 
The place stich pleasure gently did prepare, 
The flowers my smell, the flood my taste to steep, 
And the much softness lulled me asleep. 
When, in a vision, as it seem'd to me, 
Triumphal music from the flood arose." .... 

Of the grand beauties of poetry he has 
none; but of the sparkling lightness of his 
best manner an example may be given in 



* He (Jonson) was deeply conversant in the ancients, 
both Greek and Latin, and he borrowed boldly from 
them; there is scarce a poet or historian among the Ro- 
man authors of those times whom he has not translated 
in Sejanus and Catiline. But he has doue his robberies 
EG openly that one may see he fears not to be taxed by 
any law. lie invades authors like a monarch, and what 



the following stanzas, from his sketch of the 
Poet's Elysium. 

A Paradise on earth is found. 

Though far from vulgar sight, 
Which with those pleasures doth abound, 

That it Elysium bight 



The winter here a i 

No waste is made by time : 
Nor doth the autumn ever mi 

The blossoms of the prime. 



Those cliffs whose craggy sides are clad 

With trees of sundry suits. 
Which make continual summer glad, 

E'en bending with their fruits — 

Some ripening, ready some to fall, 
Soijie blossoni'd, some to bioom, 

Like gorgeous hangings on the wall 
Of some rich princely room 



There, in perpetual summer shade, 

Apollo's prophets sit, 
Among the tlowers that never fade, 

Lut flourish like their wit; 

To whom the nymphs, upon their lyres. 

Tune many a curious lay, 
And, with their most melodious quires. 

Make short the longest day. 



Daniel is " someivJiat a-JIai," as one of his 
contemporaries said of him,t but he had 
more sensibility than Drayton, and his moral 
reflection rises to higher dignity. The lyri- 
cal poetry of Elizabeth's age runs often into 
pastoral insipidity and fixntastic careless- 
ness, though there may be found in some of 
the pieces of Sir Philip Sydney, Lodge, 
Marlowe, and Breton, not only a sweet, wild 
spirit, but an exquisite finish of expression. 
Of these combined beauties Marlowe's song, 
" Come live with me, and be my love," is an 
example. The " Soul's Errand," by whom- 
soever it was written, is a burst of genuine 
poetry. J I know not how that short pro- 
duction has ever aifected other readers, but 
it carries to my imagination an appeal which 
I cannot easily account for from a few sim- 
ple rhymes. It places the last and inex- 
pressibly awful hour of existence before my 
view, and sounds like a sentence of vanity 
on the things of this world, pronounced by 



would be theft in other poets is only victory in him. 
With the spoils of these writers he so represented old 
Kome to us in its rites, ceremouies, and customs, that if 
one of their poets had written either of his tragedies- we 
had seen less of it than in him.— Dryden.— C. 

f Bolton, in his Hypercritica, 1622. — C. 

X Vide these Selections, p. 116. 
D 



38 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



a djnng man, -whose eye glares on eternity, 
and whose voice is raised by strength from 
another Tvorld.* Raleigh, also (according 
to Puttenham), had a " lofty and passionate" 
vein. It is difficult, however, to authenti- 
cate his poetical relics. Of the numerous 
sonnetteers of that time (keeping Shak- 
speare and Spenser apart), Drummond and 
Daniel are certainly the best. Hall was 
the master satirist of the age ; obscure and 
quaint at times, but full of nerve and pic- 
turesque illustration. No contemporary 
satirist has given equal grace and dignity to 
moral censure. Very unequal to him in 
style, though often as original in thought, 
and as graphic in exhibiting manners, is 
Donne, some of whose satires have been 
modernized by Pope.f Corbet has left some 
humorous pieces of raillery on the Puri- 
tans. Wither, all fierce and fanatic on the 
opposite side, has nothing more to recom- 
mend him in invective, than the sincerity 
of that zeal for God's house, which ate him 
up. Marston, better known in the drama 
than in satire, was characterized by his 
contemporaries for his ruffian style. He has 
more will than skill in invective. " He puts 
in his blows with love," as the pugilists say 
of a hard but artless fighter; a degrading 
image, but on that account not the less ap- 
plicable to a coarse satirist. 

Donne Avas the " best good-natured man, 
with the worst-natured Muse." A romantic 
and uxorious lover, he addresses the object 
of his real tenderness with ideas that out- 
rage decorum. He begins his own epitha- 
lamium with a most indelicate invocation to 
his bride. His ruggedness and whim are 
almost proverbially known. J Yet there is 
a beauty of thought which at intervals rises 
from his chaotic imagination, like the form 
of Venus smiling on the waters. Giles and 
Phineas Fletcher possessed harmony and 
foncy. The simple Warner has left, in his 
" Argentile and Curan," perhaps the finest 
pastoral episode in our language. Browne 

* Is not the SnuVs Errand the same poem with the 
fcoul's Kuell, which is always ascribed to Richard Ed- 
wurds? — If so, why has it been inserted in Raleigh's 
poi'ins by Sir Egerton Brydges? [They are distinct 
poems. — C] 

f Would not Donne's satireg, which abound with so 
much wit, appear more charming if he had taken care 

of )iis words and his numbers ? I may safely 

say of this present age, that if we are not so great wits 
as Donne, yet certainly we are better poets. — Drtden. 



was an elegant describer of rural scenes, 
though incompetent to fill them with life 
and manners. Chalkhill§ is a writer of 
pastoral romance, from whose work of The- 
alma and Clear chus a specimen should have 
been given in the body of these Selections, 
but was omitted by an accidental oversight. 
Chalkhill's numbers are as musical as those 
of any of his contemporaries, who employ 
the same form of versification. It was com- 
mon with the Avriters of the heroic couplet 
of that age to bring the sense to a full and 
frequent pause in the middle of the line. 
This break, by relieving the uniformity of 
the couplet measure, sometimes produces a 
graceful effect and a varied harmony Avhich 
we miss in the exact and unbroken tune of 
our later rhyme; a beauty of which the 
reader will probably be sensible, in perusing 
such lines of Chalkhill's as these : — 

" And ever and anon he might well hear 
A sound of music steal in at his ear, 
As the witid gave it being. So sweet an air 
Would strike a siren. mutt ." 

This relief, however, is used rather too libe- 
rally by the elder rhymists, and is perhaps 
as often the result of their carelessness as 
of their good taste. Nor is it at all times 
obtained by them without the sacrifice of 
one of the most important uses of rhyme; 
namely, the distinctness of its effect in 
marking the measure. The chief source of 
the gratification which the ear finds in 
rhyme is our perceiving the emphasis of 
sound coincide with that of sense. In other 
words, the rhyme is best placed on the most 
emphatic word in the sentence. But it is 
nothing unusual with the ancient couplet 
writers, by laying the rhyme on unimportant 
words, to disappoint the ear of this pleasure, 
and to exhibit the restraint of rhyme with- 
out its emphasis. 

As a poetical narrator of fiction. Chalk- 
hill is rather tedious ; but he atones for the 
sloAV progress of his narrative by many 
touches of rich and romantic description. 

X Nothing could have made Donne a poet, unless as 
great a change had been worked in the internal struc- 
ture of his ears, as was wrought in elongating those of 
Midas. — SouTHET, Specimens, p. xxiv. — C. 

§ Chalkhill was a gentleman and a scholar, the friend 
of Spenser. He died before he could finish the fable of 
his "Thealma and Clearchus." which was published, 
long after his death, by Isaak Walton. 

And has been since reprinted ; one of Mr. Singer's 
numerous contributions to our literature. — C. 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



39 



PROM "thealma and clearchus. ' 

DESCRIPTION or THE PRIESTESS OF DIANA. 

■Within a little silent grove hard by, 

Upon a small ascent, he niig:ht espy 

A statoly I'hapel, richly gilt without. 

Beset with sliaJy sycamores about; 

And ever and anon he might well hear 

A sound of music steal in at his ear, 

As the wind gave it being. So sweet an air 

Would strike a siren mute, and ravish her. 

He sees no creature that might cause the same, 

But he was sure that from the grove it came, 

And to the grove he goes to satisfy 

The curiosity of ear and eye. 

Thorough ths thick-leaved boughs he makes a way. 

Nor could the scratching brambles make him stay. 

But on he rushes, and climbs up a hill, 

Thorouf,'h a glade. He saw and heard his fill — 

A hundred virgins there he might espy. 

Prostrate before a marble deity, 

■Which, by its portraiture, appear'd to be 

The image of Diana. On their knee 

They tended their devotions with sweet airs, 

Offering the incense of their praise and prayers. 

Their garments all alike 

And cross their snowy silken robes they wore 
An azure scarf, with stars embroider'd o'er; 
Their hair in curious tresses was knot up, 
Crown'd with a silver crescent on the top ; 
A sil\ er bow their left hand held, their right. 
For their defence, held a sharp-headed flight 

Of arrows 

Under their vestments, something short before. 

White buskins, laced with ribbanding, they wore; 

It was a catching sight to a young eye. 

That Love had fix'd before. He might e.spy 

One whom the rest had, sphere-like, circled round. 

Whose head was with a golden chaplet crown'd: 

He could not see her face, only his ear 

Was blest with the sweet words that came from her. 



THE IMAGE OF JEAIOUST IN THE CHAPEL OF DIANA. 

A curious eye 

Might see some relics of a piece of art 

That Psyche made, when Love first fired her heart; 

It was the story of her thoughts, that she 

Curiously wrought in lively imagery ; 

Among the rest she thought of Jealousy, 

Time left untouch'd to grace antiquity. 

She was decypher'd by a tim'rous dame. 

Wrapt in a yellow mantle lined with flame ; 

Her looks were pale, contracted with a frown, 

Her eyes suspicious, wandering up and down; 

Behind her Fear attended, big with child, 

Able to fright Presumption if she smiled; 

After her flew a sigh between two springs 

Of briny water.s. On her dove-like wings 

She bore a letter seal'd with a half moon, 

And superscribed — this from Suspicion. 



ABODE OF THE WITCH ORANDRA. 

Her cell was hewn out in the marble rock 

By more than human art. She need not knock — 

The door stood always open, large and wide. 

Grown o'er with woolly moss on either side. 

And interwove with ivy's flattering twines, 

Through which the carbuncle and diamond shines ; 

Not set by art, but there by Nature sown 

It the world's birth ; so starlike bright they shone, 



They served instead of tapers, to give light 
To the dark entry 

In they went : 

The ground was strewn with flowers, whose sweet scent, 

Mixt with the choice perfumes from India brought. 

Intoxicates his brains, and quickly caught 

Ilis credulous sense. The walls were gilt, and set 

With precious stones, and all the roof was fret 

With a gold vine, whose straggling branches spread 

O'er all the arch — the swelling grapes were red; 

This art had made of rubies, cluster'd so. 

To the quickest eye they more than seem'd to grow. 

About the walls lascivious pictures hung. 

Such as whereof loose Ovid sometimes sung ; 

On either side a crew of dwarfish elves 

Held waxen tapers taller than themselves. 

Yet so well shaped unto their little stature, 

So angel-like in face, so sweet in feature. 

Their rich attire so differing, yet so well 

Becoming her that wore it, none could tell 

Which was the fairest 

After a low salute they all'gan sing. 
And circle in the stranger in a ring; 
Orandra to her charms was stept aside, 
Leaving her guest half won, and wanton eyed: 
He had forgot his herb — cunning delight 
Had so bewitch'd his ears, and blear'd his sight, 
That he was not himself. 

, Unto his view 

She represents a banquet, usher'd in 
By such a shape as she was sure would win 
His appetite to taste— ^so like she was 
To his Clarinda both in shape and face. 
So voiced, so habited — of the same gait 
And comely gesture 

Hardly did he refrain 

From sucking in destruction at her lip; 

Sin's cup will poison at the smallest sip. 

She weeps and wooes again with subtleness. 

And with a frown .she chides his backwardness: 

Have you (said she) sweet prince, so soon forgot 

Your own beloved Clarinda ? Are you not 

The same you were, that j'ou .so slightly set 

By her that once you made the cabinet 

Of your choice counsel ? Hath some worthier love 

Stole your affections? What is it should move 

You to dislike so soon ? Must I still taste 

No other dish but sorrow ? When we last 

Emptied our souls into each other's breast. 

It was not so 

■With that she wept afresh .... 

She seem'd to fiiU into a swound; 

And stooping down to raise her from the ground. 
He puts his herb into his mouth, whose tasle 
Soon changed his mind : he lifts her — but in vain, 
His hands fell off, and she fell down again : 
With that she lent him such a frown as would 
Have kill'd a common lover, and made cold 
Even lust itself. 

The lights went out, 

And darkness hung the chamber round about : 
A yelling, hellish noise was each where heard. 

In classical translation Phaer and Gola- 
ing were the earliest successors of Lord 
Surrey. Phaor published his " Virgil" in 
1562, and Golding his " Ovid" three years 
later.^* Both of these translators, consi- 

[* The seven first bonks of Phaer's Tirgil were first 
printed in 165S, the eighth, ninth, and the fragment ol 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



dering the state of the language, have con- 
siderable merit. Like them, Chapman, who 
came later, employed in his version of the 
"Iliad" the four teen-syllable rhyme, which 
was then in favourite use. Of the three 
translators, Phaer is the most faithful and 
simple, Golding the most musical, and Chap- 
man the most spirited ; though Chapman is 
prone to be turgid, and often false to the 
sense of Homer. Phaer's ^neid has been 
praised by a modern writer,+ in the " Lives 
of the Nephews of Milton," with absurd ex- 



the tenth in 1562. Twyne's continuation was first 
printed in 1573. 

In 1565, Golding published the four first books of Ovid's 
Metamorphoses, and in 1567 a translation of the whole. 

We have had the good fortune to fall in with a notice 
of Arthur Golding in a Museum MS. of ord<'rs made on 
petitions to the Privy Council from 1605 to 1616. "No 
particulars," says Mr. Collier, " of the life of Golding 
have been recovered. He does not appear to have written 
any thing after 1590, but the year of his death is uncer- 
tain."— £r%e. Cat. p. 130. 

HatScld, the iiTlh of July, 1005. 

Arthure Golding IIisMa<« is graciouslie pleased that 
to have the sole the lord Archbyshopp of Canterburie 
■pritdivgofsome his Grace and his Ma" Atturney 
books translated GeSall shall advisedlie consider of 
hy himself. this sut, and for such of the books as 

they shall think meete for the benefitt 
of the church and common weale to be 
solie printed by this pfeticonr and 
wherby noe enormious monopolies 
may ensue, his Ma" Atturney is to 
drawe a hook ready for his Ma" sig- 
nature, contayning agraunt hereof to 
the peticoner, leaving a blank for the 
number of yeires to be inserted at his 
Ma" pleasure. 

Lans. MSS. No. 266, Folio 61.— C] 
[+ William Godwin.— C] 

T ENEAS'S N.\RRATIVE AFTER THE DEATH OP PRIAM. 

EXEID n. 

Than first the cruel fear me caught, and sore my sprites 

• appalj'd. 

And on my father dear I thought, his face to mind 1 

call'd. 
Whan slain with grisly wound our king, him like of age 

in sight. 
Lay gasping dead, and of my wife Creuse bethought the 

plight. 
Alone, forsake, my house despoil'd, my child what 

chaunce had take, 
I looked, and about me view'd what strength I might me 

make. 
All men had me forsake for paynes, and down their 

bodies drew. 
To ground they leapt, and some for woe themselves in 

fires they threw. 
And now alone was left but I whan Vesta's temple 

stair 
To keep and secretly to lurk all crouching close in 

chair, 
Damo Helen I might see to sit; bright burnings gave me 

light, 
Tberever I went, the ways I pass'd, all thing was set in 

Bight 



aggeration. I have no wish to disparage 
the fair value of the old translator ; but when 
the biographer of Milton's nephews de- 
clares, "that nothing in language or con- 
ception can exceed the style in which Phaer 
treats of the last day of the existence of 
Troy," I know of no answer to this assertion 
but to give the reader the vei-y passage which 
is pronounced so inimitable, although, to 
save myself farther impediment in the text, 
I must subjoin it in a note.t 

The harmony of Fairfax is justly cele- 



She fearing her the Trojans' wrath, for Troy destroy'd 

to wreke, 
Greek's torments ' and her husband's force, whose wed- 
lock she did break, 
The plague of Troy and of her country, monster most 

ontame. 
There sat she with her hated head, by the altars hid for 

shame. 
Straight in my breast I felt a fire, deep wrath my heart 

did strain, 
My country's fall to wreak, and bring that cursed wretch 

to pain. 
What! shall she into her country soil of Sparta and 

high Mycene, 
All safe shall she return, and there on Troy triumph as 

queen 1 
Her husband, children, country, kynne, her house, her 

parents old. 
With Trojan wive.«, and Trojan lords, her slaves shall she 

behold? 
Was Priam slain with sword for this? Troy burnt with 

fire so wood ? 
Is it herefore that Dardan strondes so often hath sweat 

with blood? 
Not so, for though it be no praise on woman kind to 

wreak. 
And honour none there lieth in this, nor name for meu 

to speak ; 
Yet quench 1 shall this poison here, and due deserts to 

dight. 
Men shall commend my zeal, and ease my mind I shall 

outright : 
This much for all my peoples' bones and country's flame 

to quite. 
These things within myself I tost, and fierce with force 

I ran. 
Whan to my face my mother great, so brim no time till 

than. 
Appearing shew'd herself in sight, all shining pure by 

night, 
Right goddess-like appearing, such as heavens beholds 

her bright. 
So great with majesty she stood, and me by right-batl 

take. 
She stay'd, and red as rose, with mouth these words to 

me she spake : 
My son, what sore outrage so wild thy wrathful mind 

upstares ? 
Why frettest thou, or where alway from us thy care witl» 

drawn «ppears ? 
Nor first unto thy father see'st, whom, feeble in all this woe, 
Thou hast forsake, nor if thy wife doth live thou know'st 

or no. 
Nor young Ascanius, thy child, whom throngs of Qreeia 

about 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



41 



brated.* Joshua Sylvester's version of the 
"Divine Weeks and Works" of the French 
poet Dubartas was among the most popular 
of our early translations ; and the obliga- 
tions which Milton is alleged to have owed 
to it, have revived Sylvester's name with 
some interest in modern criticism. Sylves- 
ter was a puritan, and so was the publisher 
of his work, Humphrey Lownes, who lived 
in the same street with Milton's father ; and 
from the congeniality of their opinions, it is 
not improbable that they might be ac- 
quainted. It is easily to be conceived that 
Milton often repaired to the shop of Lownes, 
and there first met with the pious didactic 
poem. Lauder was the earliest to trace 
Milton's particular thoughts and expres- 
sions to Sylvester ; and, as might be expected, 
maliciously exaggerated them. Later wri- 
ters took up the subject with a verj^ diflferent 
spirit. Mr. Todd, the learned editor of 
Spenser, noticed in a number of the Gentle- 
man's Magazine,! t^^e probability of Mil- 
ton's early acquaintance with the translation 
ofDubartas's poem; and Mr. Dunster has 
since, in his " Essay on Milton's early read- 
ing," supported the opinion, that the same 
work contains the prima stamina of Para- 
dise Lost, and laid the first foundation of 
that " monumenium cereperennius." Thoughts 
and expressions there certainly are in Mil- 
ton, which leave his acquaintance with Syl- 
vester hardly questionable; although some 
of the expressions quoted by Mr. Dunster, 
which are common to them both, may be 
traced back to other poets older than Syl- 



Doth swarming run, and, were not my relief, withouteu 

doubt 
By this time fl.tmes had by devoured, or swords of eu'mies 

killed. 
It is not Helen's fate of Greece this town, my son, hath 

8piird, 
Nor Paris is to blame for this, but Gods, with grace un- 
kind, 
This wealth hath overthrown, a Troy from top to ground 

outwind. 
Behold 1 for now away the cloud and dim fog will I 

take, 
That over mortal eyes doth hang, and blind thy sight 

doth make ; 
Thou to thy parents haste, take heed (dread not) my mind 

obey. 
In yonder place, where stones from stones, and buildings 

huge to sway, 
Thou seest, and mixt in dust and smoke, thick streams 

of richness rise. 
Himself the God Neptune that side doth turn in wonders 

wise, 
With fork three-tined the walls uproots, foundations all 

too shakes, 

6 



vester. The entire amount of his obliga 
tions, as Mr. Dunster justly admits, cannot 
detract from our opinion of Milton. If 
Sylvester ever stood high in his favour, it 
must have been when he was very young. J 
The beauties which occur so strangely in- 
termixed with bathos and flatness in Syl- 
vester's poem, might have caught the youth- 
ful discernment, and long dwelt in the 
memory, of the great poet. But he must 
have perused it with disgust at Sylvester's 
general manner. Many of his epithets and 
happy phrases were really worthy of Mil- 
ton ; but by far the greater proportion of his 
thoughts and expressions have a quaintness 
and flatness more worthy of Quarles and 
Wither. 

The following lines may serve as no un- 
favourable specimens of his translation of 
Dubartas's poem. 

PKOBABIUTT OP THE CEIESTIAL ORBS BEING IXHABITED. 

I not believe that the great architect 

With all these fires the heavenly arches deck'd 

Only for show, and with these glistering shields 

T'amaze poor shepherds, watching in the fields ; 

I not believe that the least flower which pranks 

Our garden borders, or our common banks. 

And the least stone, that in her warming lap 

Our mother earth doth covetously wrap, 

Ilath some peculiar virtue of its own, 

And that the glorious stars of Heaven have none. 

THE serpent's address TO EVE WHEN HE TEMPTED HEE 
IN EDEN. 

As a false lover, that thick snares hath laid 
T' entrap the honour of a fair young maid, 
If she (though little) list'ning ear affords 
To his sweet-courting, deep-affecting words. 
Feels some assuaging of his ardent flame, 
And soothes himself with hopes to win his game, 



And quite from under soil the town with ground-works 

all uprakes. 
On yonder side, with furies mixt. Dame Juno fiercely 

stands, 
The gates she keeps, and from their ships the Greeks, her 

friendly bands. 
In armour girt, she calls. 

[* Many besides myself have heard our famous Waller 
own that he derived the harmony of his numbers from 
the Godfrey of Bulloigne, which was turned into Kuglish 
by Mr. Fairfax. — Dryden, Malone, vol. iv. p. 592. See 
Note A at the end of this volume. — C] 

t For November, 1796. 

[X I remember, when I was a boy, I thought inimitable 
Spenser a mean poet in comparison of Sylvester's Dubar- 
tas, and was rapt into ecstasy when I read these lines : 

Now, when the Winter's keener breath began 
To crystallize the Baltic ocean ; 
To glaze the lakes, to bridle up the floods, 
And periwig with wool the bald-pate woods. 

I am much deceived if this be not abominable fustian. 
— Dryden.— C] 

p2 



42 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



■While, wrapt with joy, he on his point persists, 
Tliat parleying city never long resists — 

Even so the serpent 

Perceiving Eve his flattering gloze digest, 
lie prosecutes, and jocund doth not rest. 
No, Fair (quoth he), believe not that the care 
God hath from spoiling Death mankind to spare 
Makes him forbid you, on such strict condition, 

His purest, rarest, fairest fruit's fruition 

Begin thy bliss, and do not fear the threat 

Of an uncertain Godhead, only great 

Through self-awed zeal— put on the glist'ning pall 

Of immortality. 

MORNING. 

Arise betimes, while th' opal-colour'd morn 
In golden pomp doth May-day's door adorn. 

The " opal-colour'd morn" is a beautiful 
expression, that I do not remember any 
other poet to have ever used. 

The school of poets, -which is commonly 
called the metaphysical, began in the reign 
of Elizabeth with Donne; but the term of 
metaphysical poetry -would apply with much 
more justice to the quatrains of Sir John 
Davies, and those of Sir Fulke Greville, 
-writers -who, at a later period, found imi- 
tators in Sir Thomas Overbury and Sir Wil- 
liam Davenant.* Davies's poem on the Im- 
mortality of the Soul, entitled " Nosce teijT- 
sum,'" -will convey a much more favourable 
idea of metaphysical poetry than the -wit- 
tiest effusions of Donne and his followers. 
Davies carried abstract reasoning into verse 
with an acuteness and felicity which have 
seldom been equalled. He reasons, un- 
doubtedly, with too much labour, formality, 
and subtlety, to afford uniform poetical 
pleasure. ' The generality of his stanzas ex- 
hibit hard arguments interwoven Avith the 
pliant materials of fancy, so closely, that we 
may compare them to a texture of cloth 
and metallic threads, which is cold and 
stiff, while it is splendidly curious. There 
is this difference, however, between Davies 
and the commonly styled metaphysical 
poets, that he argues like a hard thinker, 
and they, for the most part, like madmen. 
If we conquer the drier parts of Davies's 
poem, and bestow a little attention on 
thoughts which were meant, not to gratify 
the indolence, but to challenge the activity 
of the mind, we shall find in the entire es- 
say fresh beauties at every perusal: for in 
the happier parts we come to logical truths 

[* This has been re-echoed by Mr. Hallam in his His- 
tory. Johnson has been unjustly blamed for the name 
applied to Donne and his followers of metaphysical 
poets, but it was given to this school before Johnson 



so well illustrated by ingenious similes, that 
we know not whether to call the thoughts 
more poetically or philosophically just. 
The judgment and f.mcy are reconciled, 
and the imagery of the poem seems to start 
more vividly from the surrounding shades 
of abstraction. 

Such were some of the first and inferior 
luminaries of that brilliant era of our 
poetry, which, perhaps, in general terms, 
may be said to cover about the last quarter 
of the sixteenth, and the first quarter of the 
seventeenth century; and which, though 
commonly called the age of Elizabeth, com- 
prehends many writers belonging to the 
reign of her successor. The romantic 
spirit, the generally unshackled style, and 
the fresh and fertile genius of that period, 
are not to be called in question. On the 
other hand, there are defects in the poetical 
character of the age, which, though they 
may disappear or be of little account amidst 
the excellencies of its greatest writers, are 
glaringly conspicuous in the works of their 
minor contemporaries. In prolonged nar- 
rative and description the writers of that 
age are peculiarly deficient in that charm, 
which is analogous to "keeping" in pictures. 
Their warm and cold colours are genei-ally 
without the gradations which should make 
them harmonize. They fall precipitately 
from good to bad thoughts, from strength 
to imbecility. Certainly they are profuse 
in the detail of natviral circumstances, and 
in the utterance of natural feelings. For 
this we love them, and we should love them 
still more if they knew where to stop in de- 
scription and sentiment. But thej^ give out 
the dre^s of their mind Avithout reserve, till 
their fairest conceptions are overwhelmed 
by a rabble of mean associations. At no 
period is the mass of vulgar mediocrity in 
poetry marked by more formal gallantry, by 
grosser adulation, or by coarser satire. Our 
amatory strains in the time of Charles the 
Second may be more dissolute, but tliose of 
Elizabeth's age often abound in studious 
and prolix licentiousness. Nor are exam- 
ples of this solemn and sedate impurity to 
be found only in the minor poets : our reve- 
rence for Shakspeare himself need not make 



wrote, by Dryden and by Pope. However, as Mr. Southey 
has said, "If it were easy to find a better name, so 
much deference is due to Johnson, that his should b^ 
still adhered to." — C] 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



43 



it necessary to disguise that he -willingly 
adopted that style in his youth, when he 
wrote his Venus and Adonis.* 

The fashion of the present day is to soli- 
cit public esteem not only for the best and 
better, but for the humblest and meanest 
Avriters of the age of Elizabeth. It is a bad 
book which has not something good in it; 
and even some of the worst writers of that 
period have their twinkling beauties. In 
one point of view, the research among such 
obscure authors is undoubtedly useful. It 
tends to throw incidental lights on the great 
old poets, and on the manners, biography, 
and language of the country. So far all is 
well — but as a matter of taste, it is apt to 
produce illusion and disappointment. Men 
like to make the most of the slightest beauty 
which they can discover in an obsolete 
versifier ; and they quote perhaps the soli- 
tary good thought which is to be found in 
such a writer, omitting any mention of the 
dreary passages which surround it. Of 
course it becomes a lamentable reflection, 
that so valuable an old poet should have 
been forgotten. When the reader however 
repairs to him, he finds that there are only 
one or two grains of gold in all the sands 
of this imaginary Pactolus. But the dis- 
play of neglected authors has not been even 



[* Shal<Ppeare's sonnets are addres.<:t>d to a youth of 
both sexes, to some hermaphrodite or Stella of his own 
fancy, and Barnfi'ild is guilty of eulogizing a youth in 
the language of love in its most womanly signification. 
Had Shakspeare published these now over-iated produc- 
tions of his muse, (of which no one throughout is posi- 
tively excellent,) this unnatural association had never 
existed, but several of his sugared sonnets among his 
private friends, when copyrights were not acknowledged 
or made the subject of law, fallin jt into the hands of 
T. T., a bookseller, the said T. T., whose name was Tho- 
mas Thorpe, printed tbem with a hieroglyphic-vl ■rscrip- 
tion, that is the puzzle of commentator, critic and reader. 
It deserves transcription : 

To the 

Only b"getter of these ensuing Sonnets, 

Jlr. W. H. 

all Happiness 

and that Eternity 

promised by our ever-living Toet 

wishet'/i the 

well-wi.shing Advnturer 

in setting forth. T. T. 



confined to glimmering beauties ; it has been 
extended to the reprinting of large and 
heavy masses of dulness. Most wretched 
works have been praised in this enthusiasm 
for the obsolete ; even the dullest works of 
the meanest contributors to the " Mirror for 
Magistrates."! It seems to be taken for 
granted, that the inspiration of the good old 
times descended to the very lowest dregs 
of its versifiers; whereas the bad writers 
of Elizabeth's age are only more stiff and 
artificial than those of the preceding, and 
more prolix than those of the succeeding 
period. 

Yet there are men, who, to all appear- 
ance, would wish to revive such authors — ■ 
not for the mere use of the antiquary, to 
whom every volume may be useful, but as 
standards of manner, and objects of gene- 
ral admiration. Books, it is said, take up 
little room. In the library this may be the 
case ; but it is not so in the minds and time 
of those who peruse them. Happily, in- 
deed, the task of pressing indifferent au- 
thors on the public attention is a fruitless 
one. They may be dug up from oblivion, 
but life cannot be put into their reputations. 
*' Can these bones live ?" Nature will have 
her course, and dull books will be forgotten, 
in spite of bibliographers. 



Who was Mr. W. H. ? A host of learned and unlearned, 
with Mr. Ilallam of their number, would have us to be- 
lieve William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke; which we 
shall credit when an instance is adduced of a peer of 
nine years' standing di-.scribed, dedicated to, or shadowed 
as Mr. This or That by mere initials. Mr. W. II. was 
well enough known in his own day; what is enigmatical 
to us was no obscurity then. T. T. had not dared to ad- 
dress the Earl of Pembroke as Jlr. W. 11. 

The same Mr. W. II. is said to. have been " the only 
begetter of these ensuing Sonnets;" but in what signifi- 
cation is the word used ? An instance is given from 
Drkker, where its purport is to procure. Was Mr. W. II. 
the procurer — the person by whose means T. T. had been 
able to print them? — a character akin to the mysterious 
man who brought the letter of Pope to the piratical 
Curll : or is he the individual to whom they are ad- 
dressed ? But all is conjecture ; one thing however is 
evident, that if T. T. meant that Mr. W. H. was addressed 
throughout by the pot't, he had never read the Sonnets, 
for the last twenty-eight are to a woman. — C] 

[+ The Mirror for Magistrates was one of Haslewood'.s 
reprints — a heavy man, with no kind or degree of goof* 
taste.— C] 



u 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



PART III. 



The pedantic character of James I. has 
been frequently represented as the cause of 
degeneracy in Eng-lish taste and genius. It 
must be allowed that James was an indif- 
ferent author ; and that neither the manners 
of his court nor the measures of his reign 
were calculated to excite romantic virtues 
in his subjects. But the opinion of his 
character having influenced the poetical 
spirit of the age unfavourably is not borne 
out by facts. He was friendly to the stage 
and to its best writers: he patronized Ben 
Jouson, and is said to have written a com- 
plimentary letter to Shakspeare with his 
own hand.* We may smile at the idea of 
James's praise being bestowed as an honour 
upon Shakspeare; the importance of the 
compliment, however, is not to be estimated 
by our present opinion of the monarch, but 
by the excessive reverence with which roy- 
alty was at that time invested in men's 
opinions. James's reign was rich in poeti- 
cal names, some of which have been already 
enumerated. We may be reminded, indeed, 
that those poets had been educated under 
Elizabeth, and that their genius bore the 
high impress of her heroic times ; but the 
same observation will also oblige us to re- 
collect that Elizabeth's age had its traits of 
depraved fashion, (witness its Euphuism,t) 
and that the first examples of the worst 
taste which ever infected our poetry wore 
given in her days, and not in those of her 
successor. Donne, (for instance,) the pa- 
triarch of the metaphysical generation, was 
thirty years of age at the date of James's 
accession; a time at which his taste and 
t«tvle were sufficiently formed to acquit his 
learned sovereign of all blame in having 
corrupted them. Indeed, if we were to make 
the memories of our kings accountable for 
the poetical fiiults of their respective reigns, 
we might reproach Charles I., among whose 

* This anpodote ia given by OUlya on the authority of 
th<> Duke of Buckinjrham, who (is said to have] had it 
from Sir William Davenant. [Tlie oause assipned, an 
obscure allusion in Macbeth, is a very lame and unlikely 
one. Sbakspcare's plays were in tlie greatest esteem 
with Kinjr James : of the f^iHeen plavs acted at Court 



faults bad taste is certainly not to be reck- 
oned, with the chief disgrace of our meta- 
physical poetry; since that school never 
attained its unnatural perfection so com- 
pletely as in the luxuriant ingenuity of 
Cowley's fancy, and the knotted deformity 
of Cleveland's. For a short time after the 
suppression of the theatres, till the time of 
Milton, the metaphj-sical poets are forced 
upon our attention for want of better ob- 
jects. But during James's reign there is no 
such scarcity of good writers as to oblige us 
to dwell on the school of elaborate conceit. 
Phineas Fletcher has been sometimes named 
as an instance of the vitiated taste which 
prevailed at this period. He, however, 
though musical and fanciful, is not to be 
admitted as a representative of the poetical 
character of those times, which included 
Jouson, Beaumont and John Fletcher, Ford, 
Massinger, and Shirley. Shakspeare was 
no more; but there were dramatic authors 
of great and diversified ability. The ro- 
mantic school of the drama continued to be 
more popular than the classical, though in 
the latter Ben Jonson lived to see imitators 
of his own manner, whom he was not 
ashamed to adopt as his poetical heirs. Of 
these Cartwright and Randolph were the 
most eminent. The originality of Cart- 
wright's plots is always acknowledged ; and 
Jonson used to say of him, " My son Cart- 
wright u'rites all like a man." 

Massinger is distinguished for the har- 
mony and dignity of his dramatic eloquence. 
Many of his plots, it is true, are liable to 
heavy exceptions. The fiends and angels 
of his Virgin Martyr are unmanageable 
tragic machinery; and the incestuous pas- 
sion of his Ancient Admiral excites our 
horror. The poet of love is driven to a 
frightful expedient, Avhen he gives it the 
terrors of a maniac passion breaking down 



between the 1st of November, 1604, and the 31st of Octo- 
ber, 1605, eight were Shakspeare's, the remiiining six were 
divided among; Ben Jonson, Heywood, and Chapn>an. — C.] 
t An affected jarfron of style, which was fashionable 
for some time at the court of Elizabeth, and so called 
from the work of Lyly entitled Eiiphues. 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



45 



the most sacred pale of instinct and con- 
sanguinity. The ancient admiral is in love 
with his own daughter. Such a being, if 
we fancy him to exist, strikes us as no ob- 
ject of moral warning, but as a man under 
the influence of insanity. In a general 
view, nevertheless, Massinger has more art 
and judgment in the serious drama than 
any of the other successors of Shakspeare. 
His incidents are less entangled than those 
of Fletcher, and the scene of his action is 
more clearly thrown open for the free evo- 
lution of character Fletcher strikes the 
imagination with more vivacity, but more 
irregularly, and amidst embarrassing posi- 
tions of his own choosing. Massinger puts 
forth his strength more collectively. Flet- 
cher has more action and character in his 
drama, and leaves a greater variety of im- 
pressions upon the mind. His fancy is more 
volatile and surprising, but then he often 
blends disappointment with our surprise, 
and parts with the consistency of his cha- 
racters even to the occasionally apparent 
loss of tlieir identity. This is not the case 
with Massinger. It is true that Massinger 
excels more in description and declamation 
than in the forcible utterance of the heart, 
and in giving character the warm colouring 
of passion. Still, not to speak of his one 
distinguished hero* in comedy, he has de- 
lineated several tragic characters with 
strong and interesting traits. They are 
chiefly proud spirits. Poor himself, and 
struggling under the rich man's contumely, 
we may conceive it to have been the solace 
of his neglected existence to picture worth 
and magnanimity breaking through exter- 
nal disadvantages, and making their way to 
love and admiration. Hence his fine con- 
ceptions of Paris, the actor, exciting by the 
splendid endowments of his nature the jea- 
lousy of the tyrant of the Avorld ; and Don 
John and Pisander, habited fis slaves, woo- 
ing and winning their princely mistresses. 
He delighted to show heroic virtue stripped 
of all adventitious circumstances, and tried, 
like a gem, by its shining through darkness. 
His Duke of Milan is particularly admira- 
ble for the blended interest which the poet 
excites by the opposite weaknesses and 
magnanimity of the same character. Sforza, 
Duke of Milan, newly married and uxorious- 

• Sir Giles Overreach. 



ly attached to the haughty Marcella, a wo- 
man of exquisite attractions, makes her an 
object of secret but deadly enmity at his 
court, by the extravagant homage which he 
requires to be paid to her, and the prece- 
dence which he enjoins even his own. mother 
and sisters to yield her. As Chief of Milan, 
he is attached to the fortunes of Francis I. 
The sudden tidings of the approach of 
Charles V., in the campaign which termi- 
nated with the battle of Pavia, soon after- 
wards spread dismay through his court and 
capital Sforza, though valiant and self- 
collected in all that regards the warrior or 
politician, is hurried away by his immode- 
rate passion for Marcelia ; and being obliged 
to leave her behind, but unable to bear the 
thoughts of her surviving him, obtains the 
promise of a confidant to destroy her, should 
his own death appear inevitable. He re- 
turns to his capital in safety. Marcelia, 
having discovered the secret order, receives 
him with coldness. His jealousy is in- 
flamed; and her perception of that jealousy 
alienates the haughty object of his affec- 
tion, when she is on the point of reconcile- 
ment. The fever of Sforza's diseased heart 
is powerfully described, passing from the 
extreme of dotage to revenge, and return- 
ing again from thence to the bitterest re- 
pentance and prostration, when he has 
struck at the life which he most loved, and 
has made, when it is too late, the discovery 
of her innocence. Massinger always en- 
forces this moral in love ; — he punishes dis- 
trust, and attaches our esteem to the 
unbounded confidence of the passion. But 
while Sforza thus exhibits a warning against 
morbidly-selfish sensibility, he is made to 
appear, without violating probability, in all 
other respects a firm, frank, and prepossess- 
ing character. When his misfortunes are 
rendered desperate by the battle of Pavia, 
and when he is brought into the presence 
of Charles V., the intrepidity with which he 
pleads his cause disarms the resentment of 
his conqueror; and the eloquence of -the 
poet makes us expect that it should do so. 
Instead of palliating his zeal for the lost 
cause of Francis, he thus pleads^ 

I cotae not. Emperor, to invade thy mercy 

By fawning on thy fortune, nor hring with me 

Kxcnses or denials ; I profess. 

And with a good man"s confidence, even this instan* 

That I am in thy power, I was thine enemy. 

Thy deadly and Tow'd enemy ; one that wish'd 



Confusion to thy person ant! estates, 

And with my utmost power and deepest counsels, 

Had they been truly foUow'd, further'd it 

Kor will I now, although my neck were under 

The hangman's axe, with one poor syllable 

Confess but that I honour'd the B'rench king 

More than thyself and all men. 

After describing his obligations to Fran- 
cis, he says — 

He was indeed to me as my good ^ngel. 
To guard me from all danger. I dare speak, 
Nay must and will, his praise now in as high 
And loud a key as when he was thy equal. 
The benefits he sow'd in me met not 

Unthankful ground 

If then to be grateful 

For benefits received, or not to leave 

A friend in his necessities, be a crime 

Amongst you Spaniards, Sforza brings his head 

To pay the forfeit. Nor come I as a slave, 

Pinion'd and fetter'd, in a squalid weed. 

Falling before thy feet, kneeling and howling 

For a forestall'd remission— that Were poor. 

And would but shame thy victory, for conquest 

Over base foes is a captivity, 

And not a triumph. I ne'er fear'd to die 

More than I wish'd to live. When I had reach'd 

My ends in being a Duke, I wore these robes. 

This crown upon my head, and to my side 

This sword was girt; and, witness truth, that now 

'Tis in another's power, when 1 shall part 

With life and them together, I'm the same— 

My veins then did not swell with pride, nor now 

Shrink they for fear. 

If the vehement passions were not Mas- 
singer's happiest element, he expresses fixed 
principle with an air of authority. To 
make us feel the elevation of genuine pride 
was the master-key which he knew how to 
touch in human sympathy; and his skill in 
it must have been derived from deep expe- 
rience in his own bosom.* 

The theatre of Beaumont and Fletcher 
contains all manner of good and evil. The 
ros[jective shares of those dramatic part- 
ners, in the works collectively published 
with their names, have been stated in a dif- 



[f Although incalculably superior to his contempora- 
ries, Shakspeare had successful imitators; and the art of 
Jonpon was not unrivalled. Mas.«inger appears to have 
studied the works of both, with the intention of uniting 
their excellences. He knew the strength of plot; and 
although his plays are altogether irregular, yet he well 
understood the advantage of a strong and defined inte- 
rest : and in unravelling the intricacy of his intrigues, 
he often displays the management of a master. — Sir 
Walter Scott, Misc. Prose W,Hs. vol. vi. p. 342.— C.] 

[f Kavenscroft, the filthiest writer for the stage in the 
reign of the second Charles, is not more obscene than 
Beaumont and Fletcher. Yet Karle, who was in the 
church and a bishop withal, praises their plays for their 
purity: and Lovelace likens the nak.^dness of their lan- 
guage to Cupid dressed in Dianas linen. The outspoken 
nature of their writings is in the very character of their 
age, for Charles I. would address the ladies of his court 



ferent part of this volume. Fletcher's share 
in them is by far the largest; and he is 
chargeable with the greatest number of 
faults, although at the same time his genius 
was more airy, pi'olific, and fanciful. There 
are such extremes of grossness and magni- 
ficence in their drama, so much sweetness 
and beauty interspersed with views of na- 
ture either falsely romantic, or vulgar be- 
yond reality ; there is so much to animate 
and amuse us, and yet so much that we 
would willingly overlook, that I cannot help 
comparing the contrasted impressions Avhich 
they make, to those which Ave receive from 
visiting some great and ancient city, pic- 
turesquely but irregularly built, glittering 
with spires and surrounded with gardens, 
but exhibiting in many quarters the lanes 
and hovels of wretchedness. They have 
scenes of Avealthy and high life which re- 
mind us of courts and palaces frequented 
by elegant females and high-spirited gal- 
lants, whilst their noble old martial charac- 
ters, with Caractacus in the midst of them, 
may inspire us with the same sort of regard 
which we pay to the rough-hewn magnifi- 
cence of an ancient fortress. 

Unhappily, the same simile, without being 
hunted doAvn, Avill apply but too faithfully 
to the nuisances of their drama. Their lan- 
guage is often basely profligate. Shak- 
speare's and Jonson's indelicacies are but 
casual blots ; whilst theirs are sometimes 
essential colours of their painting, and ex- 
tend, in one or two instances, to entire and 
ofi"ensive scenes. This fault has deservedly 
injured their reputation; and, saving a very 
slight allowance for the fashion and taste 
of their age, admits of no sort of apology.f 
Their drama, nevertheless, is a very wide 



in a style that would meet with no toleration now. Pro- 
priety of speech and conduct one does not look for at the 
Restoration. All was license then : 

Love was liberty, and nature law. 

Plays were beheld by ladies in masks, who blushed un- 
seen at situations, language, and allusions of the most 
obscene description. Something of this continued to a 
later time. Ramsay dedicates his Tea Table Miscellany 
to the Ladies and lassies of Britain, and boasts that his 
l)00k is without a word or an allusion to redden the 
brow of offended beauty. Yet the book abounds in 
naked vulgarities and songs of studied obscenity. The 
novels of the once immaculate Richardson, that ladies 
talked and quoted into deserved celebrity, few ladies now 
own to their perusal, and no clergymen V* found to re- 
commend, as of old, to their flock from the pulpit. 
While the letters of the majds of honour about the court 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



47 



one, and " has ample room and verge 
enough"* to permit the attention to wander 
from these, and to fix on more inviting pe- 
culiarities — as on the great variety of their 
fiibles and personages, their spirited dia- 
logue, their wit, pathos, and humour. 
Thickly sown as their blemishes are, their 
merit will bear gi-eat deductions, and still 
remain great. We never can forget such 
beautiful characters as their Collide, their 
Aspatia, and Bellario, or such humorous 
ones as their La AVrit and Cacafogo. Awake 
they will always keep us, whether to quar- 
rel or to be pleased with them. Their in- 
vention is fruitful; its beings are on the 
whole an active and sanguine generation; 
and their scenes are crowded to fulness with 
the warmth, agitation, and interest of life. 
In thus speaking of them together, it 
may be necessary to allude to the general 
and traditionary understanding, that Beau- 
mont was the graver and more judicious 
genius of the two. Yet the plays in which 
he may be supposed to have assisted Flet- 
cher are by no means remarkable either for 
harmonious adjustment of parts, or scrupu- 
lous adherence to probability. In their 
" Laws of Candy," the winding up of the 
plot is accomplished by a young girl com- 
manding- a whole bench of senators to de- 



of the first and second Georges — the Howes, the Bel- 
lendens, and Lepells — are rife with the very dh-t of 
our lans'iage. The cleanest are in the Suffolk Pa- 
pers ; and there, as the proverb goes, a spade is called a 
spade : ' 

Themselves they studied; as they felt they writ. — C] 

[* Dryden.— C] 

f The most amusingly ahsurd perhaps of all Fletcher's 
bad plays is The Island Princess. One mi^ht absolutely 
take it for a burlesque on the heroic drama, li its reli- 
gious conclusion did not show the author to be in earn- 
est. Quisara, princess of the island of Tidore, where 
the Portuguese h.ave a fort, offers her hand in marriage 
to any champion who shall deliver her brother, a captive 
of the governor of Ternata. Ruy Dias, her Portuguese 
lover, is shy of the adventure; but another lover, Ar- 
musia, hires a boat, with a few followers, which he hides 
on landing at Tidore, among the reeds of the invaded 
island. He then disguises himself as a merchant, hires 
a celljvr, like the Popish conspirators, and in the most 
credible manner blows up a considerable portion of a 
large town, rescues the king, slaughters all opposers, and 
re-embarks in his yawl from among the reeds. On his 
return he finds the lovely Quisara loth to fulfil her pro- 
mise, from her being still somewhat attached to Ruy 
Dias. The base Ruy Dias sends his nephew, Piniero, to 
The Island Princess, with a project of assassinating Ar- 
musia; but Piniero, who is a merry fellow, thinks it bet- 
ter to prevent his uncle's crime, and to make love for 
himself. Before his introduction to the Princess, how- 
ever, he meets with her aunt Quisana, to whom he talks 



scend from their judgment-seats, in virtue 
of an ancient law of the state which she 
discovers ; and they obey her with the most 
polite alacrity. " Cupid's Eevenge" is as- 
signed to them conjointly, and is one of the 
very weakest of their worst class of pieces. 
On the other hand, Fletcher produced his 
" Rule a Wife and Have a Wife," after 
Beaumont's death, so that he was al^le, when 
he chose, to write with skill as well as 
spirit. 

Of that skill, however, he is often so 
sparing as to leave his characters subject to 
the most whimsical metamorphoses. Some- 
times they repent, like methodists, by in- 
stantaneous conversion. At other times 
they shift from good to bad, so as to leave 
us in doubt what they were meant for. In 
the tragedy of " Valentinian" we have a 
fine old soldier, Maximus, who sustains our 
affection through four acts, but in the fifth 
we are suddenly called upon to hate him, 
'on being informed, by his own confession, 
that he is very wicked, and that all his past 
virtue has been but a trick on our credulity. 
The imagination, in this case, is disposed to 
take part Avith the creature of the poet's 
brain against the poet himself, and to think 
that he maltreats and calumniates his own 
offspring unnaturally.f But for these faults 

abundance of ribaldry and double entendre., and so capti- 
vates the aged woman, that she exclaims to her attend- 
ant, " Pray thee let him talk still, for methinks he talks 
hand.somely 1" With the young lady he is equally suc- 
cessful, offers to murder anybody she pleases, and gains 
her affections so far that .she kisses him. The poor vir- 
tuous Armusia, in the mean time, determines to see his 
false Princess, makes his way to her chamber, and iu 
spite of her reproaches and her late kiss to Piniero, at 
last makes a new impression on her heart. The dear 
Island Prince.ss is in love a third time, in the third act. 
In the fourth act, the king of Tidore, lately delivered by 
Armusia, plots against the Christians: he is .accompanied 
by a Moorish priest, who is no other than the governor 
of Ternata, disguised in a false wig and beard; but his 
Tidorian majesty recollects his old enemy so imperfectly 
as to be completely deceived. This conspiracy alarms the 
Portuguese ; the cowardly Ruy Dias all at once grows 
brave and generous; Quisara joins the Christians, and 
for the sake of Armu.sia and her new faith offers to be 
burnt alive. Nothing remains but to open the eyes of 
her brother, the king of Tidore. This is accomplished 
by the merry Piniero laying hold of the masqued gover- 
nor's beard, which comes away without the assistance of 
a barber. The monarch exclaims that he cannot speak 
for astonishment, and every thing concludes agreeably. 
The Island Princess is not unlike some of the romantic 
dramas of Dryden's time; but the later play-writers 
superadded a .style of outrageous rant and turgid ima- 
gery. — [Such is the plot, nor is the dialogue better. Still 
Armusia is a fine fellow, and Piniero a merry one, while 
Quisara, who loves a ranter, transfers her affections witti 



48 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



Fletcher makes good atonement, and has 
many affecting scenes. We must still in- 
deed say scenes; for, except in " The Faith- 
ful Shepherdess," which, unlike his usual 
manner, is very lulling, where shall we find 
him uniform? If "The Double Marriage" 
could be cleared of some revolting passages, 
the part of Juliana would not be unworthy 
of the powers of the finest tragic actress. 
Juliana is a high attempt to portray the 
saint and heroine blended in female charac- 
ter. When her husband Yii-olet's conspiracy 
against Ferrand of Naples is discovered, she 
endures and braves for his sake the most 
dreadful cruelties of the tyrant. Virolet 
flies from his country, obliged to leave her 
behind him; and falling at sea into the 
hands of the pirate Duke of Sesse, saves 
himself and his associates from death, by 
consenting to marry the daughter of the 
pirate (Martia), who falls in love and elopes 
with him from her father's ship. As they 
carry ofi" with them the son of Ferrand, 
who had been a prisoner of the Duke of 
Sesse, Virolet secures his peace being made 
at Naples ; but when he has again to meet 
Juliana, he finds that he has purchased life 
too dearly. When the ferocious Martia, 
seeing his repentance, revenges herself by 
plotting his destruction, and when his di- 
vorced Juliana, forgetting her injuries, flies 
to warn and to save him, their interview has 
no common degree of interest. Juliana is 
perhaps rather a fine idol of the imagination 
than a probable type of nature; but poetry 
which " conforms the shows of things to the 
desires of the soul,"* has a right to the 
highest possible virtues of human character. 
And there have been women who have 
prized a husband's life above their own, and 
his honour above his life, and who have 
united the tenderness of their sex to heroic 
intrepidity. Such is Juliana, who thus ex- 
horts the wavering fortitude of Virolet on 
the eve of his conspiracy. 

Virnlet. Unless our hands were cannon 

To batter down his walls, our weak breath mines 
To blow his forts up, or our curses lightning, 
Our power is like to yours, and we, like you. 
Weep our misfortunes 

She replies — 

Walls of brass resist not 

A noble undertaking — nor can vice 

marvellous celerity. Piniero is evidently more her match 
than Armnsia. whom she marries, but not before he has 
won her waiting- woman to admit him to her bed-chamber, 



Raise any bulwark to make good a place 
AVhere virtue seeks to enter. 

The joint dramas of Beaumont and Flet- 
cher, entitled "Philaster" and "The Maid's 
Tragedy," exhibit other captivating female 
portraits. The difficulty of giving at once 
truth, strength, and delicacy to female re- 
pentance for the loss of honour, is finely 
accomplished in Evadne. The stage has 
perhaps few scenes more afi"ecting than that 
in which she obtains forgiveness of Amin- 
tor, on terms which interest us in his com- 
passion, without compromising his honour. 
In the same tragedy,! the plaintive image 
of the forsaken Aspatia has an indescri- 
bably sweet spirit and romantic expression. 
Her fancy takes part with her heart, and 
gives its sorrow a visionary gracefulness. 
When she finds her maid Antiphila working 
a picture of Ariadne, she tells her to copy 
the likeness from herself, from " the lost 
Aspatia." 

Asp. But Where's the lady ? 

Ant. There, madam. 

Asp. Fie, you nave miss'd it here, Antiphila; 
These colours are not dull and pale enough. 
To show a soul so full of misery 
As this sad lady's was. Do it by me — 
Bo it again by me, the lost Aspatia, 
And you shall find iill true. Put me on the wild island. 
I stand upon the sea-beach now, and think 
Mine arms thus, and my hair blown by the wind 
Wild as that desert, and let all about me 

Be teachers of my story 

Strive to make me look 

Like Sorrow's monument, and the trees about me, 
Let them be dry and leafless ; let the rocks 
Groan with continual surges, and behind me 
Make all a desolation. See, see, wenches, 
A miserable life of this poor picture. 

The resemblance of this poetical picture 
to Guido's Bacchus and Ariadne has been 
noticed by Mr. Seward in the preface to hia 
edition of Beaumont and Fletcher. " In 
both rejiresentations the extended arms of 
the mourner, her hair blown by the -vj-'Df^- 
the barren roughness of the rocks around 
her, and the broken trunks of leafless trees, 
make her figure appear like Sorrow's monu- 
ment." 

Their masculine characters in tragedy are 
generally much less interesting than their 
females. Some exceptions may be found to 
this remark; particularly in the British 
chief Caractacus and his interesting nephew, 
the boy Hengo. With all the faults of the 



where Quisara scolds him with all the anxious importxi- 
nity of desire. — C] 
* Expression of Lord Bacon's, f The Maid's Tragedy. 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



tragedy of Bonduca, its British subject and 
its native heroes attach our hearts. We 
follow Caractacus to battle and captivity 
with a proud satisfaction in his virtue. The 
stubbornness of the old soldier is finely tem- 
pered by his wise, just, and candid respect 
for his enemies the Romans, and by his 
tender affection for his princely ward. lie 
never gives way to sorrow till he looks on 
the dead body of his nephew, Ilengo, when 
he thus exclaims — 

Farewell the hopes of Britain 1 

Farewell thou royal graft for ever ! Time and Death, 
Ye have done your worst Fortune, now see, now proudly 
Pluck ofif thy veil, and view thy triumph. 

fair ffower, 

How lovely yet thy ruina show — how sweetly 
Ev'n Death embraces thee ! The peace of heaven, 
The fellowship of all great souls, go with thee I 

The character must be well supported which 
yields a sensation of triumph in the act of 
surrendering to victorious enemies. Carac- 
tacus does not need to tell us, that when a 
brave man has done his duty, he cannot be 
humbled by fortune — but he makes us feel 
it in his behaviour. The few brief and sim- 
ple sentences which he utters in submitting 
to the Romans, together with their respect- 
ful behaviour to him, give a sublime com- 
posure to his appearance in the closing 
scene. 

Dryden praises the gentlemen of Beau- 
mont and Fletcher in comedy as the true 
men of fashion of "the times." It was 
necessary that Dryden should call them the 
men of fashion of the times, for they are 



[* Beaumont and Fletcher seemed to have followed 
Shakspeare's mo<ie of composition, rather than Jonson's. 
They may, indeed, be rather said to have taken for their 
model the boundless license of the Spanish stage, from 
which many of their pieces are expressly and avowedly 
derived. The acts of their plays are so detached from 
each other, in substance and consistency, that the plot 
can scarce be said to hang together at all, or to have, in 
any sense of the word, a beginning, progress, and con- 
clusion. It seems as if the play began beeause the cur- 
tain rose, and ended because it fell. — Sir Walter Scott, 
Hisc. Prose Worhs, vol. vi. p. 343. 

Beaumont and Fletcher's plots are wholly inartificial; 
they only care to pitch a character into a position to 
make him or her talk; you must swallow all their gross 
improbabilities, and, taking it all for granted, attend 
only to the dialogue. — Colkridoe, Table TaW, p. 200. 

Shakspeare borrowed his plots, Jonson invented his; 
while Beaumont and Fletcher disregarded a story, and 
relied on dialogue and situation. What they sought, 
they achieved. You could not publish tales from their 
plays, but scenes and incidentsof truth and beauty with- 
out number. Where had they stood, with plots like 
Shakspeare? Not above Shakspeare, certainly, but 
above Ken Jonson, not as now assuredly below, though 
the next 

7 



not in the highest sense of the word gentle- 
men. Shirley's comic characters have much 
more of the conversation and polite man- 
ners, which we should suppose to belong t( 
superior life in all ages and countries. The 
genteel characters of Fletcher form a nar- 
rower class, and exhibit a more particular 
image of their times and country. But 
their comic personages, after all, are a 
spirited race. In one province of the face- 
tious drama they set the earliest example ; 
witness their humorous mock-heroic come- 
dy, The Knight of the Burning Pestle.* 

The memory of Ford has been deservedly 
revived as one of the ornaments of our an- 
cient drama; though he has no great body 
of poetry, and has interested us in no other 
passion except that of love ; but in that he 
displays a peculiar depth and delicacy of 
romantic feeling.f Webster has a gloomy 
force of imagination, not unmixed with the 
beautiful and pathetic. But it is " beauty 
in the lap of horror:" he caricatures the 
shapes of terror, and his Pegasus is like a 
nightmare. Middleton,J Marston, Thomas 
Hey wood, Decker, and Chapman, also pre- 
sent subordinate claims to remembrance in 
that fertile period of the drama. 

Shirley was the last of our good old dra- 
matists. When his works shall be given to 
the public, they will undoubtedly enrich 
our popular literature.? His language 
sparkles with the most exquisite images. 
Keeping some occasional pruriences apai't, 
the fault of his age rather than of himself, 

What Tom Jones is among our novels, The B)x and Ifi* 
Alchemist are among our dramas. — C] 

[t Mr. Campbell observes, that Ford interests us in no 
other passion than that of love ; " in which he displays a 
peculiar depth and delicacy of romantic feeling." Com- 
paratively speaking, this may be admitted ; but in justice 
to the poet it should be added that he was not insensible 
to the power of friendship, and in more than one of his 
dramas has delineated it with a master hand. Had the 
critic forgotten the noble Dalyell ? the generous and de- 
voted Malfato? Mr. Campbell, however, terms him " one 
of the ornaments of our ancient drama."— Gifford, 
Ford, p. xl.— C] 

X Middleton's hags, in the tragi-comedy of The Witch, 
were conjectured by Mr. Steevens to have given the hint 
to Shakspeare of bis witches in Macbeth. It has been 
repeatedly remarked, however, that the resemblance 
scarcely extends beyond a few forms of incantation. The 
hags of Middletou are merely mischievous old women, 
those of Shakspeare influence the elements of nature 
and the destinies of man. 

[g They have been since published in six volumes oc- 
tavo, the plays with notes by Gififord, tho poemi and 
memoirs by Mr. Dyce. — C] 



50 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



he speaks the most polished and refined 
dialect of the stage ; and even some of his 
over-heightened scenes of voluptuousness 
are meant, though with a very mistaken 
judgment, to inculcate morality.* I con- 
sider his genius, indeed, as rather brilliant 
and elegant than strong or lofty. His tra- 
gedies are defective in fire, grandeur, and 
passion; and we must select his comedies, 
to have any favourable idea of his humour. 
His finest poetry comes forth in situations 
rather more familiar than tragedy and more 
grave than comedy, which I should call 
sentimental comedy, if the name were not 
associated with ideas of modern insipidity. 
That he was capable, hoAvever, of pure and 
excellent comedy will be felt by those who 
have yet in reserve the amusement of read- 
ing his Gamester, Hyde-park, and Lady of 
Pleasure. In the first and last of these 
there is a subtle ingenuity in producing 
comic effect and surprise, which might be 
termed Attic, if it did not surpass any 
thing that is left us in Athenian comedy. 

I shall leave to others the more special 
enumeration of his faults, only observing, 
that the airy touches of his expression, the 
delicacy of his sentiments, and the beauty 
of his similes, are often found where the 
poet survives the dramatist, and where he 
has not power to transfuse life and strong 
individuality through the numerous charac- 
ters of his voluminous drama. His style, 
to use a line of his own, is " studded like 
a frosty night with stars;" and a severe 
critic might say, that the stars often shine 
when the atmosphere is rather too frosty. 
In other words, there is more beauty of 
fancy than strength of feeling in his works. 
From this remark, however, a defender of 
his fame might justly appeal to exceptions 
in many of his pieces. From a general 
impression of his works I should not paint 
his Muse with the haughty fofm and fea- 
tures of inspiration, but with a countenance, 
in its happy moments, arch, lovely, and 
interesting both in smiles and in tears ; 
crowned with flowers, and not unindebted 
to ornament, but wearing the drapery and 

* The scene in Shirley's Love's Cruelty, for example, 
b«'lween Ilippolito and the object of his admiration, Act 4, 
tcfue i., and another in The Grateful Servant, between 
Belinda and Lodwick. Several more might he mentioned. 

It Mr. Campbell has been too kind to Shirley, whose 
merits are exaggerated by the length and frequency of 
his quotations from him. The reader who will turn to 



chaplet with a claim to them from natural 
beauty. Of his style I subjoin one or two 
more examples, lest I may not have done 
justice to him in that respect in the body 
of the w^ork.f 

FROM " THE GRATEFUL SERVANT." 

CLEONA INFORMED BY THE PAGE DnLClNO OF FOSCARI, WHOM 
SHE HAD THOUGHT DEAD, BEING STILL ALITE. 

Chona. The day breaks glorious to my darken'd 
thoughts. 
He lives, he lives yet! cease, ye amorous fears, 
More to perplex me. Prithee speak, sweet youth : 
How fares my lord ? Upon my virgin heart 
I'll build a flaming altar, to offer up 
A thankful sacrifice for his return 
To life and me. Speak, and inciease my comforts. 
Is he in perfect health ? 

Dulcino. Not perfect, madam, 

Until you bless him with the knowledge of 
Your constancy. — 

Cleon. get thee wings and fly then: 

Tell him my love doth burn like vestal fire. 
Which with his memory, richer than all spices, 
Dispersed odours round about my soul, 
And did refresh it, when 'twas dull and sad, 

With thinking of his absence 

Yet stay. 

Thou goest away too soon ; where is he ? speak. 

Dtd. He gave nie no commission for that, lady; 
He will soon save that question by his presence. 

CUon. Time has no feathers — he walks now on crutches. 
Relate his gestures when he gave thee this. 
What other words ? — Did mirth smile on his brow ? 
I would not, for the wealth of this great world. 
He should suspect my faith. What said he, prithee? 

Did. He said what a warm lover, when desire 
Makes eloquent, could speak— he said you were 
Both star and pilot. 

Cleon. The sun's loved flower, that shuts Ids yellow 
curtain 
When he declineth, opens it again 
At his fair rising: with my parting lord 
I closed all my delighl^till his approach 
It shall not spread itself. 



FROM THE SAME. 

FOSCARI, IN HIS MELANCHOLY, ANNOUNCING TO FATHER 

VALENTIO HIS RESOLUTION TO BECOME A MONK. 

Ibscari. There is a sun, ten times more glorious 
Than that which rises in the east, attracts me 
To feed upon his sweet beams, and become 
A bird of Paradise, a religious man, 
To rise from earth, and no more to turn back 
But for a burial. 

Vakntio. My lord, the truth is, like your coat of armij 
Richest when plainest. ■ I do fear the world 
Hath tired you, and you seek a cell to rest in ; 
As birds that wing it o'er the sea seek ships 
Till they get breath, and then they fly away. 

Shirley's six volumes, and seek there for a succes.sion ot 
such passages as Mr. Campbell has here given, for happi- 
ness of plot, dialogue, and language, is certain only of 
disappointment. In endeavouring to atone for the in- 
justice of one age. another is apt to overleap the mark, 
and to err as far in the other waj-. Shirley shines in 
extract— in passages— not in plays, or even in scenes.— C.] 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



51 



FROM "THE TRAITOR." 

THE DCKE OP FLORENCE TO HIS MURDERER, LORENZO. 

» * * For thee, inhuman murderer, expect 

My blood phall fly to heaven, anl tht-re iuflamed, 

Hang a prodigious meteor all thy life: 

And when, by some as bloody hand as thine, 

Thy soul is ebbing forth, it shall descend, 

In flaming drops, upon thee. 0! I faint ! 

Thou flattering world, fan-well. Let princes gather 

My dust into a glass, and learn to spend 

Their hour of state— that's all they have— for when 

That's out, Time never turns the glass again. 



FROSl THE SAME. 

* * When our souls shall leave this dwellii 
The glory of one fair and virtuous action 
Is ibove all the scutcheons on our tomb, 
Or silken banners over us. 



FROM THE COMEDY OF "THE BROTHERS." 

FERNANDO DESCRIBING HIS MISTRESS TO FRANCISCO. 

Fern. You have, then, a mistress. 

And thrive upon her favours but thou art 

My brother; I'll deliver thee a secret: 
I was at St. Sebastian's, last Sunday, 
At vespers. 

Fnm. Is it a secret that you went to church? 
You need not blush to tell't your ghnstly father. 

Fern. I prithee leave thy impertinence: there I saw 
So sweet a face, so harmless, so intent 
Upon her prayers ; it frosted my devotion 
To gaze upon her, till by degrees I took 
Her fair idea, through my covetous eyes, 
Into my heart, and know not how to ease 
It since of the impression. 



Her eye did seem to labour with a tear. 
Which suddenly took birth, but overweigh'd 
With its own swelling, dropp'd upon her bosom. 
Which, by reflection of her light, .appear'd 
As nature meant her sorrow for an ornament. 
After, her looks grew cheerful, and I saw 
A smile shoot graceful upward from her eyes, 
As if they had gain'd a victory over grief; 
And with it many beams twisted themselves. 
Upon whose golden threads the angels walk 
To and again from heaven.* 

[*The citation of this beautiful passage by Dr. Farmer 
in his Esmi/ on the Learning of Sha' speare. 17f:6. may be 
reirardeil as one of the earliest attempts to rescue the 
works of Shirley from the long oblivion to which they 
h^ been consigned.— Dyce's Shirley, vol. i. p. xi.] 

[fin Mac Flecknoe. '• The critical deri.sions of Dryd^n," 
says Dyce, "however unjust, had no slight influence on 
the puldic mind."] 

[;!; That Dryden at any time undervalued Otway, we 
have no very positive proof — a colT'e-house criticism re- 
tailed, though the retailer was Otway himself, at second- 
hand The play that Dryden is said to have spoken pe- 



The contempt which Dryden expresses for 
Shirley t might surprise us, if it were not 
recollected that he lived in a degenerate age 
of dramatic taste, and that his critical sen- 
tences were neither infallible nor immutable. 
He at one time undervalued Otway, though 
he lived to alter his opinion. J 

The civil wars put an end to this dynasty 
of our dramatic poets. Their immediate suc- 
cessors or contemporaries, belonging to the 
reign of Charles I,, many of whom resumed 
their lyres after the interregnum, may, in a 
general view, be divided into the classical 
and metaphysical schools. The former class, 
containing Denham, Waller, and Carew, upon 
the whole cultivated smooth and distinct me- 
lody of numbers, correctness of imagery, and 
polished elegance of expression. The latter, 
in which Herrick and Cowley stood at the 
head of Donne's metaphysical followers, were 
generally loose or rugged in their versifica- 
tion, and preposterous in their metaphors. 
But this distinction can only be drawn in very 
general terms; for Cowley, the prince of the 
metaphysicians, has bursts of natural feeling 
and just thoughts in the midst of his aljsur- 
dities. And Herrick, who is equally whim- 
sical, has left some little gems of highly- 
finished composition. On the other hand, the 
correct Waller is sometimes mataphysical ; 
and ridiculous hyperboles are to be found in 
the elegant style of Carew, 

The characters of Denham, Waller, and 
Cowley have been often described. Had 
Cowley written nothing but his prose, it 
would have stamped him a man of genius, and 
an improver of our language. Of his poetry, 
Rochester indecorously said, that " not being 
of God, it could not stand. "§ Had the word 
natureh^en substituted, it would have equally 
conveyed the intended meaning, but still that 
meaning would not have been strictly just.|| 
There is much in Cowley that will stand. He 
teems, in many places, with the imagery, the 
feeling, the grace and gayety of a poet. No- 



tulantly and disparagingly about, was Don Carlos. The 
Orphan and Foiicfi Piesened were of a later date, and 
justified Dryden's firm conviction, that Otway pos-e-si-d 
the ai t of expressing the passions and emotions of the 
mind as thoroughly as any of the ancients or moib-rns. 
D'ln CirJns gives no promise of The Orphan, or of Venice 
Preserred.] 

[JTold on the authority of Drydeu. (Milone^ vol. iv 
p. 61'2.) Yet Burnet, Joseph Warton, and .Johnson spea* 
of Cowley as Rochester's favourite author.] 
[II Nature is but a name for an pfTect,] 
Whose cause is Ood.— Cowpeb, 'Jlie Tas!.; B. vi.] 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



thing but a severer judgment was wanting to 
collect the scattered lights of his fancy. His 
unnatural flights arose less from affecta- 
tion than self-deception. He cherished fxlse 
thoughts as men often associate with ftilse 
friends, not from insensibility to the differ- 
ence between truth and falsehood, but from 
being too indolent to examine the difference. 
Herrick, if we were to fix our eyes on a small 
portion of his works, might be pronounced 
a writer of delightful Anacreontic spirit. He 
has passages where the thoughts seem to 
dance into numbers from his very heart, and 
where he frolics like a being made up of 
melody and pleasure ; as when he sings — 

Gather yn rose-buds while ye may, 

Old Time is still a flying; 
And this same flower that blooms to-day, 

To-morrow will be dying. 

In the same spirit are his verses to Anthea, 
concluding — 

Thou art my life, my lore, my heart. 

The very eyes of me; 
And hast command of every part. 

To live and die for thee. 

But his beauties are so deeply involved in 
surrounding coarseness and extravagance, as 
to constitute not a tenth part of his poetry ; 
or rather it may be safely affirmed, that of 
1400 pages of verse which he has left, not a 
hundred are worth reading. 

In Milton there may be traced obligations 
to several minor English poets ; but his ge- 
nius had too great a supremacy to belong to 
any school. Though he acknowledged a filial 
reverence for Spenser as a poet, he left no 
Gothic irregular tracery in the design of his 
own great work, but gave a classical harmony 
of parts to its stupendous pile. It thus re- 
sembles a dome, the vastness of which is at 
first sight concealed by its symmetry, but 
which expands more and more to the eye 
while it is contemplated. Ilis early poetry 
seems to have neitherdisturbed nor corrected 
the oad taste of his age. Com us came into 
the world unacknowledged by its author, and 
Lycidas appeared at first only with his ini- 

[*ComuP, 1637— Lycidas, 1638.] 

[t 1673.] 

[:J; Pee note B, at the end of the volume.] 

[^ There is a solemnity of .sentiment, as well as majesty 
'if numbers, in the exordium of this noble poem, which 

>n the works of the ancients has no example We 

cannot read this exordium without perci-ivinpr that the 
author possesses more fire than he shows. There is a sup- 



tials.* These and other exquisite pieces, com- 
posed in the happiest years of his life, at his 
father's country-house at Horton, were col- 
lectively published, with his name affixed 
to them, in 1645 ; but that precious volume 
which included L' Allegro and II Penseroso, 
did not come to a second edition, till it was 
republished by himself at the distance of 
eight-and-twenty years. f Almost a century 
elapsed before his minor works obtained 
their proper fame. Handel's music is said, 
by Dr. Warton, to have drawn the first at- 
tention to them ; but they must have been 
admired before Handel set them to music ; 
for he was assuredly not the first to discover 
their beauty. But of Milton's poetry being 
above the comprehension of his age, we 
should have a sufficient proof, if we had no 
other, in the grave remark of Lord Claren- 
don, that Cowley had, in his time, "■taken a 
flight above all men in poetry. Even when 
" Paradise Lost" appeared, though it was not 
neglected, it attracted no crowd of imitators 
and made no visible change in the poetical 
practice of the age.t • He stood alone and 
aloof above his times, the bard of immortal 
subjects, and, as far as there is perpetuity 
in language, of immortal fame. The very 
choice of those subjects bespoke a contempt 
for any species of excellence that was attain- 
able by other men. There is something that 
overawes the mind in conceiving his long 
deliberated selection of that theme — his at- 
tempting it when his eyes were shut upon the 
face of nature — his dependence, we might 
almost say, on supernatural inspiration, and 
in the calm air of strength with which he 
opens "Paradise Lost," beginning a mighty 
performance without the appearance of an 
effort.^ Taking the subject all in all, his 
powers could nowhere else have enjoyed the 
same scope. It Avas only from the height of 
this great argument that he could look back 
upon eternity past, and forward upon eter- 
nity to come ; that he could survey the abyss 
of infernal darkness, open visions of Para- 
dise, or ascend to heaven and breathe em- 
pyreal air. Still the subject had precipitous 

pressed force in it, the effect of judgment. His judgment 
controls his genius, and his genius reminds us (to use his 
own beautiful similitude) of 

A proud steed rein'd, 
Champing his iron curb. 
lie addresses himself to the performance of great things, 
but makes no great exertion in doing it; a sure symptom 
of uncommon vigour. — Cowper, C(Jmmtntary.^ 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



difficulties. Ic obliged him to relinquish the 
warm, multifarious interests of human life. 
For these indeed he could substitute holier 
things ; but a more insuperable objection to 
the theme was, that it involved the repre- 
sentation of a war between the Almighty and 
his created beings. To the vicissitudes of 
such a warfare it was impossible to make us 
attach the same fluctuations of hope and fear, 
the same curiosity, suspense, and sympathy, 
which we feel amidst the battles of the Iliad, 
and which make every brave young spirit 
long to be in the midst of them. 

Milton has certainly triumphed over one 
difficulty of his subject, the paucity and the 
loneliness of its human agents ; for no one in 
contemplating the garden of Eden would 
wish to exchange it for a more populous 
world. His earthly pair could only be re- 
presented, during tlieir innocence, as beings 
of simple enjoyment and negative virtue, 
with no other passions than the fear of 
heaven and the love of each other. Yet 
from these materials what a picture has he 
drawn of their homage to the Deity, their 
mutual aflPection, and the horrors of their 
alienation! By concentrating all exquisite 
ideas of external nature in the representa- 
tion of their abode — by conveying an in- 
spired impression of their spirits and forms, 
while they first shone under the fresh light 
of creative heaven — by these powers of de- 
scription, he links our first parents, in har- 
monious subordination, to the angelic na- 
tures — he supports them in the balance of 
poetical importance with their divine coad- 
jutors and enemies, and makes them appear 
at once worthy of the friendship and envy 
of gods. 

In the angelic warfare of the poem, Mil- 
ton has done whatever human genius could 
accomplish. But, although Satan speaks 
of having "put to proof his (Maker's) high 
supremacy, in dubious battle, on the plains 
of heaven," the expression, though finely 
characteristic of his blasphemous pride, does 
not prevent us fnmi feeling that the battle 
cannot for a moment be dubious. Whilst 
the powers of description and language are 



[* Book vi. 1. 712. The how and gword of the Almighty 
are copied from the Psalms vii. and xlv.] 

[t In this line we sepm to hear a thiinrter suited both 
to the scene and the occasion, incomparably more nwful 
than any ever heard on earth. The thunder of .Milton is 
not burled from the hand, like Homer's, but discharged 



taxed and exhausted to portray the combat, 
it is impossible not to feel, with regard to 
the blessed spirits, a profound and reposing 
security that they have neither great dangers 
to fear nor reverses to suffer. At the same 
time it must be said that, although in the ac- 
tual contact of the armies the inequality of 
the strife becomes strongly visible to the 
imagination, and makes it a contest more of 
noise than terror ; yet, while positive action 
is suspended, there is a warlike grandeur in 
the pt)em, which is nowhere to be paralleled. 
When Milton's genius dares to invest the 
Almighty himself with arms, " his bow and 
thunder," the astonished mind admits the 
image with a momentary credence.* It is 
otherwise when we are involved in the cir- 
cumstantial details of the campaign. We 
have then leisure to anticipate its only pos- 
sible issue, and can feel no alarm for any 
temporary check that may be given to those 
who fight under the banners of Omnipotence. 
The warlike part of Paradise Lost was in- 
separable from its subject. Whether it could 
have been differently managed, is a prol)lera 
which our reverence for Milton will scarcely 
permit us to state. I feel that reverence too 
strongly to suggest even the possibility that 
Milton could have improved his poem by 
having thrown his angelic warfare into more 
remote perspective ; but it seems to me to be 
most sublime when it is least distinctly 
brought home to the imagination. What an 
awful effect has the dim and undefined con- 
ception of the conflict, which we gather from 
the opening of the first book ! There the 
veil of mystery is left undrawn between us 
and a subject which the powers of descrip- 
tion were inadequate to exhibit. The mi- 
nisters of divine vengeance and pursuit had 
been recalled — the thunders had ceased 

" To bellow through the vast and boundless deep," 
Par. Lost, Book i. v. 177. 

(in that line what an image of sound and 
space is conveyed !)t — and our terrific con- 
ception of the past is deepened by its indis 
tinctness.J In optics there are some phe 
nomena which are beautifully deceptive at 



like an arrow: as if jealous for the honour of a true 0(»1, 
the poet difdained to arm him like the God of the hear 
then. — CowPER.] 

[X Of all the articles of whinh the dreadful scenery of 
Milton's hell consists. Scripture furnished him only with 
a lake office and brimstone. Yet, thus slerderly assisted 
E -i 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



a certain distance, but which lose their illu- 
sive charm on the slightest approach to them 
that changes the light and position in which 
they are viewed. Something like this takes 
place in the phenomena of fancy. The ar- 
ray of the fallen angels in hell — the unfurl- 
ing of the standard of Satan — and the march 
of his troops 

"In perfect phalanx, to the Dorian mood 
Of flutes and soft recorders"— Book i. 1. 550 ; 

all this human pomp and circumstance of 
■war — is magic and overwhelming illusion. 
The imagination is taken by surprise. But 
the noblest efforts of language are tried with 
very unequal effect to interest us, in the im- 
mediate and close view of the battle itself 
in the sixth book ; and the martial demons, 
who charmed us in the shades of hell, lose 
some portion of their sublimity when their 
artillery is discharged in the daylight of 
heaven. 

If we call diction the garb of thought, 
Milton, in his style, maybe said to wear the 
costume of sovereignty. The idioms even 
of foreign languages contributed to adorn it. 
He was the most learned of poets ; yet his 
learning interferes not with his substantial 
English purhy.* His simplicity is unim- 
paired by glowing ornament, like the bush 
in the sacred flame, which burnt, but " was 
not consumed." 

In delineating the blessed spirits, Milton 
has exhausted all the conceivable variety 
that could be given to pictures of unshaded 
Banctity ; but it is chiefly in those of the 
fallen angels that his excellence is conspicu- 
ous above every thing ancient or modern. 
Tasso had, indeed, portrayed an infernal 
council, and had given the hint to our poet 
of ascribing the origin of pagan worship to 
those reprobate spirits. But how poor and 
squalid in comparison of the Miltonic Pan- 
demonium are the Seyllas, the Cyclopses, 
and the Chimeras of the Infernal Council of 
the Jerusalem ! Tasso's conclave of 
is a den of ugly, incongruous monsters. 

Pome strane, o come orribil forme ! 
Quant 6 negli occhi lor terror, e morte! 



what a world of wo has he constructed, proved in this 
single instance, the most creative that ever poet owned. — 

COWPER. 

The slender materials for Comus and Paradise Regained 
are alike wonderful, and attest the truth of Cowper's 
remark.] 



Stampano alcuni il suol di ferine orme, 

K'n fronte umaiia han chiome d' angui attorte; 

E lor s'ajrgira dietro immensa loda, 

Che quasi sferza si ripiega, e snoda. 

Qui mille immomle Arpie vedresti, e mille 

Centauri. e .Sfiugi, e pallid« Gorgoni, 

Molte e molte latrar vorari Scille 

E fischiar Idre, e sibilar Pitoni, 

E vomitar Chimere atre faville 

E Polifemi orrendi, e Gerioni, 



La Gerusahmme, Canto IV. 

The powers of Milton's hell are godlike 
shapes and forms. Their appearance dwarfs 
every other poetical conception, when we 
turn our dilated eyes from contemplating 
them. It is not their external attributes 
alone which expand the imagination, but 
their souls, which are as colossal as their 
stature — their " thoughts that loander through 
eternity" — the pride that burns amid the 
ruins of their divine natures — and their ge- 
nius, that feels with the ardour and debates 
with the eloquence of heaven. 

The subjectof Paradise Lostwas the origin 
of evil — an era in existence — an event more 
than all others dividing past from future 
time — an isthmus in the ocean of eternity. 
The theme was in its nature connected with 
every thing important in the circumstances 
of human history ; and amid these circum- 
stances, Milton saw that the fables of pa- 
ganism were too important and poetical to 
be omitted. As a Christian, he was entitled 
wholly to neglect them ; but as a poet, he 
chose to treat them, not as dreams of the 
human mind, but as the delusions of infernal 
existences. Thus anticipating a beautiful 
propriety for all classical allusions, thus con- 
necting and reconciling the co-existence of 
fable and of truth, and thus identifying the 
fallen angels with the deities of " gay reli- 
gions, full of pomp and gold," he yoked the 
heathen mythology in triumph to his sub- 
ject, and clothed himself in the spoils of su- 
perstition. 

One eminent production of wit, namely, 
Hudibras, may be said to have sprung out 
of the Restoration, or at least out of the con- 
tempt of fanaticism, which had its triumph 
in that event; otherwise, the return of royalty 



[* Our most learned poets were classed by Joseph War- 
ton, a very competent judge, in the following order: — 
1. Milton; 2 Jonson ; 3 Gray, 4 Akenside. Milton and 
Gray were of Cambridge, Ben Johnson was a very short 
time there, not long enough however to catch much of 
the learning of the place ; but Akenside was of no college 
—it is believed self-taught.] 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



contributed as little to improve the taste as 
the morality of the public. The drama de- 
generated, owing, as we are generally told, to 
the influence of French literature, although 
some infection from the Spanish stage might 
also be taken into the account. Sir William 
Davenant, who presided over the first revival 
of the theatre, was a man of cold and didactic 
spirit ; he created an era in the machinery, 
costume, and ornaments of the stage, but he 
was only fitted to be its mechanical benefac- 
tor. Dryden, who could do even bad things 
with a good grace, confirmed the taste for 
rhyming and ranting tragedy. Two beautiful 
plays of Otway formed an exception to this 
degeneracy ; but Otway was cut off in the 
spring-tide of his genius, and his early death 
was, according to every appearance, a heavy 
loss to our drama. It has been alleged, in- 
deed, in the present day, that Otway's imagi- 
nation showed no prognostics of great future 
achievements ; but when I remember Venice 
Preserved, and The Orphan, as the works of 
a man of thirty, I can treat this opinion no 
otherwise than to dismiss it as an idle asser- 
tion.* 

Baax' lOij olxt ovsips. 

During the last thirty years of the seven- 
teenth century, Dryden was seldom long 
absent from the view of the public, and he 
alternately swayed and humoured its pre- 



[♦ The talents of Otway, in his scenes of passionate 
affection, rival at least, and sometimes excel, those of 
Shakspeare. More tears have been shed, probably, for 
the sorrows of Belvidera and Monimia, than for those of 
Juliet and Desdemona. — Sir Walter Scott, Misc. Prose 
Works, vol. vi. p. 356.] 

[f Shaltspeare died at fifty-two. The average probabi- 
lity of life is twenty years beyond that age, and the pro- 
bable endurance of the human faculties in their vigour is 
not a great deal shorter. Chaucer wrote his best poetry 
after he was sixty ; Dryden, when he was seventy. Cowper 
was also late in his poetical maturity; and Young never 
wrote any thing that could be called poetry till he was a 
sexagenarian. Sophocles wrote his '• CEdipus Coloneus" 
certainly beyond the age of eighty. But the pride of 
England, it may be said, died in the prime of life. — 
Campbell, Shakspeare, 8vo, 1833. p. Ixv.] 

[t Cowley and Sylvester, he tells us, were the darling 
writers of his youth; and that Davenant introduced him 
to the folio of Shakspeare's plays. He lived long enough 
to dethrone Sylvester, to lessen his esteem for Cowley, 
and increase his predilection for Shakspeare; — his tastp 
was bettering to the last — but it was long in arriving to 
maturity. Like Sir Walter Scott, he was nearer forty 
than thirty before he had distinguished himself— an age 
at which both Burns and Byron were in their graves.] 

[I I think Dryden's translations from Boccace are the 
best, at least the most poetical, of his poems. But as a 



dilections. "Whatever may be said of his ac- 
commodating and fluctuating theories of 
criticism, his perseverance in training and 
disciplining his own faculties is entitled to 
much admiration. He strengthened his mind 
by action, and fertilized it by production. In 
his old age he renewed his youth like the 
eagle; or rather his genius acquired stronger 
wings than it had ever spread. lie rose and 
fell, it is true, in the course of his poetical 
career ; but upon the whole, it was a career 
of improvement to the very last.f Even in 
the drama, which was not his natural pro- 
vince, his good sense came at last so far in 
aid of his deficient sensibility, that he gave 
up his system of rhyming tragedy, and adopt- 
ed Shakspeare (in theory at least) for his 
model. In poetry not belonging to the drama, 
he was at first an admirer of Cowley, then 
of Davenant; and ultimately he acquired 
a manner above the peculiarities of either. J 
The Odes and Fables of his latest volume 
surpass whatever he had formerly written. § 
lie was satirized and abused as well as ex- 
tolled by his contemporaries; but his genius 
was neither to be discouraged by the seve- 
rity, nor spoiled by the favour of criticism. 
It flourished alike in the sunshine and the 
storm, and its fruits improved as they mul- 
tiplied in profusion. When we view him out 
of the walk of purely original composition, 
it is not a paradox, that, though he is one 



poet, he is no great favourite of mine. I admire his talents 
and genius highly, but his is not a poetical genius. The 
only qualities I can find in Dryden that are essentially 
poetical, are a certain ardour and impetuosity of mind, 
with an excellent ear. It may seem strange that I do not 
add to this, great command of language: that he certainly 
has, and of such language too as it is desirable that a poet 
should po.ssess, or rather that he should not be without. 
But it is not language that is, in the highest .sense of the 
word, poetical, being neither of the imagination nor of 
the passions; I mean the amiable, the ennobling, or the 
intense passions. I do not mean to say that there is 
nothing of this in Dryden, but as little I think as is pos- 
■sible, considering how much he has written. You will 
easily understand my meaning, when I refer to his versi- 
fication of Palamon and Arcite, as contrasted with the 
language of Chaucer. Dryden had neither a tender 
heart nor a lofty sense of moral dignity. Whenever his 
language is poetically impassioned, it is mostly upon un- 
pleasing subjects, such as the follies, vices, and crimes 
of classes of men or of individuals. That his cannot be 
the language of imagination must have necessarily fol- 
lowed from this, — that there is not a single imasse from 
nature in the whole body of his works; and in his trans- 
lation from Virgil, wherever Virgil can be fairly said to 
have his eye upon his object, Dryden always spoils the 
passage. His love Is nothing but sensuality and appetite, 
he had no other notion of the passion. — Wokdsworth— 
Lock-art's Life of Scott, vol. u. p. 287 t(.e. rd^ 



ENGLISH POETRr. 



of the greatest artists in language, and 
perhaps the greatest of English translators, 
he nevertheless attempted one task in which 
his failure is at least as conspicuous as his 
success. But that task was the translation 
of A''irgil. And it is not lenity, but absolute 
justice, that requires us to make a very large 
and liberal allowance for whatever deficien- 
cies he may show in transfusing into a lan- 
guage less harmonious and flexible than the 
Latin, the sense of that poet, who in the his- 
tory of the world, has had no rival in beauty 
of expression. Dryden renovates Chaucer's 
thoughts,* and fills up Boccaccio's narrative 
outline with many improving touches : and 
though paraphrase suited his free spirit bet- 
ter than translation, yet even in versions of 
Horace and Juvenal he seizes the classical 
character of Latin poetry with a boldness 
and dexterity which are all his own. But it 
was easier for him to emulate the strength 
of Juvenal than the serene majesty of Virgil. 
Ilis translation of Virgil is certainly an in- 
adequate representation of the Roman poet. 
It is often bold and graceful, and generally 
idiomatic and easy. But though the spirit 
of the original is not lost, it is sadly and un- 
equally diffused. Nor is it only in the magic 
of words, in the exquisite structure and rich 
economy of expression, that Dryden (as we 
might expect) falls beneath Virgil, but we 
too often iFeel the inequality of his vital sen- 
sibility as a poet. Too frequently, when the 
Roman classic touches the heart, or imbodies 
to our fancy those noble images to which 
nothing could be added, and from which 
nothing can be taken away, we are sensible 
of the distance between Dryden's talent and 
Virgil's inspiration. One passage out of 
many, the representation of Jupiter, in the 
first book of the Georgics, may show this 
lifference. 

GEORGICS, lib. 1.1. 328. 

' Ipse Pater, medifi nimborum in nocte, comsca 
Fulmina molitur dextra: quo maxima motu 
Terra tremit, fugere ferae, et mortalia corda 
Per gentcs humilis stravit pavor 



[* True it is, however, that Chaucer evaporated in his 
hands — and that he did greater justice to himself than 
to his original — that his Tales are rather imitations or 
adaptations than renovations or translations — that he 
missed his pathos and description. With Boccaccio he 
succeeded liettfr — prose he turned into poetry — but what 
was poetry at the first gained from him no additional 
graces.] 



The father of the Gods his glory shrouds, 
Involved in tempests and a night of cloud.q, 
And from the middle darkness flashing out, 
By fits he deals his fiery bolts about. 
Earth feels the motion of her angry God, 
Her entrails treml>le, and her mountains nod. 
And flying beasts in forests seek abode: 
Deep horror seizes every human breast. 
Their pride is humbled and their fear confessed. 

Virgil's three lines and a half might challenge 
the most sublime pencil of Italy to the same 
subject. His words are no sooner read than, 
with the rapidity of light, they collect a pic- 
ture before the mind which stands confessed 
in all its parts. There is no interval between 
the objects as they are presented to our per- 
ception. At one and the same moment we 
behold the form, the uplifted arm, and daz- 
zling thunderbolts of Jove, amidst a night 
of clouds ; — the earth trembling, and the 
wild beasts scudding for sheltev— fugere — 
they have vanished while the poet describes 
them, and we feel that mortal hearts are laid 
prostrate with fear, throughout the nation. 
Dryden, in the translation, has done his best, 
and some of his lines roll on with spirit and 
dignity, but the whole description is a pro- 
cess rather than a picture — the instantane- 
ous effect, the electric unity of the original, 
is lost. Jupiter hasleisure to deal out his 
fiery bolts by fits, while the entrails of the 
earth shake and her mountains nod, and 
the flying beasts have time to look out 
very quietly for lodgings in the forest. The 
weakness of the two last lines, which stand 
for the weighty words, " Mortalia cm-da per 
gentes humilvs stravit pavor," need not be 
pointed out. 

I cannot quote this passage without recur- 
ring to the recollection, already suggested, 
that it was Virgil with whom the English 
translator had to contend. Dryden's ad- 
mirers might undoubtedly quote many pas- 
sages much more in his favour; and one 
passage occurs to me as a striking example 
of his felicity. In the following lines (with 
the exception of one) we recognise a great 
poet, and can scarcely acknowledge that he 
is translating a greater.f 



[t He who sits down to Dryden's translation of Virgil 
with the original text spread before him. will be at no 
loss to point out many passages that are faulty, many 
indifferently understood, many imperfectly translated, 
some in which di/nity is lost others in whic-h 1 ombast is 
substituted in its stead. But the unabated vigour and 
spirit of the version more than overbalance these and all 
its other deficiencies. A sedulous scholar might often 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



57 



^NEID, lib. xii. 1. 331. 
Qualis apud gelidi cum flumina concitus ITebri 
Sanguineus Mavors clipeo intonat* atque furentes 
Bella morens iramittit equos, illi aequore aperto 
Ante NotosZephyrumque volant, gemit ultima pulsu 
Thrana pedum, circuraque atrse Formidinis ora, 
Ira, insidiaeque, Dei comitatug aguntur 

Thus on the banks of Hebrus' freezing flood, 
The god of battles, in his angry mood, 
Clashing his sword against his brazen shield, 
Lets loose the reins, and scours along the field: 
Before the win. I his fiery coursers fly. 
Groans the sad earth, resounds the rattling sky ; 
Wrath, terror, treason, tumult, and despair. 
Dire faces and deform'd, surround the car, 
Friends of the god, and followers of the war. 

If it were asked how far Dryden can strict- 
ly be called an inventive poet, his drama cer- 
tainly would not furnish many instances of 
characters strongly designed ; though his 
Spanish Friar is by no means an insipid 
personage in comedy. The contrivance, in 
The Hind and Panther, of beasts disputing 
about religion, if it were his own, would 
do little honour to his ingenuity. The idea, 
in Absalom and Achitophel, of couching 
modern characters under Scripture names, 
was adopted from one of the Puritan writers ; 



approach more nearly to the dead letter of Virgil, and 
give an exact, distinct, sober-minded idea of the mean- 
ing and scope of particular passages. Trapp, Pitt, and 
others have done so. But the essential spirit of poetry is 
go volatile, that it escapes during such an operation, like 
the life of the poor criminal, whom the ancient anatomist 
is saiil to have dissected alive, in order to ascertain the 
seat of the soul. The carcass, indeed, is presented to the 
Engl-sh reader, but the animating vigour is no more. — 
Sir Walter Scott, Life of Dryden.] 

* Inimvit. — I follow Wakefield's edition of Virgil in 
preference to others, which have '■ increpal." 

[t The plan of Absalom and Achitophel was not new to 
the public. A Catholic poet had, in 1679, paraphrased 
the scriptural story of Naboth's Vineyard, and applied it 
to the condemnation of Lord Stafford on account of the 
Popish Plot. This poem is written in the style of a scrip- 
turn! allusion; the names and situations of personages 
in the holy text being applied to those contemporaries to 
whom the author assigned a place in his piece. Neither 
was the obvious application of the story of Absalom and 
Achitophel to the persons of Monmouth and Shaftesbury 
first made by our poet. A prose paraphra-^e, published 
in 1680, had already been composed upon this allusion. 
But the vigour of the satire, the happy adaptation, not 
only of the incidi'nts, but of the very names, to the in- 
dividuals characterized, gave Dryden's poem the full 
effect of novelty. — Sir Walter Scott, Misc. Prose Works, 
vol. i. p. 2118 ] 

[JThe distinguishing characteristic of Dryden'o genius 
seems to have been the power of reasoning, and of ex- 
pressing the result in appropriate language The 

best of Dryilen's performances in the more pure and 
chaste style of tragi'dy are unquestionably Don Sebastian 
and A'l for L'lve. Of these, the former is in the poet's 
very best manner; exhibiting dramatic persons, consist- 
ing of such bold and impetuous characters as he delighted 
8 



yet there is so much ingenuity evinced in 
supporting the parallel, and so admirable a 
gallery of portraits displayed in the work, 
as to render that circumstance insignificant 
with regard to its originality. f Nor, though 
his Fables are borrowed, can we regard him 
with much less esteem than if he had been 
their inventor. He is a writer of manly and 
elastic character. His strong judgment gave 
force as well as direction to a flexible fancy ; 
and his harmony is generally the echo of 
solid thoughts.! But he was not gifted with 
intense or lofty sensibility ; on the contrary, 
the grosser any idea is, the happier he seems 
to expatiate upon it. The transports of the 
heart, and the deep and varied delineations 
of the passions, are strangers to his poetry. 
He could describe character in the abstract, 
but could not imbody it in the drama, for 
he entered into character more from clear 
perception than fervid sympathy. This 
great high-priest of all the Nine was not 
a confessor to the finer secrets of the human 
breast. Had the subject of Eloisa fallen 
into his hands, he would have left but a 
coarse draught of her passion. § 

to draw, well-contrasted, forcibly marked, and engaged 
in an interesting succession of events. To many tempers, 
the scene between Sebastian and Dorax must appc ar one 
of the most moving that ever adorned the British stage. 
. . . . The satirical powers of Dryden were of the highest 
order. He draws his arrow to the head, and dismi-sses it 

straight upon his object of aim The occasional 

poetry of Dryden is marked strongly by masculine char 
racter. The epistles vary with the suhject; and are light, 
humorous and satirical, or grave, argumentative, and 

philo.sophical, as the case required Few of his 

elegiac effusions seem prompted by .sincere sorrow. That 
to Oldham may be an exception ; but even there he rather 
strives to do honour to the talents of his departed friend, 

than to pour out lamentations for his lo.ss No 

author, excepting Pope, has done so much to endenizen 
the eminent poets of antiquity. — Sir Walter Scott, Life 
of Dryden.] 

[g Writing of Pope's Eloisa. Lord Byron says, " The 
licentiousness of the story was not Pope's — it was a fact. 
All that it had of gross he has softened ; — all that it had 
of indelicate he has purified; — all that ithad of passionate 
he has beautified; — all that it had of holy he has hal- 
lowed. Mr. Campbell has admirably marked this, in a 
few words. (I quote from memory,) in drawing the dis- 
tinction between Pope and Dryden, and pointing out 
where Dryden was wanting. ' I fear,' says he, ' that had 
the subject of Eloisa fallen into his (Dryden's) hands, 
that he would have given us but a coarse draught of her 
passion.' " 

This is very generally admitted — "The. love of the 
senses," writes Sir Walter Scott, "he (Dryden) has in 
many places expressed in as forcible and dignified colour- 
ing as the subject could admit; but of a more moral 
and ,'<entimental passion beseems to have had little idea, 
since he frequently substitutes in its place the absurd, un- 
natural, and fictitious refinements of romance. In short 



58 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



Drjdeu died in the last year of the seven- 
teenth century. In the intervening period 
between his death and the meridian of 
Pope's reputation, we may be kept in good 
humour with the archness of Prior and the 
wit of Swift. Parnell was the most elegant 
rhymist of Pope's early contemporaries; 
and Kowe, if he did not bring back the 
full fire of the drama, at least preserved 
its vestal spark from being wholly extin- 
guished. There are exclusionists in taste, 
who think that they cannot speak Avith suf- 
ficient disparagement of the English poets 
of the first part of the eighteenth century ; 
and they are armed with a noble provocative 
to English contempt, when they have it to 
say, that those poets belong to a French 
school. Indeed, Dryden himself is generally 
included in that school ; though more ge- 
nuine English is to be found in no man's 
pages. But in poetry " there are many man- 
sions." I am free to confess, that I can 
pass from the elder writers, and still find a 
charm in the correct and equable sweetness 
of Parnell. Conscious that his diction has 
not the freedom and volubility of the better 
strains of the elder time, I cannot but re- 
mark his exemption from the quaintness 
and false metaphor which so often disfigure 
the style of the preceding age ; nor deny 
my respect to the select choice of his ex- 
pression, the clearness and keeping of his 
imagery, and the pensive dignity of his 
moral feeling. 

Pope gave our heroic couplet its strictest 
melody and tei-sest expression, 

D'ua mot mis en sa place il enseigne le pouvoir. 
If his contemporaries forgot other poets in 



his loTe is always indecorous nakedness, or sheathed in 
the stiff panoply of chivalry. The most pathetic verses 
which Dryden has composed are unquestionably con- 
tained in his Epistle to Congreve, where he recommends 
his laurels, in such moving terms, to the care of his 
surviving friend. The quarrel and reconciliation of Se- 
bastian and Dorax are also full of the noblest emotion. 
In both cases, however, the interest is excited by means 
of masculine and exalted passion, not of those which 
arise from the more delicate sensibilities of our nature." 
It is upon this pasiage that Mr. Lockhart remarks: — 
"The reader who wishes to see the most remarkable in- 
itances of Dryden's deficiency in the pathetic, is requested 
to compare him with Chaucer in the deathbed scene of 
Palamon aiid ArciU." — Scott's Misc. Prose Works, vol. i. 
p. 409. 

'■ What had been is unknown — what is appears." 

"Remember Dryden," Qray writes to Beattie, "and be 
Mind to all his faults."] 



admiring him, let him not be robbeil of his 
just fame on pi-etence that a part of it was 
superfluous. The public ear was long fa- 
tigued with repetitions of his manner; but 
if we place ourselves in the situation of 
those to whom his brilliancy, succinctness, 
and animation were wholly new, we cannot 
wonder at their being captivated to the 
fondest admiration. In order to do justice 
to Pope, we should forget his imitators, if 
that were possible ; but it is easier to re- 
member than to forget by an effort — to ac- 
quire associations than to shake them off. 
Every one may recollect how often the most 
beautiful air has palled upon his ear and 
grown insipid from being played or sung 
by vulgar musicians. It is the same thing 
with regard to Pope's versification.* That 
his peculiar rhythm and manner are the 
very best in the whole range of our poetry 
need not be asserted. He has a gracefully 
peculiar manner, though it is not calculated 
to be an universal one ; and where, indeed, 
shall we find the style of poetry that could 
be pronounced an exclusive model for every 
composer ? His pauses here have little va- 
riety, and his phrases are too much weighed 
in the balance of antithesis. But let us 
look to the spirit that points his antithesis, 
and to the rapid precision of his thoughts, 
and we shall forgive him for being too anti- 
thetic and sententious. 

Pope's works have been twice given to 
the world by editors who cannot be taxed 
with the slightest editorial partiality towards 
his fame. The last of these is the Ilev. Mr. 
Bowles,t in speaking of whom I beg leave 
most distinctly to disclaim the slightest in- 
tention of undervaluing his acknowledged 



[* No two great writers ever wrote blank verse with 
pauses and cadences the same. Shakspeare, Jouson, 
Bfeaumont, Fletcher, Massinger, and Ford hail a dramatic 
blank verse of their own. Milton's manner of verse is 
his own ; so is Thomson's, Akenside's, Cowper's, Southey'a, 
Wordsworth's. With our couplet verse it Is the same. 
Denham and Waller are unlike Dryden. I'rior is differ- 
ent again. Pope's strictness and terseness are his own. 
Who is Goldsmith like, or Falconer, or Roarers, or Camp- 
bell him.self? Inferior writers imitate — men of genius 
strike out a path for themselves — their numbers are all 
their own, like their thoughts.] 

[t Mr. Campbell wrote this in 1819; and in 1824 the 
late Jlr. Roscoe gave another edition of Pope, but not 
the edition that is wanted. Mr. Bowles was one of 
.Joseph Warton's Winchester wonders : and the taste he 
imbibed there fir the romantic school of poetry was 
strengthened and confirmed by his removal to Tri- 
nity College, Oxford, when Tom Warton was master 
there.] 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



56 



merit as a poet, however freelj^ and fully I 
may dissent from his critical estimate of the 
genius of Pope. Mr. Bowles, in forming 
this estimate, lays great stress upon the 
argument, that Pope's images are drawn 
from art more than from nature. That 
Pope was neither so insensible to the beau- 
ties of nature, nor so indistinct in describ- 
ing them as to forfeit the character of a 
genuine poet, is what I mean to urge, with- 
out exaggerating his picturesqueness. But 
before speaking of that quality in his writ- 
ings, I would beg leave to observe, in the 
first place, that the faculty by which a poet 
luminously describes objects of art is essen- 
tially the same faculty which enables him 
to be a faithful describer of simple nature; 
in the second place, that nature and art are 
to a greater degree relative terms in poetical 
description than is generally recollected ; 
and, thirdly, that artificial olyects and man- 
ners are of so much importance in fiction, 
as to make the exquisite description of them 
no less characteristic of genius than the de- 
scription of simple physical appearances. 
The poet is " creation's heir." He deepens 
our social interest in existence. It is surely 
by the liveliness of the interest which he 
excites in existence, and not by the class 
of subjects which he chooses, that Ave most 
fairly appreciate the genius or the life of 
life which is in him. It is no irreverence 



* But are his descriptioDs of works of art more poetical 
than his descriptions of the great feelings of nature? — 
Bowles's Invariable Pniictples, p. 15.] 

[t His ponderous shield, 

Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round. 
Behind him cast; tlie broad circumference 
Hung on his shoulders, lifce the moon, whose orb 
Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views 
At evening, from the top of Fesole, 
Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands. 
Rivers, or mountains, on her spotty globe. 
His spear, to equal which the talle.<(t pines, 
Hewn on Norwegian hills to be the mast 
Of some great ammiral, were but a wand. 

Par. Lost, b. 1. 
It is evident that Satan's spear is not compared to the 
mast of some great ammiral, though his shield is to the 
moon as seen through the glass of Galileo. Milton's ori- 
ginal, (Cowley,) whose images from art are of constant 
occurrence, draws his description of Goliah's spear from 
Norwegian hills : — 

His spear the trunk was of a lofty tree 
Which Nature meant some tall ship's mast should be. 
The poetry of the whole passage in Milton is in the 
images and names from nature, not from art. "It is 
Fesole and Valdarno that are poetical," says Mr. Bowles, 
" not the telescope." There is a spell, let us add, in the 
very names of Fesole and Valdarno. 
Milton's object in likening the shield of Satan to the 



to the external charms of nature to say, 
that they are not more important to a poet's 
study than the manners and affections of 
his species. Nature is the poet's goddess; 
but by nature, no one rightly understands 
her mere inanimate face — however charm- 
ing it may be — or the simple landscape- 
painting of trees, clouds, precipices, and 
flowers. Why then try Pope, or any other 
poet, exclusively by his poAvers of describ- 
ing inanimate phenomena? Nature, in the 
wide and proper sense of the word, means 
life in all its circumstances — nature moral 
as well as external. As the subject of 
inspired fiction, nature includes artificial 
forms and manners. Richardson is no less 
a painter of nature than Homer. Homer 
himself is a minute describer of works of 
art;* and Milton is full of imagery derived 
from it. Satan's spear is compared to the 
pine that makes " the mast of some great 
ammiral," and his shield is like the moon, 
but like the moon artificially seen through 
the glass of the Tuscan artist.f The "spirit- 
stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, the royal 
banner, and all quality, pride, pomp, and cir- 
cdmstance of glorious war,"J are all artifi- 
cial images. When Shakspeare groups into 
one view the most sublime objects of the 
universe, he fixes first on "the cloud-capt 
towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn 
temples."^ Those who have ever witnessed 



moon, as seen through the glass of the Tuscan artist, was 
to give the clearest possible impression of the thing 
alluded to. "It is by no means necessary," says Cowper, 
"that a simile should be more magnificent than the 
subject; it is enough that it gives us a clearer and more 
distinct perception of it than we could have had with- 
out it. Were it the indispensable duty of a simile to 
elevate as well as to illustrate, what must be done with 
many of Homer's? When he compares the Grecian 
troops, pouring themselves forth from camp and fleet in 
the plain of Troy, to bees issuing from a hollow rock — or 
the body of Patroclus in dispute between the two armies 
to an ox-hide larded and stretched by the currier — we 
must condemn him utterly, as guilty of degrading his 
subject when he should exalt it. But the exaltation of 
his subject was no part of Homer's concern on these 
occasions ; he intended nothing more than the clearest 
possible impression of it on the minds of his hearers." — 
Works, by Southey, vol. xv.p. 321. 

AVhen Johnson, in his life of Gray, laid it down as a 
rule that an epithet or metaphor drawn from Nature 
ennobles Art, an epithet or metaphor drawn from Art 
degrades Nature, he had forgotten Homer, and the custom 
of all our poets.] 

[I Othello, Act iii. Scene 3.] 

[I The Tempest Act iv. Scene 1. One of the finest pafr 
sages in Shakspeare is where he describes Foi',une as a 
wheelright would: 

Out, out, thou strumpet Fortunf 1 All you (rodfi. 



60 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



the spectacle of the hiunching of a ship of 
the line, will perhaps forgive me for adding 
this to the examples of the sublime objects 
of artificial life. Of that spectacle I can 
never forget the impression, and of having 
vritnessed it reflected from the faces of ten 
thousand spectators. They seem yet before 
me — I sympathize with their deep and silent 
expectation, and with their final burst of 
enthusiasm. It was not a vulgar joy, but 
an affecting national solemnity. When the 
vast bulwark sprang from her cradle, the 
cahn water on which she swung majesti- 
cally round, gave the imagination a contrast 
of the stormy element on Avhich she was 
soon to ride. All the days of battle and 
the nights of danger which she had to en- 
counter, all the ends of the earth which she 
had to visit, and all that she had to do and 
to suffer for her country, rose in awful pre- 
sentiment before the mind; and when the 
heart gave her a benediction, it was like 
one pronounced on a living being.* 

Pope, while he is a great moral writer, 
though not elaborately picturesque, is by no 
means deficient as a painter of interesting 
external objects. No one will say that he 



In general synod, take away her power; 
Break all tlie spokes and/e//(Vs from her wheel-, 
And bowl the round nave down the hill of heaven. 
As low as to the fiends. — Hamlet, Act ii. Scene 2.] 
[* In the controversy which these Specimens gave rise 
to, Mr. Howies contended for this — -'Whether poetry be 
more immediately indebtid to what is sublime or beauti- 
ful in the works of Nature or the works of Art?"' and 
taking Nature to himself, he argued that Mr. Campbell's 
ship had greater obligations to nature than to art for its 
poetic excellencies. -'It was indebted to Nature," be 
writes, 'for the winds that filled the sails; for the sun- 
shine that touched them with light; for the waves on 
whi( h it so triumphantly rode; for the associated ideas 
of the distant regions of the earth it was to visit; the 
tempests it was to encounter; and for being, as it were, 
endu! d with existence — a thing oflifi." 

"Mr. Howies asserts," says Lord Byron, "that Camp- 
bell's 'Ship of the Line' derives all its poetry not from 
art Imt from nature. 'Take away the waves, the winds, 
the sun, Ac. Ac. one will become a stripe of blue bunting, 
anil the other a piece of coarse canvas on three tall poles.' 
Very true; take away «/(« waves, the winds, and there will 
be no ship at all, not only for poetical, but for any other 
purpose; and take away the sun. and we mvist read >ir. 
Bowes' pamphlet by candlelight. But the poetry of the 
S'.iip does nut depend on the waves. Ac. : on the contrary, 
the Ship nf the Line confers its own poetry upon the 
waters and heightens theirs. What was it attracted the 
tliouf-ands to the launch? They might have seen the 
poctieal calm water at Wapping, or in the London Dock, 
or in the I'addington Canal, or in a horse-pond, or in a 
slop-basin, or in any other vase! !Mr. Bowles contends," 
Lord B.vron goes on to say, "that the pyramids of E-.-ypt 
»re poetical because of the ' association with boundless 



peruses Eloisa's Epistle without a solemn 
impression of the pomp of catholic supersti- 
tion. In familiar description, nothing can 
be more distinct and agreeable than his 
lines on the Man of Ross, when he asks, 

Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows? 
Whose seats the weary traveller repose? 
Who taught that heaven-<lirected spire to rise? 
The Man of Koss, each lisping babe replies. 
Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread — 
The Man of Ko.ss divides the weekly bread; 
He feeds yon almshouse, neat, but void of state, 
Where Ate and Want sit smiling at the gate: 
Him portion'd maids, apprenticed orphans blest. 
The young who labour and the old who rest. 

Nor is he without observations of animal 
nature in which every epithet is a decisive 
touch, as. 

From the green myriads in the peopled grass, 
AVhat modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme, 
The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam; 
Of smell the hmdlimg lione.ss between. 
And hound sagaciou.s, on the tainted green; 
Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood, 
To that which warbles through the vernal wood; 
The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine, 
Feels at each thread, and lives along the line. 

His picture of the dying pheasant is in 
everyone's meniory,f and possibly the lines 
of his winter-piece may by this time [1819J 



deserts,' and that a 'pyramid of the same dimensions' 
would not be sublime in Lincoln's lun Fields: not so 
poetical certiiinly; but take away the -pyramids,' and 
wh;it is the ' desert?' Take away Stone-henge from Salis- 
bury Plain, and it is nothing more than llounslow Heath, 
or any othiT unenclosed down. 

" There can be nothing more poetical in its aspect," he 
continue.', "than the city of Venice. Does this depend 
upon the sea or the canal? 

The dirt and sea-weed whence proud Venice rose. 
Is it the canal which runs between the palace and the 
prison, or the Bridge of Sighs, which connects them, that 
render it poetical? There would be nothing to make the 
canal of Venice more poetical than that of Paddington, 
were it not for its artificial adjuncts" 

But why should Nature and Art be made divisible 
by these controversialists? in poetry they are not so: — 
Oi'iVt (l>v(Hi iifui/f) yiverai r£xi")f arep. ovre irav rixvn 
ltr\ <j)iaiv KCKTTtpiti/ri. Withnitl Art Niture can nevir be 
pirj'cct, and w.tlioul Nature Art can claim no being. In 
a poet no kind of knowledge is to be overlooked — to a 
poet nothing can be useless.] 
[f Ahl what avail his glo.s.sy varying dyes, 
His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes — 
The vivid green his shining plumes unfold. 
His painted wings, and breast that flam<s with gold? 
Windsor tVrest. 

This is like Whitbread's Phoenix, which hheridan averred 
that he had described -'like a poulterer; it was green and 
yellow, and red and blue: he did not let us otf for a single 
feather."— Bvrnn'.v Worl.s, vol. vi. p. 37'2. 

When I'oiie epithctizes the Kennett, the Loddon, the 
Mole, and the Wey, he is very happy; and he is equally 
60 when he poetizes the fish.] 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



61 



have crossed the recollection of some of our 
brave adventurers in the polar enterprise. 

So Zembla's rocks, the beauteous work of frost, 
RiBe white in air, and glitter o'er the coast; 
Pale suns, unfelt at distance, roll away, 
And on the impassive ice the lig))tnings play; 
Eternal snows the growing mass supply, 
Till the bright mountains prop th' incumbent sky; 
As Atlas fix'd, each hoary pile appears, 
The gathered winter of a thousand years. 

I am well avrare that neither these nor si- 
milar instances will come up to Mr. Bowles's 
idea of that talent for the picturesque which 
he deems essential to poetry.* " The true 
poet," says that writer, " should have an eye 
attentive to and familiar with every change 
of season, every variation of light and shade 
of nature, every rock, every tree, and every 
leaf in her secret places. lie who has not 
an eye to observe these, and who cannot 
with a glance distinguish every hue in her 
variety, must be so far deficient in one of 
the essential qualities of a poet." Every 
rock, every leaf, every diversity of hue in 



[* It is remarkable that, excepting the Nocturnal 
Reverie of Lady Winchelsea and a pas-sage or two in the 
Windsor Forest of Pope,' the pnetry of the period between 
the publication of Paradise Lost and the Seasons does 
not contain a single n-w image of external nature; and 
scarcely presents a familiar one, from which it can be 
inferred that the eye of the poet had been steadily fixed 
upon his obj -ct, much less that his feelings had urged 
him to work upon it in the spirit of genuine imagina- 
tion. To what a IdW state knowledge of the mo«t obvicms 
and important phenomena had sunk, is evident from the 
style in which Dryden has executed a d sci ipli'in of ni,:;ht 
in one of his 'traiedies, and Pope his translation of the 
celebrated moonlight scene in the Illiad. A blind man.'in 
the habit of attending accurately to descriptions casually 
dropped from the lips of those around him, might easily 
depict these appearances with more truth. Dryden's lines 
are vague, bombastic, and .senseless; those of Pope, though 
he had Homer to guide him, are throughout false and 
contradictory. The verses of Dryden, once highly cele- 
brate d, are forgotten; those of Pope still retain "their 
hold upon public estimation,'' — nay, there is not a passage 
of descriptive poetry, which at this day finds so many 
and such ardent admirers. — Wordsworth, Supp. to the 
P'ef. 

Here is the passage in Dryden Mr. Wordsworth alludes 
to:— 

All things are hush'd as Nature's self lay dead; 
The mountains seem to nod their drowsy head; 
The little birds in dreams their songs repeat, 
And sleeping flowers beneath the night dew sweat: 
Even lust and envy sleep; yet love denies 
Rest to my soul, and slumber to my eyes. 

The Indian Emperor. 
And here the moonlight scene in Homer, as rendered 
by Pope and by Cowper: — 
As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night! 
O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light, 
When not a breath disturbs the deep serene, 
And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene; 



nature's variety ! Assuredly this botanizing 
perspicacity might be essential to a Dutch 
flower-painter; but Sophocles displays na 
such skill, and yet he is a genuine, a great 
and affecting poet. Even in describing the 
desert island of Philoctetes, there is no mi- 
nute observation of nature's hues in secret 
places. Throughout the Greek tragedians 
there is nothing to show them more at- 
tentive observers of inanimate objects than 
other men.f Pope's discrimination lay in 
the lights and shades of human m;\nners, 
which are at least as interesting as those 
of rocks and leaves. In moral eloquence he 
is for ever deimis et instans sibi. The mind 
of a poet employed in concentrating such 
lines as these descriptive of creative power, 
which 

"Builds life on death, on change duration founds, 
And bid.s th' eternal wheels to know their rounds," 

might well be excused for not de.scending to 
the minutely picturesque. The vindictive 
personality of his satire is a fault of the 



Araund her throne the vivid planets roll. 
And stars unnumbered gild the glowing pole, 
Oer the dark trees a yellower verdure shed 
And tip with .silver every mountain's head; 
Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, 
A flood of glory bursts from all the skies: 
The conscious swain.s, rejoicing in the sight. 
Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light. ^ 
Pope. 

As when around the clear bright moon, the stars 
Shine in full splendour, and the winds are hush'd. 
The groves, the mountain tops, the headland heights 
Stand all apparent, not a vapour streaks 
The boundless blue, but ether opened wide 
All glitters, and the shepherd's heart is cheer'd. 

CowPER. 

The scraps of external nature in Lee, Otvray, and Garth 
are no whit better than Dryden's. Swift gave some l.rue 
touches of artificial nature in his City Shower, and Mum- 
ing in Town, but it was left to Thomson and Dyer to 
recall us to country life. 

Mr. Southey has given no bad comment on the passage 
from Pope we have quoted above : — " Here," says Southey, 
'■ are the planets rolling round the moon ; here is the pole 
gilt and glowing with stars; here are trees made yellow, 
and mountains tipt with silver by the moonlight; and 
here is the whole sky in a flood of glory ; appearances 
not to be found either in Homer or in nature; finally, 
those gilt and glowing skies, at the very time when they 
are thus pouring forth a flood of glory, are represented 
as a blue vault! The astronomy in the.se lines would 
not appear more extraordinary to Dr. Herschell than the 
imagery to every per.son who has observed a moonlight 
scene." — Quar. Rev. vol. xii. p. 87.] 

[tWith ShaUspeare it is otherwise* his inanimate na- 
ture is unsurpassed for truthfulness and di.»tinct poetical 
^rsonation. Description in Shakspeare is a shadow re- 
ceived by the ear, and perceived by the ev.] 



62 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



man, and not of the poet. But his wit ia 
nut all his charm. lie glows with passion 
in the Epistle of Eloisa, and displays a lofty 
feeling, much above that of the satirist and 
the man of the world, in his Prologue to 
Cato, and his Epistle to Lord Oxford.* I 
know not how to designate the possessor of 

[* Mr. Campbell misht have atlded liid noble conclusion 
to Tke. Dimdad, which is written in the highest vein of 
poHtry. and exhibits a genius that wanted direction, oppor- 
tunity, or inclination, rather than cultivation or increase 
of strength.] 

[t i.r. Bowles's position is this, that Pope saw rural or 
field nature through what Dryden expressively calls ttv. 
spectMles «f books: that he did not see it for himself, as 
Homer, Virgil, Chaucer, Shakspeare, and Milton .-saw it, — 
as it was seen by Thomson and Cowper— that his country 
nature is by reflection, cold, unwarming, and dead coloured 
—that he did not make what Addison calls additions to 
nature., as every great poet has done— that Ur Blacklock's 
descriptive nature is as good, who was blind from his 
birth— tUat yioc/is that graze the tender green in Pope graze 
audi ly in true descriptive writers — and that his Para- 
dise had been a succession of alleys, platforms, and quin- 
cunxes—a Uiigley or a Stowe, not an Eden, as .Milton 
has made it. All this is true enough, l.ut its importance 
has been overrated. Pope is still a greater poet, though 
he did not dwell long in the mazes of fancy, but stooped, 
as be expresses it, to truth, and moralized his song— that 
he made sen.*e, or wit, or intellectuality hold the place 
of mere description, and gave us peopled pictures rather 
than landscapes with people. True it is too that imagina- 
tion (a nobler kind of fancy) is the first great quality of 
a poet— that when it is found un.ted to all the lesser 
qualities required, it forms what Cowley calls p«iJ-i/ and 
saiicUty. Mr. Campbell has properly extended the offices 
of poetry, and written a defence of fope which w.U exist 
as long as Eloisas Letter, or any poem of its great writer. 

Gray, whose scattered touches of external nature are 
exquisitely true, has laid it down as a rule that descrip- 
tion, the most graceful ornament of poetry as he calls it, 
should never form the bulk or subject of a poem : Pope, 
who was not very happy in his strokes from land.scape 
nature— that where it forms the body of a poem, it is as 
absurd as a feast made up of sauces, while Swift, who 
knew nothing of trees and streams, and lawns and meads, 
objected to Thomson's philosophical poem that it was 
all description and nothing was doing, whereas Milton 
engaged men in actions of the highest importance. 

To try poetry by the sister art, — in painting we see that 
^ mere landscape is of loss value than a landscape with 



such gifts but by the name of a genuine 

poetf — 

qualem vix repperit unum 

Millibus in multis hominum consultus Apollo. 

AUSO.NIUS. 

Of the poets in succession to Pope I have 
spoken in their respyctive biographies. 



figures and a story, that is, where the art of both, in re- 
presenting nature, is the same. An bi.storical landscape, 
like the subject of Joshua commanding the sun to stand 
still, where high acts are performed in alliance with in- 
animate nature, seems to meet the ideas of Pope, of Swift, 
and of Gray. -'Selection," says Fuseli, falsely, "is the in- 
vention of a lands(:ipe-paioter," 

To diversity and animate his poems, Thomson had re- 
course to episodes of human interest. The first Shipwreck 
was devoid of story, it was all description; as Falconer 
left it, there was an action to heighten and relieve the 
nature, that made description the secondary object of the 
poem. 

Had not the notes to this Essay already run to a dis- 
proportionate length, we had been tempted to extract 
what Crabbe says in defence of Pope, and that portioil 
of poetry he himself excelled in; to h^ve quoted Lord 
Byron's exaggerated praises, and Mr. Southey's d -pre- 
ciatory notice of the .same writer. We must find room, 
however, f )r Mr. Bowles's short character from his Final 
Appeal, ohfiirving generally on thissubject. that in lower- 
ing the rank of the poetry that Pope su.«tains. too mu'-h 
stress has been laid upon Horace's exclusion of himself 
from the name of a poet on the score of his Epistles and 
Satires, which was a becoming modesty too literally un- 
derstood. When a man lowers himself there are always 
some ready to take him at his own valuation. 

'• As a poet, ' says Mr. IJowles, " 1 sought not tode.preciate, 
but di. criminate, and assign to him his proper rank and 
station in his art among English poets; below Shakspeare, 
Spenser, and .Milton, in the highest order of imagination 
or impassioned poetry; but above Dryden, Lucretius, and 
Horace, in moral and satirical. Inferior to Dryden in 
lyric sublimity : equal to him in painting characters from 
real life, (suih as are so powerfully delineated in Absalom 
and Achitopbel;) but superior to him in pasxion — for 
what ever equalled, or ever will approach, in its kind, 
the Epistle of Eloisa to Abelard? In consequence of the 
exquisite pathos of this epistle, I have assigned Pope a 
poetical rank far above Ovid. I have placed him above 
Horace, in con.sequence of the perfect finish of his satires 
and moral poems; but in descriptive poetry, such as 
Windsor Forest, beneath Cowper or Thomson." — Finai 
Appeal, 1826, p. 55.J 



SPECIMENS 



THE BRITISH POETS. 



CHAUCER. 



[Born, 1328. Died, Oclober 25, I400.J 



Geoffrey Chaucer, according to his own ac- 
count, was born in London, and the year 1328 
is generally assigned as the date of his birth. 
The name is Norman, and, according to Francis 
Thynne, the antiquaiy, is one of those, on the 
roll of Battle Abbey, which came in with William 
the Conqueror.* It is uncertain at which of the 
universities he studied. Warton and others, who 
allege that it was at Oxford, adduce no proof of 
their assertion ; and the signature of Philogenet 
of Cambridge, which the poet himself assumes in 
one of his early pieces, as it was fictitious in the 
name, might be equally so in the place; although 
it leaves it rather to be conjectured that the latter 
university had the honour of his education. 

The precise time at which he first attracted 
the notice of his munificent patrons, Edward III. 
ai.d John of Gaunt, cannot be ascertained ; but 
if his poem, entitled The Dreme, be rightly sup- 
posed to be an epithalamium on the nuptials of 
the latter prince with Blanche, heiress of Lan- 
caster, he must have enjoyed the court patronage 
in his thirty-first year. The same poem contains 
an allusion to the poet's own attachment to a lady 
at court, whom he afterwards married. She was 
maid of honour to Philippa, queen of Edward III., 
and a younger sister of Catherine Swinford,"]" 
who was first the mistress, and ultimately the 
wife of John of Gaunt. 

By this connection Chaucer acquired the pow- 
erful support of the Lancastrian family; and 
during his life his fortune fluctuated with theirs. 

* A^ide Thynne's animadversions on Speght's edition of 
Chaucer, in the Rev. J. H. Todd's Illustrations of Gowcr 
and Chaucer, p. 18. Thynne calls in question Speght's 
supposition of Chaucer being the son of a vintner, which 
Mr. Godwin, in his life of Chaucer, has adopted. Re.opect- 
ing the arms of the poet, Thynne (who was a herald) farther 
remarks to Speght, -'you set down that some heralds are 
of opinion that he did not descend from any great house, 
whiche they gather by his armes: it is a slender conjec- 
ture ; for as honourable how.^es and of as great antiquytye 
have borne as mtan armes as Chaucer, and yet Chaucer's 
armes are not so mean eyther for colour, chardge, or par- 
ticion, as some will make them." If indeed the fact of 
Chaucer's residnnce in the Temple could be proved, in- 
stead of resting (in mere rumour, it would be tolerable 
evidence of his hiirh birth and fortune; for only young 
men of that description were anciently admitted to tlio 
inns of court. But unfortunately for the claims of the 
Inner Temple to the honour of Chaucer's residence, Mr. 
Thynne declares "it most certaine to be gathered by cyr- 
cunistances of recordes. that the lawyers were not of the 
Temple till the latter parte of the reygne of Edw. III., at 
which tyme Chaucer was a grave manue, holdeu in gn^ate 
credyt, and employed in embassye.'' 

t Catherine was the widow of Sir John Swinford, and 
daughter of Payne de Kouet, king at arms to the province 
of Guienno. It appears from other evidence, liowtver, that 
Chaucer's wife's name was Philippa Pykard. Mr. Tyrwhitt 
explains the circumstance of the sisters having different 
names, by supposing that the father and his eldest daugh- 
ter Catherine might bear the name of De Kouet, from 
Bome estate in their possession; while the family name 

a 



Tradition has assigned to him a lodge, near the 
royal abode of Woodstock, by the park gate, 
where it is probable that he composed some of 
his early works ; and there are passages in these 
which strikingly coincide with the scenery of his 
supposed habitation. There is also reason to pre- 
sume that he accompanied his warlike monarch 
to France in the year 1359 ; and from the record 
of his evidence in a military court, which has been 
lately discovered, we find that he gave testimony 
to a fact which he witnessed in that kingdom in the 
capacity of a soldier. J But the expedition of that 
year, which ended in the peace of BriStigne, gave 
little opportunity of seeing military service ; and 
he certainly never resumed the profession of arms. 
In the year 1367 he received from Edward III. 
a pension of twenty marks per annum, a sum 
which in those times might probably be equiva- 
lent to two or three hundred pounds at the pre- 
sent day. In the patent for this annuity he is 
styled by the king vakltus nosier. The name 
valeltus was given to young men of the highest 
quality before they were knighted, though not as 
a badge of service. Chaucer, however, at the date 
of this pension, was not a young man, being then 
in his thirty-ninth year. He did not acquire the 
title of scut if er, or esquire, till five years after, 
when he was appointed joint envoy to Genoa 
with Sir James Pronan and Sir John de Mari. 
It has been conjectured, that after finishing the 
business of this mission he paid a reverential 
visit to Petrarch, who was that year at Padua.§ 

Pykard was retained by the younger daughter Philippa, 
who was Chaucer's wife. 

i Chaucer was made prisoner at the siege of Betters, in 
France, in 1359, as appears from his deposition in the fa- 
mous controversy between Lord Scrope and Sir Robert Gros- 
venor upon the right to bear the shield ' azure a bend or,' 
which had been assumed bj' Qrosveuor, and which after a 
long suit he was obliged to discontinue. The roll of the 
depositions is in the Tower, and was printed in 18.'i2, by 
Sir N. Harris Nicolas (2 vols, folio.) See also, Quarterly 
Mevifw, No. cxi. — C. 

I Mr. Tyrwhitt is upon the whole inclined to doubt of 
this poetical meeting ; and De Sade, who, in his Memoires 
pour la Vie de Petrarque, conceived he should be able to 
prove that it took place, did not live to fulfil his promise. 
The circumstance which, taken collaterally with the fact 
of Chaucer's appointment to go to Italy, has been consi- 
dered as giving the strongest probability to the English 
poet's having visited Petrarch, is that Chaucer makes one 
of the pilgrims in the Canterbury Tales declare, that he 
learned his story from the worthy clerk of Padua. The 
story is that of Patient Grisilde: which, in fact, originally 
belonged to Boccaccio, and was only translated into Latin 
by Petrarch. It is not easy to explain, as Mr. Tyrwhitt 
remarks, why Chancer should have proclaimed his obli 
gation to Petrarch, while he really owed it to Boccaccio. 
According to Mr. Godwin, it was to have an ocrasion of 
boasting of his friendship with the Italian laureat. But 
why does he not boast of it in liis own person ? lie makes 
tlieclerk of Oxford declare that he had his story from the 
clerk of Padua; but he does not say that he had it him- 
self from that quarter. Mr. Godwin, however, believe* 
f2 6.5 



66 



CHAUCER. 



The fact, however, of an intcrvieWj so pleasing 
to the imagination, rests upon no certain evi- 
dence ; nor are there even satisfactory proofs that 
he ever went on his ItaUan embassy. 

His genius and connections seem to have kept 
him in prosperity during the whole of Edward 
lll.'s reign, and during the period of John of 
Gaunt's influence in the succeeding one. From 
Edward he had a grant of a pitcher of wine a 
day, in 1374, and was made comptroller of the 
small customs of wool and of the small customs 
of wine in the port of London. In the next year 
the king granted him the wardship of Sir Simon 
Staplegate's heir, for which he received £104. 
The following year he received some forfeited 
wool, to the value of £71, 4s. 6(/, — sums probably 
equal in eflective value to twenty times their 
modern denomination. In the last year of Ed- 
ward he was appointed joint envoy to France 
with Sir Guichard Dangle and Sir Richard Stan, 
or Sturrey, to treat of a marriage between Richard 
Prince of Wales and the daughter of the French 
king. His circumstances during this middle part 
of his life must have been honourable and opu- 
lent ; and they enabled him, as he tells us in his 
Testament of I^ove, to maintain a plentiful hos- 
pitality ; but the picture of his fortunes was sadly 
reversed by the decline of John of Gaunt's in- 
fluence at the court of Richard II., but more im- 
mediately by the poet's connection with an ob- 
noxious political party in the city. This faction, 
whose resistance to an arbitrary court was dig- 
nified with the name of a rebellion, was headed 
by John of Northampton, or Comberton, who in 
religious tenets was connected with the followers 
of Wickliffe, and in political interests with the 
Duke of Lancaster ; a connection which accounts 
for Chaucer having been implicated in the busi- 
ness. His pension, it is true, was renewed under 
Richard ; and an additional allowance of twenty 
marks per annum was made to him in lieu of his 
daily pitcher of wine. He was also continued 
in his office of comptroller, and allowed to exe- 
cute it by deputy, at a time when there is every 
reason to believe that he must have been in exile. 
It is certain, however, that he was compelled to 
fly from the kingdom on account of his political 
connections ; and retired first to Hainault, then 
to France, and finally to Zealand. He returned 
to England, but was arrested and committed to 
prison. The coincidence of the time of his se- 
verest usage with that of the Duke of Glouces- 
ter's power, has led to a fair supposition that that 
usurper was personally a greater enemy to the 
poet than King Richard himself whose disposi- 
tion towards him might have been softened by 
the good offices of Anne of Bohemia, a princess 
never mentioned by Chaucer but in terms of the 
warmest panegyric. 



that h(! shadows forth himself under the character of the 
lean scholar. This is surely iinprobal'le : when the poet 
in another place describes himself as round and jolly, 
while the poor Oxford si-bolar is lank and meagre. If 
Cliaucer really was corpulent, it was indeed giving but a 
Bha4ow of himself to paint this figure as very lean : but 



While he was abroad, his circumstances had 
been impoverished by his liberality to some of his 
fellow fugitives ; and his effects at home had been 
cruelly embezzled by those intrusted with their 
management, who endeavoured, as he tells us, to 
make him perish for absolute want. 

In 1388, while yet a prisoner, he was obliged 
to dispose of his two pensions, which were all the 
resources now left to him by his persecutors. As 
the price of his release from imprisonment, he was 
obhged to make a confession respecting the late 
conspiracy. It is not known what he revealed ; cer- 
tainly nothing to the prejudice of John of Gaunt, 
since that prince continued to be his friend. 

To his acknowledged partisans, who had be- 
trayed and tried to starve him during his banish- 
ment, he owed no fidelity. It is true, that ex- 
torted evidence is one of the last ransoms which 
a noble mind would wish to pay for liberty ; but 
before we blame Chaucer for making any con- 
fession, we should consider how fair and easy the 
lessons of uncapitulating fort'tude may appear on 
the outside of a prison, and yet how hard it may 
be to read them by the light of a dungeon. As 
far as dates can be guessed at, in so obscure a 
transaction, his liberation took place after Richard 
had shaken oft' the domineering party of Glou- 
cester, and had begun to act for himself. Chau- 
cer's political errors — and he considered his share 
in the late conspiracy as errors of judgment, though 
not of intention — had been committed while 
Richard was a minor, and the acknowledgment 
of them might seem less humiliating when made 
to the monarch himself than to an usurping fac- 
tion ruling in his name. He was charged too, 
by his loyalty, to make certain disclosures im- 
portant to the peace of the kingdom ; and his 
duty as a subject, independent of personal con- 
siderations, might well be put in competition 
with ties to eissociates already broken by their 
treachery.* 

While in prison, he began a prose work en- 
titled The Testament of Love, in order to beguUe 
the tedium of a confinement, which made every 
hour, he says, appear to him a hundred winters ; 
and ho seems to have published it to allay the 
obloquy attendant on his misfortunes, as an ex- 
planation of his past conduct. It is an allegory, 
in imitation of Boethius's Consolations of Philo- 
sophy ; an universal favourite in the early litera- 
ture of Europe. Never was an obscure affair 
conveyed in a more obscure apology; yet amidst 
the gloom of allegory and lamentation, the vanity 
of the poet sufficiently breaks out. It is the 
goddess of Love who visits him in his confine- 
ment, and accosts him as her own immortal bard. 
He descants to her on his own misfortunes, on 
the politics of London, and on his devotion to the 
Lady Marguerite, or pearl, whom he found in a 



why should he give himself a double existence, and de- 
scribe both the jolly substance and the meagre shadow? 

» '• Kor my trothe and my conscience," he says in his 
Testament of Love, '-bene witnesse to me bothe, that this 
knowing sothe have 1 saide for troathe of my leigiaunce 
by which I was charged on my kinges bebalfu." 



CHAUCER. 



mussel shell, and who turns out at last to mean 
the spiritual comfort of the Church.* 

In 1389 the Duke of Lancaster returned from 
Spain, and he had once more a steady protector. 
In that year he was appointed clerk of the works 
at Westminster, and in the following year clerk 
of those at Windsor, with a salary of £36 
per annum. His resignation of those otRces, 
which it does not appear he held for more than 
twenty months, brings us to the sixty-fourth year 
of his age, when he retired to the country, most 
probably to Woodstock, and there composed his 
immortal Canterbury Tales, amidst the scenes 
which had inspired his youthful genius. 

In 1394 a pension of j£30 a j'ear was granted 
to him, and in the leist year of Richard's reign he 
had a grant of a yearly tun of wine; we may 
suppose in lieu of the daily pitcher, which had 
been stopped during his misfortunes. 

Tradition assigns to our poet a residence in his 
old age at Donnington Castle, near Newbury, in 
Berkshire; to which he must have moved in 
1397, if he ever possessed that mansion: but Mr. 
Grose, who affirms that he purchased Donnington 
Castle in that year, has neglected to show the 
documents of such a purchase. One of the most 
curious particulars in the latter part of his Lie is 
the patent of protection granted to Chaucer in 
tlie year 1398, which his former inaccurate bio- 
graphers had placed in the second year of Richard, 
till Mr. Tyrwhitt corrected the mistaken date. 
The deed has been generally supposed to refer 
to the poet's creditors; as it purports, however, 
to protect him ronra cemulos suos, the expression 
has led Mr. Godwin to question its having any 
relation to his debtors and creditors. It is true 
that rivals or competitors are not the most obvious 
designation for the cred.tors of a great poet ; but 
stdl, as the law delights in fictions, and as the 
writ for securing a debtor exhibits at this day 
such figurative personages as John Doe and 
Richard Roe, the form of protection might in 
those times have been equally metapliorical ; nor, 
as a legal metonymy, are the terms rival and 
competitor by any means inexpressive of that 
interesting relation which subsists between the 
dun and the fugitive ; a relation which in all ages 
has excited the warmest emulation, and the 
promptest ingenuity of the human mind. Within 
a year and a half from the date of this protection, 
Bolingbroke, the son of John of Gaunt, ascended 
the throne of England by the title of Henry IV. 

It is creditable to the memory of that prince, 

* Mr. Tod<l has givrn, in his Illustrations, soini' poems 
puppusfd to bi' wiiitiMi by Chauci-r dining liis iniprison- 
muiit; in whicli, in tlie .same jillegcirical niiiiiner, under 
the praises of Spring, he appears to implore llie a-ssist- 
auce of Vere, Earl of Oxford, the principal favounte of 
Kifihavd ir. 

t Uryden has acensed Chaucer of introducing Oalli- 
cisius into the Kn^lisli languaj;e; not aware that French 
was the language of the Court of Kngland not long before 
Chaucer's time, and that, far from introiluciug French 
phrases into the English tongue, the ancient bard was 
suct^'ssfully active in inti-oducing the Kn^lish as a f:i.shion- 
»ble dialect, instead of the French, which had. b.-fore his 
time, been the only language of polite literature in Eug- 



that, however basely he abandoned so many of 
his father's fi-iends, he did not suffer the poetical 
ornament of the age to be depressed by the revo- 
lution. Chaucer's annuity and pipe of wine 
were continued under the new reign, and an 
additional pension of forty marks a year was con- 
ferred upon him. But the poet did not long en- 
joy this accession to his fortune. He died in 
London, on the twenty-fifth of October, 1400, 
and was interred in the south cross aisle of 
Westminster Abbey. The monument to his 
memory was erected a century and a half after 
his decease, by a warm admirer of his genius, 
Nicholas Brigham, a gentleman of Oxford. It 
stands at the north end of a recess formed by four 
obtuse foliated arches, and is a plain altar with 
three quatrefoils and the same number of shields. 
Chaucer, in his Treatise of the Astrolaiie, men- 
tions his son Lewis, for whom it was composed 
in 1391, and who was at that time ten years of 
age. Whether Sir Thomas Chaucer, who was 
Speaker of the House of Commons in the reign 
of Henry IV. was anobher and elder son of the 
poet, as many of his biographers have supposed, 
is a point which has not been distinctly ascertained. 

Mr. Tyrwhitt has successfully vindicated Chau- 
cer from the charge brought against him by Ver- 
stegan and Skinner, of having adulterated English 
by vast importations of French words and phrases. 
If Chaucer had indeed naturalized a multitude of 
French words by his authority, he might be re- 
garded as a bold innovator, yet the language 
would have still been indebted to him for en- 
riching it. But such revolutions in languages 
are not wrought by individuals ; and the style of 
Chaucer will bear a fair comparison with that of 
his contemporaries, Gower, Wickliffe, and Man- 
deville. That the polite English of that period 
should have been highly impregnated with French 
is little to be wondered at, considering that Eng- 
lish was a new language at court, where French 
had of late been exclusively used, and must have 
still been habitual-t English must, indeed, have 
been known at court when Chaucer began his 
poetical career, for he would not have addressed 
his patrons in a language entirely plebeian ; but 
that it had not been long esteemed of sufficient 
dignity for a courtly muse appears from Gower's 
continuing to write French verses, till the ex- 
ample of his great contemporary taught hiin to 
polish his native tongue.;}: 

The same intelligent writer, Mr. Tyrwhitt, 
while he vindicates Chaucer from the imputation 

land. — Sir Walter Scott's Misc. Prose Works, vol. i. p. 
42H.— C. 

X .Mr. Todd, in his Illustrations of Gower and Chaucer, 
p. 26, observes, that authors, both historical and poetical, 
ill the century after the deci'ase of these poets, in usually 
coupling their names, plare Gower before Chaucer iiieiely 
a« a tribute to his wniority. Uiit though Gower mi^lil 
be an older man than Chaucer, and possibly earlier known 
as a writer, yet unless it can be proved that he publi-h d 
English poi'try before his Coiifessio Amanti.s. of which 
there appears to be no evidence. Chaucer must si ill '•laim 
precedency as the earlier English poet. I'he Coiifessio 
Aniantis was piibli-shed in the .sixteenth year of i{irliard 
II.'s reign, at which tme Chancer had written all hif 
poems except the Cant, rbui-y Tales. 



CHAUCER. 



of leaving English more full of French than he 
found it, considers it impossible to ascertain, with 
any degree of certainty, the exact changes which 
he produced upon the national style, as we have 
neither a regular series of authors preceding him, 
nor authentic copies of their works, nor assurance 
that they were held as standards by their con- 
temporaries. In spite of this difficulty, Mr. Ellis 
ventures to consider Chaucer as distinguished 
from his predecessors by his foYidness for an 
Italian inflexion of words, and by his imitating 
the characteristics of the poetry of that nation. 

He has a double claim to rank as the founder 
of English poetry, from having been the first to 
make it the vehicle of spirited representations of 
life and native manners, and from having been 
the first great architect of our versification, in 
giving our language the ten syllable, or heroic 
measure, which though it may sometimes be 
found among the lines of more ancient versifiers, 
evidently comes in only by accident. This mea- 
sure occurs in the earliest poem that is attributed 
to him,* The Court of Love, a title borrowed 
from the fantastic institutions of that name, where 
points of casuistry in the tender passion .were 
debated and decided by persons of both sexes. 
It is a dream, in which the poet fancies himself 
taken to the Temple of Love, introduced to a 
mistress, and sworn to observe the statutes of the 
amatory god. As the earliest work of Chaucer, 
it interestingly exhibits the successful effort of 
his youthful hand in erecting a new and stately 
fabric of English numbers. As apiece of fancy, 
it is grotesque and meagre ; but the lines often 
flow with'great harmony. 

His story of Troilus and Cresseide was the de- 
light of Sir Philip Sydney ; and perhaps, excepting 
the Canterbury Tales, was, down to the time of 
Queen Elizabeth, the most popular poem in the 
English language. It is a story of vast length 
and almost desolate simplicity, and abounds in all 
those glorious anacronisms which were then, and 
so long after, permitted to romantic poetry : such 
as making the son of King Priam read the The- 
bais of Statins, and the gentlemen of Troy con- 
verse about the devil, justs and tournaments, 
bishops, parliaments, and scholastic divinity. 

The languor of the story is, however, relieved 
by many touches of pathetic beauty. The con- 
fession of Cresseide in the scene of felicity, when 
the poet compares her to the "new abashed 
nightingale, that stinteth first ere she beginneth 
sing," is a fine passage, deservedly noticed by 
Warton. The grief of Troilus after the departure 
of Cresseide is strongly portrayed in Troilus's 
siiililoquy in his bed. 

Where is mine owne ladie, lief, and dere ? 
Where is her white hrest — where is it — where? 
Where been her amies, and her iyen clere. 
That yesterday this time with me were? 
Now may I wepe alone with many a teare, 
And graspc about I may ; but in this place. 
Save a pill6we, 1 find nought to embrace. 



* Written, as some lines in the piece import, at the age 
of nineteen. 



The sensations of Troilus, on coming to the 
house of his faithless Cresseide, when, instead of 
finding her returned, he beholds the barred doors 
and shut windows, giving tokens of her absence, 
as well as his precipitate departure from the dis- 
tracting scene, are equally well described. 

Therwith whan he was ware, and gan behold 
How shet* was evi-ry window of the place. 
As frost him thought his herte gan to cold. 
For which, with changed deedly pale face, 
Withouten worde, he for by gan to pace, 
And. as God would, he gan so fa.ste ride, 
That no man his continuance espied. 
Then said he thus: palcis desolate, 
house of houses, whilom best yhight, 
paleis empty and disconsolate, 
thou lanteriie of which queintf is the light, 
paleis whilom day. that now art night; 
Wei ouglitest thou to fall and I to die, 
SensJ she is went, that wont was us to gie.J 

The two best of Chaucer's allegories, The 
Flower and the Leaf, and the House of Fame, 
have been fortunately perpetuated in our lan- 
guage; the former by Dryden, the latter by Pope. 
The Flower and the Leaf is an exquisite piece 
of fairy fancy. With a moral that is just suffi- 
cient to apologize for a dream, and yet which sits 
so lightly on the story as not to abridge its most 
visionary parts, there is, in the whole scenery 
and objects of the poem, an air of wonder and 
sweetness ; an easy and surprising transition that 
is truly magical. Pope had not so enchanting a 
subject in the House of Fame; yet, with defer- 
ence to Warton, that critic has done Pope in- 
justice in assimilating his imitations of Chaucer 
to the modern ornaments in Westminster Abbey, 
which impair the solemn effect of the ancient 
building. The many absurd and fantastic par- 
ticulars in Chaucer's House of Fame will not 
suffer us to compare it, as a structure in poetry, 
with so noble a pile as Westminster Abbey in 
architecture. Much of Chaucer's fantastic matter 
has been judiciously omitted by Pope, who at the 
s^me time has clothed the best ideas of the old 
poem in spirited numbers and expression. Chau- 
cer supposes himself to be snatched up to heaven 
by a large eagle, who addresses him in the name 
of St. James and the Virgin Mary, and, in order 
to quiet the poet's fears of being carried up to 
Jupiter, like another Ganymede, or turned into a 
star like Orion, tells him, that Jove wishes him 
to sing of other subjects than love and "blind 
Cupido," and has therefore ordered, that Dan 
Chaucer should be brought to behold the House 
of Fame. In Pope, the philosophy of fame comes 
with much more propriety from the poet himself, 
than from the beak of a talkative eagle. 

It was not until his green old age that Chaucer 
put forth, in the Canterbury Tales, the full variety 
of his genius, and the pathos and romance, as 
well as the playfulness of fiction. In the serious 
part of those tales he is, in general, more deeply 
indebted to preceding materials than in the comic 
stories, which he raised upon slight hints to the 
air and spirit of originals. The design of the 

* Shut, t Extinguished. J Since. § To make joyous. 



CHAUCER. 



whole work is after Boccaccio's Decamerone; 
but exceedingly improved. Tiie Italian novelist's 
ladies and gentlemen who have retired from the 
city of Florence, on account of the plague, and 
who agree to pass their time in telling stories, 
have neither interest nor variety in their indivi- 
dual characters; the time assigned to their con- 
gress is arbitrai-y, and it evidently breaks up 
because the author's stores are exhausted. Chau- 
cer's design, on the other hand, though it is left 
unfinished, has definite boundaries, and incidents 
to keep alive our curiosity, independent of the 
tales themselves. At the same time, while the 
action of the poem is an event too simple to di- 
vert the attention altogether from the pilgrims' 
stories, the pilgrimage itself is an occasion sutR- 
ciently important to draw together almost all the 
varieties of existing society, from the knight to 
the artisan, who, agreeably to the old simj)le 
manners, assemljJe in tlie same room of the hos- 
telerie. The enumeration of those characters in 
the Prologue forms a scene, full, without con- 
fusion; and the object of their journey gives a 
fortuitous air to the grouping of individuals who 
collectively represent the age and state of society 
in which they live. It may be added, that if any 
age or state of society be more favourable than 
another to the uses of the poet, that in which 
Chaucer lived must have been peculiarly pic- 
turesque; — an age in which the difl'erences of 
rank and profession were so strongly distin- 
guished, and in which the broken masses of 
■ society gave out their deepest shadows and 
strongest colouring by the morning light of civili- 
zation. An unobtrusive but sufficient contrast is 
supported between the characters, as between the 
demure prioress and the genial wife of Bath, the 
rude and boisterous miller and the polished knight, 
&c. &c. Although the object of the journey is 
religious, it casts no gloom over the meeting; 
and we know that our Catholic ancestors are 



justly represented in a state of high good-humour, 
on the road to such solemnities. 

The sociality of the pilgrims is, on the whole, 
agreeably sustained; but in a journey of thirty 
persons, it would not have been adhering to pro- 
Ijability to have made the harmony quite unin- 
terrupted. Accordingly the bad-humour which 
breaks out between the lean friar and the cherub- 
faced sompnour, while it accords with the hosti- 
lity known to have subsisted between those two 
professions, gives a diverting zest to the satirical 
stories which the hypocrite and the libertine level 
at each other. 

Chaucer's forte is description; much of his 
moral reflection is superfluous ; none of his cha- 
racteristic painting. His men and women are 
not mere ladies and gentlemen, like those who 
furnish apologies for Boccaccio's stories. They 
rise before us minutely traced, profusely varied, 
and strongly discriminated. Their features and 
casual manners seem to have an amusing con- ' 
gruity with their moral characters. He notices 
minute circumstances as if by chance ; but every 
touch has its etfect to our conception so distinctly, 
that we seem to live and travel with his person 
ages throughout the journey. 

What an intimate scene of English life in the 
fourteenth century do we enjoy in those tales, 
beyond what history displays by glimpses, through 
the stormy atmosphere of her scenes, or the anti- 
quary can discover by the cold light of his re- 
searches ! Our ancestors are restored to us, not 
as phantoms from the field of battle, or the scafiibld, 
but in the full enjoyment of their social existence. 
After four hundred years have closed over the 
mirthful features which formed the living originals 
of the poet's descriptions, his pages impress the 
fancy with the momentary credence that they are 
still alive ; as if Time had rebuilt his ruins, and 
were reacting the lost scenes of existence 



THE PROLOGUE TO THE CANTERBURY TALES. 



Whann^ that April with his shoures sote<» 

The droughte of March hath perced to the rote,* 

And bathed every veine in swiche<^ licour. 

Of whiche vertue engendred is the flour; 

Whan Zephirus eke with his sote brcthe 

Enspired hath in every holt and hethe 

The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne 

Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne,'' 

And smale foules maken melodic. 

That slepen alle night with open eye, 

So priketh hem'^ nature in hir/ corages ;? 

Than longen folk to gon on pilgrimages, 

And palmares for to seken strange strondes, 

To serve'' halweys" couthe; in sondry londes ; 

And specially, from every shires ende 

Of Englelond, to Canterbury they wende,* 

The holy blisful martyr for to seke. 

That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seke.' 

Befelle, that, in that seson on a day, 
III Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay, 



Redy to wenden on my pilgrimage 
To Canterbury with devoute corage, 
At night was come into that hostelrie 
Wei nine and twenty in a compagnie 
Of sondry folk, by aventure yfalle"» 
In felawship, and pilgrimes were they alle, 
That toward Canterbury wolden" ride. 
The chambres and the stables weren wide, 
And wel we weren esed atte beste. 

And shortly, whan the sonne was gon to restc, 
So hadde I spoken with hem everich on," 
That I was of hir felawship anon. 
And made forword erly for to rise. 
To take oure way ther as I you devise. 

But natheles, while I have time and space, 
Or that I forther in this tale pace, 



1 Swept.— 1> Root.— = Such.- <i Run.— e Ttiem.- / Tht^ir.— 
S Inclination. — A To ket-p. — ■ Ilolitlavs. — j Known. — » Uo 
' Sick. — "» i'allea. — » Would. — o Every nue. 



CHAUCER. 



Me thinketh it accordant to reson, 

To tellen you alle the condition 

Of eche of hern, so as it seemed me, 

And whiche they weren, and of what degre ; 

And eke in what araie that they were innc : 

And at a knight than wol I firste beginne. 

A Knight ther was, and that a worthy man 
That fro the time that he firste began 
To riden out, he loved Chevalrie, 
Trouthe and honour, fredom and curtesie. 
Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre,? 
And therto hadde he ridden, no man ferre,' 
As wel in Cristendom as in Hethenesse, 
And ever honoured for his worthinesse. 

At Alisandre he was whan it was wonne. 
Ful often time he hadde the bord"" begonne' 
Aboven alle nations in Pruce, 
In Lettowe hadde he reysed' and in Ruce, 
No cristen man so ofte of his degre. 
In Gernade at the siege eke hadde he be 
'Of Algesir, and ridden in Belmarie. 
At Leyes was he, and at Satalie, 
Whan they were wonne; and in the Grete see 
At many a noble armee hadde he be. 
At mortal batailles hadde he ben fiftene, 
And foughten for our faith at Tramissene 
In listes thries, and ay slain his fo. 
This ilke worthy knight hadde ben also 
Sometime with the Lord of Palatie, 
Agen another hethen in Turkie : 
And evermore he hadde a sovereine pris." 
And though that he was worthy he was wise, 
And of his port as meke as is a mayde. 
He never yet no vilanie ne sayde 
In alle his Hf, unto no manere wight. 
He was a veray parfit gentil knight. 

But for to tellen you of his araie. 
His hors was good, but he ne was not gaie. 
Of fustian he wered a gipon," 
Alle besmotred"" with his habergeon,* 
For he was late ycome fro his viage. 
And wente for to don his pilgrimage. 

With hirn ther was his sone a yonge Squier, 
A lover and a lusty bacheler. 
With lockes cruUv as they were laide in presse. 
Of twenty ycre of age he was I gesse. 
Of his stature he was of even lengthe. 
And wonderly deliver,^ and grete of strength's. 
And he hadde be somtime in chevachie," 
In Flaundres, in Artois, and in Picardie, 
And borne him wel, as of so Utel space. 
In hope to stonden in his ladies grace. 

Embrouded* was he, as it were a mede 
Alle ful of fresshe flourcs, white and rede. 
Singing he was, or floytingi^ alle the day, 
He was as fresshe as is the moneth of May. 
Short was his goune, with sieves long and wide. 
\Ve\\ coude he sitte on hors, and fayre ride. 
He coude songes make, and wel endite. 
Juste and eke dance, and wel pourtraie and write. 



p War. — </ Farthfir. — r » Been placed at the head of 
the table. — ' 'I'ravelleil. — « I'raise. — » Wore a short 
(•;issni-k.— wSmutteii.—iCoat of mail.— y Curled.— 2. \inil.le. 
<» Horse skirmishing. — t Kmbroidereil. — ° Playing tlie 
flute 



So hote he loved, that by nightertale'' 

He slep no more than doth the nightingale. 

Curteis he was, lowly, and servisable, 
And carf* before his fader at the table. 

A Yeman hadde he, and servantes no mo 
At that time, for him luste/ to ride so ; 
And he was cladde in cote and hode of grene. 
A shefe of peacock arwes bright and kene 
Under his belt he bare ful thriftily. 
Well coude he dresse his takel? yemanly : 
His arwes* drouped not with fetheres low. 
And in his hond he bare a mighty bowe. 

A not-hed" hadde he, with a broune visage. 
Of wood-craft coudeJ he wel alle the usage. 
Upon his arme he bare a gaie bracer,* 
And by his side a swerd and a bokeler, 
And on that other side a gaie daggqre, 
Harneised wel, and sharpe as point of spere : 
A Cristofre on his brest of silver shene. 
An home he bare, the baudrik was of grene, 
A forster was he sothely as I gesse. 

Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, 
That of hire smiling was full simple and coy ; 
Hire gretest othe n'as but by Seint Eloy ; 
And she was cleped' Madame Eglentine. 
Ful wel she sange the service divine, 
Entuned in hire nose ful swetely ; 
And Frenche she spake ful fayre and fetisly,™ 
After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe, 
For Frenche of Paris was to hire unknowe. 
At mete was she wel ytaughte withalle; 
She lette no morsel from her lippes fall, 
Ne wette hire fingres in hire sauce depe. 
Wel coude she carie a morsel, and wel kepe, 
Thatte no drope ne fell upon hire brest. 
In curtesie was sette ful moche hire lest." 
Hire over lippe wiped she so clene. 
That in hire cuppe was no ferthing sene" 
Of grese, whan she dronken hadde hire draught. 
Ful semely after her mete she raught.? 
And sikerly she was of grete disport, 
And ful plesant, and amiable of port. 
And peined« hire to contrefeten' chere 
Of court, and ben estatelich of manere, 
And to ben holden digne' of reverence. 

But for to speken of hire conscience, 
She was so charitable and so pitoiis. 
She wolde wepe if that she saw a mous 
Caughte in a trappe, if it were ded or bledde. 
Of smale houndes hadde she, that she fedde 
With rosted flesh, and milk, and wastel brede. 
But sore wept she if on of hem were dede. 
Or if men smote it with a yerde' smert," 
And all was conscience and tendre herte. 

Ful semely hire wimple ypinched was ; 
Hire nose tretis;" hire eyen grey as glas ; 
Hire mouth ful smale, and therto soft and red ; 
But sikerly she hadde a fayre forehed. 
It was almost a spanne brode I trowe; 
For hardily she was not undergrowe."' 



<i Night-time. — ' Carved. — f It plea.«ed him. — ff Arrow.- 
« A round head.— j Knew. — » Armour for the arni.- 
1 Called.— "» Neatly.— » Her pleasure —o Smallest spot.- 
p Rose. — ' Took pains. — r I'o imitati-. — > Worthy. — t Stick.- 
« Smartly, adv.— w Straight. — to Of low stature. 



CHAUCER. 



71 



Ful fetise^ was hire clock, as I was ware. 
Of smale coiall aboute hire arm she bare 
A pair of bedcs, gauded all with grene ; 
And theron heng a broche of gold ful shene, 
On whiche was first ywritten a crouned A, 
And after, ^nijr viiicit omtiiit. 
Another Nonne also with hire hadde she. 
That was hire chapelleine, and Preestes thre. 

A Monk ther was, a fayre for the maistrie, 
An outrider, that loved venerie jv 
A manly man, to ben an abbot able. 
Ful many a deinte hors hadde he in stable : 
And whan he rode, men might his bridel here 
Gingeling in a whistling wind as clere. 
And eke as loude, as doth the chapell belle, 
Ther as this lord was keeper of the celle. 

The reule of Seint Maure and of Seint Beneit, 
Because that it was olde and somdele streit, 
This ilke monk lette olde thinges pace. 
And held after the newe worlde the trace. 
He yave^ not of the text a pulled hen, 
That saith, that hunters ben not holy men ; 
Ne that a monk, whan he is rekkeles," 
Is like to a fish that is waterles ; 
This is to say, a monk out of his cloistre. 
This ilke text held he not worth an oistre. 
And I say his opinion was good. 
What shulde he studie, and make himselven wood* 
Upon a book in cloistre alway to pore. 
Or swinken": with his hondes, and labonre. 
As Austin biti'' how shal the world be served] 
Let Austin have his svvink to him reserved. 
Therfore he was a prickasoure' a right: 
Greihoundes he hadde as swift as foul of flight: 
Of pricking and of hunting for the hare 
Was all his lust, for no cost wolde he spare. 

I saw his sieves purf iled/ at the hond 
With gris,^' and that the finest of the lond. 
And for to fasten his hood under his chinne, 
He hadde of gold ywrought a curious pinne ; 
A love-knotte in the grcter end ther was. 
His hed was balled, and shone as any glas, 
And eke his face, as it hadde ben anoint. 
He was a lord ful fat and in good point. 
His even stepe,* and rolling in his hed, 
That stemed as a forneis of led. 
His botes souple, his hors in gret estat ; 
Now certainly he was a fayre. prelat. 
He was not pale as a forpined gost. 
A fat swan loved he best of any rost. 
His palfrey was as broune as is a bery. 

A Frere ther was, a wanton and a mery, 
A Limitour, a ful solempne man. 
In all the ordres foure is none that can' 
So muche of daliance and fayre langige. 
He hadde ymade ful many a mariage 
Of yonge wimraen, at his owen cost. 
Until his ordre he was a noble post. 
Ful wel beloved, and farailier was he 
With fi-ankeleins over all in his contree. 



« Neat —y Hunting.— 2 GavR. — o Mr. Twyrhitt supposes, 
that this should be righelles, i. e. out of the rules by whifh 
the monks w-re bound. — A Mad. — " Toil. — i Bidd^-th. — 
• Hard rider.—/ Wrought on the edge.— r A fiue kind of 
fur. — «• Deep in the head.— » Kuew. 



And eke with worthy wimmen of the toun : 

For he had power of confession. 

As saide himselfe, more than a curat. 

For of his ordre he was licenciat. 

Ful swetely herde he confession, 

And plesant was his absolution. 

He was an esy man to give penance, 

Ther as he wiste to han' a good pitance : 

For unto a poure* ordre for to give 

Is signe that a man is wel yshrive.' 

For if he gave, he dorste™ make avant, 

He wiste that a man was repentant. 

For many a man so hard is of his herte, 

He may not wepe although him sore smerte. 

Therfure in stede of weping and praieres, 

Men mote give silver to the poure freres. 

His tippet was ay farsed" ful of knives, 
And pinnes, for to given fayre wives. 
And certainly he hadde a mery note. 
Wel coude he singe and plaien on a rote." 
Of yeddingesP he bare utterly the pris. 
His nekke was white as the flour de lis 
Therto he strong was as a champioun. 
And knew wel the tavernes in every toun. 
And every hosteler and gay tapstere, 
Better than a lazar or a beggere. 
For unto swiche a worthy man as he 
Accordeth nought, as by his faculte. 
To haven? with sike lazars acquaintance. 
It is not honest, it may not avance. 
As for to delen with no swiche pouraille,'' 
But all with riche, and sellers of vitaille. 

And over all, ther as profit shuld arise, 
Curteis he was, and lowly of servise. 
Ther n' as no man no wher so vertuous. 
He was the beste begger in all his hous : 
And gave a certain ferme' for the grant, 
Non of his bretheren came in his haunt. 
For though a widewe hadde but a shoo, 
(So plesant was his in principio) 
Yet wold he have a ferthing or he went. 
His pourchas' was wel better than his rent. 
And rage he coude as it hadde ben a whelp. 
In lovedayes," ther could he mochel help. 
For ther was he nat like a cloisterere, 
With thredbare cope, as is a poure scolere, 
But he was like a maister or a pope. 
Of double worsted was his semicope,' 
That round was as a belle out of the presse. 
Somwhat he lisped for his wantonnesse. 
To make his English swete upon his tonge; 
And in his harping, whan that he hadde songe. 
His eyen twinkeled in his hed aright. 
As don the sterres in a frosty night. 
This worthy limitour was cleped Huberd. 

A Marchant was ther with a forked herd, 
In mottelee, and highe on hors he sat, 
And on his hed a Flaundrish bever hat. 
His botes elapsed fayre and fetisly. 
His resons spake he ful solempnely. 



' Have. — * Poor. — I Shriven. — "> Durst make a boast. — 
n Stuffed. — » A stringed instrument. — P Story-telling. — 
1 Have. — r Poor people. — « Farm. — < Purchase. — « Days ap 
pointed for the amicable settlement of differences.- 
V Half-cloak. 



CHAUCER. 



.Souuing alvvay the encrese of his winning. 
He wold the see were kept for any thing"" 
Betwixcn Middelburgh and Orewell. 
Wei coud he in eschanges^ sheldesv selle. 
This worthy man ful wel his wit besette ; 
Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette, 
So stedefastly didde he his governance, 
With his bargeines, and with his ehevisance' 
Forsothe he was a worthy man witha'lle, 
But soth to sayn, I n'ot how men him calle. 

A Clerk ther was of Oxenforde also, 
That unto logike hadde long ygo. 
As lene was his hors as is a rake, 
And he was not right fat, I undertake ; 
But loked holwe," and therto soberly. 
Ful thredbare was his overest courtepy,* 
For he hadde geten him yet no benefice, 
Ne was nought worldly to have an olfice. 
For him was lever<^ han at his beddes had 
A twenty bokes, clothed in black and red, 
Of Aristotle, and his philosophic. 
Than robes riche, or fidel, or sautrie. 
But all be that he was a philosophre, 
Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre. 
But all that he might of his frendes hente,** 
On bokes and on lerning he it spente, 
And besily gan for the soules praie 
Of hem, that yave him wherwith to scolaie.' 
Of studie toke he moste cure and hede. 
Not a word spake he more than was nede ; 
And that was said in forme and reverence. 
And short and quike, and ful of high sentence. 
Souning in moral vertue was his speche. 
And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche. 

A Sergeant of the Lawe ware/ and wise, 
That often hadde yben at the paruis,? 
Ther was also, ful riche of excellence. 
Discrete he was, and of gret reverence : 
He semed swiche, his wordes were so wise. 
Justice he was ful often in assise. 
By patent, and by pleine commissioun ; 
For his science, and for his high renoun, 
Of fees and robes had he many on. 
So grete a pourchasour was nowher non. 
All was fee simple to him in elTect, 
His pourchasing might not ben in suspect.* 
Nowher so besy a man as he ther n'as. 
And yet he semed besier than he was. 
In termes hadde he cas' and domes alle. 
That fro the time of king Will, weren falle. 
Therto he coude endite, and make a thing, 
Ther coude no wight pinchei et his writing. 
And every statute coude he plaine by rote, 
rie rode but homely in a medlee* cote,' 



w Ki'pt, or guarded. The old subsidy of tonnage and 
poundage was given to the king 'pour la saufgarde et 
custodii' del nier.' {TyrwIiiU.)—' Exchangi-s.— K downs. 
— 2 .\n agreement for borrowing money. — o Hollow. — 

* Uppermost cloak of coarse cloih. — c He would rather 
have. — d Get. — e Study.—/ Wary. — s The paruis, or portico 
bul'ore a church — a place frequented by lawyers. The 
place of the lawyers' parui.s in London is assigned to 
different places by different antiquaries. {TyrwIiiU.) — 

* Suspicion. — « Cases and decisions. — j ^'o one could find a 
flaw in his writings. — * ' Coat of mixed stuff. — m A girdle. — 

With small stripes. — » A freeholder of considerable estate. 



Girt with a seint*" of silk, with baiTes" smale ; 
Of his array tell I no lenger tale. 

A Frankelein" was in this compagnie ; 
White was his herd, as is the dayesie. 
Of his complexion he was sanguin. 
Wel loved he by the morwe?" a sop ie win.? 
To liven in delit was ever his wone, 
For he was Epicures owen sone, 
'Fhat held opinion, that plein delit 
Was veraily felicite partite. 
An housholder, and that a grete was he ; 
Seint Julian'" he was in his contree. 
His brede, his ale, was alway after on ; 
A better envyned' man was no wher non. 
Withouten bake mete never was his hous, 
Offish and flesh, and that so plenteous. 
It snewed' in his hous of mete and drinke, 
Of alle deintees that men coud of thinke, 
After the sondrj' sesons of the yere, 
So changed he his mete and his soupcre. 
Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in mewe," 
And many a breme, and many a luce in stewe. 
Wo was his coke, but if his sauce were 
Poinant and sharpe, and redy all his gcre. 
His table dormant" in his halle alway 
Stode redy covered alle the longe day. 

At sessions ther was he lord and sire. 
Ful often time he was knight of the shire. 
An anelace"' and a gipciere^ all of sdk. 
Hen at his girdel, white as morwOi' milk. 
A shereve hadde he ben, and a countoiir.* 
Was no wher swiche a worthy vavasour." 

An Haberdasher, and a Carpenter, 
A Webbe,' a Deyer, and a Tapiser,' 
Were alle yclothed in o livere,'* 
Of a solempne and grete fraternite. 
Ful freshe and newe hir« gere ypikid/ was. 
. Hir knives were ychaped not with bras. 
But all with silver wrought ful clene and wel, 
Hir girdeles and hir pouches every del? 
Wel semed eche of hem a fayre burgeis,* 
To sitten in a gdd halle, on the deis.» 
Everich, for the wisdom that he can. 
Was shapelicly for to ben an alderman. 
For catel hadden they ynough and rent, 
And eke hir wives would it well assent : 
And elles* certainly they were to blame. 
It is ful fayre to ben ycleped madame, 
And for to gon to vigiles all before, 
And have a mantel reallich' ybore."" 

A Coke they hadden with hem for the nones,' 
To boile the chikenes and the marie bones. 
And poudre" marchant, tart and galingale.P 
Wel coude he knowe a draught of London ale. 



y Morning. — 'AVine. — r The saint of hospitality. — 'Stored 
with wine. — « It snewed, that is, there was great 
abundance. — "Secret. — « Fixed ready. — «• Knife. — j furse. 
— y Morning. — ^ Mr. Tyrwhitt conjectures, but merely 
offers it as a conjecture, that the contour was foremaa 
of the hundred court. — " Vavasour. Of this term Mr. 
T. is doubtful of the meaning. — ' A weaver. — " A maker 
of tapestry. — d Livery. — '/Their gear was spruce. — s Kvery 
way. A Burglier. — « The dcis; a part of the liall that was 
floored and .set apart for a place of respect. {Ti/rwhitt.) — 
J Fit. — * Klse. — I loyally. — ■" Supported. — » For Hie pur- 
pose. — The meaning not ascertained. — p Sweet cyperus- 



CHAUCER. 



73 



He coulde roste, and sethe, and broile, and frie, 
Maken nioitrewes,? and wel bake a pie. 
But gret harm was it, as it thoughte me, 
That on his shinne a mormal'' hadde he. 
For blanc manger that made he with the best. 

A Shipinan was ther, woned' I'er by West : 
For ought I wote, he was of Derteinouth. 
He rode upon a rouncic/ as he couthe, 
All in a goune of falding to the knee. 
A dagger hanging by a las" hadde hee 
About his nekke under his arm adoun. 
The bote sommer hadde made his hewe al broun. 
And certainly he was a good felaw. 
Ful many a draught of win he hadde draw 
From Burdeux ward, while that the chapman slepe. 
Of nice conscience toke he no kepe. 
If that he taught, and hadde the higher hand, 
By water he sent hem home to every land. 
But of his craft to reken well his tides. 
His stremcs and his strandes him besides, 
His herberwe," his mone,"* and his lodemanage," 
Ther was none swiche, from Hull unto Cartage. 
Hardy he was, and wise, I undertake : 
With many a tempest hadde his herd be shake. 
He knew wel alle the havens, as they were, 
Fro Gotland, to the Cape de finistere, 
And every creke in Bretagne and in Spaine : 
His barge ycleped was the Magdelaine. 

With us ther was a Doctour of Phisike, 
In all this world ne was ther non him like 
To speke of phisike, and of surgerie : 
For he was grounded in astronotnie. 
He kept his patient a ful gret del 
In houres by his magike naturel. 
Wel coude he fortunenv the ascendent* 
Of his imiges for his patient. 

He knew the cause of every maladie, 
Were it of cold, or bote, or moist, or drie, 
And wher engendred, and of what humoiir, 
He was a veray prafite practisour. 
The cause yknowe, and of his harm the rote," 
Anon he gave to the sike man his bote.* 
Ful rely hadde he his apothecaries 
To send him dragges,<: and his lettuaries,"* 
For eche of hem made other for to winne ; 
Hir friendship na's not newe to beginne. 
Wel knew he the old Esculapius, 
And Dioscorides, and eke Rufi'is ; 
Old Hippocras, Hali, and Gallien, 
Serapion, Rasis, and Avicen ; 
Averrois, Damascene, and Constantin ; 
Bernard, and Gatisden, and Gilbertin. 
Of his diete mesurable was he, 
For it was of no superfluitee, 
But of gret nourishing, and digestible. 
His studie was but little on the Bible. 
In sanguin' and in perse/ he clad was alle 
Lined with taffata, and with sendalle.? 
And yet he was but esy of dispence :* 
He kepte that he wan' in the pestilence. 



V A (iisli of rich broth, ia which the meat was stamped 
and the substance strained. — r A gansrene. — • Lived. — 

* IliU-k-horse.— u |,ace.— « Place of the Sun.— «» Moon.— 

* I'ilotship.— V Make fortunate —^ The ascendant.- a Root. 
— I' Remedy.— c Drags.— d Electuaries. — e BU)Od-red colour. 

10 



For golde in phisilte is a cordial ; 
Therfore he loved gold in special. 

A good Wif was ther of beside Bathe, 
But she was som del defe, and that was scatheJ 
Of cloth making she hadde swiche an haunt, 
She passed hem of Ipres, and of Gaunt. 
In all the parish wif ne was ther non, 
That to the oflVing before hire shulde gon, 
And if ther did, certain so wroth was she, 
That she was out of alle charilee. 
Hire coverchiefs weren ful fine of ground^; 
I dorste swere, they weyeden* a pound ; 
That on the Sonday were upon hire hede. 
Hire hosen weren of fine scarlet rede, 
Ful streite yteyed,' and shoon ful moist and newe. 
Bold was hire face, and fayre and rede of hew. 
Slie was a worthy woman all hire live, 
Housbondes at the chirche dore had she had five, 
Withouten other compagnie in youthe. 
But therof nedeth not to speke as nouthe.™ 
And thries hadde she ben at Jerusaleme, 
She hadde passed many a strange streme. 
At Rome she hadde ben, and at Boloine, 
In Galice at Seint James, and at Coloine. 
She coude" moche of wandering by the way. 
Gat-tothed was she, sothly for to say. 
Upon an ambler esily she sat, 
Ywimpled wel, and on hire hede an hat, 
As brode as is a bokeler, or a targe. 
A fote-mantel" about hire hippes large, 
And on hire fete a pair of sporres sharpe. 
In felawship wel coude she laughe and carpeJ" 
Of remedies of love she knew parchance, 
For of that arte she coude the olde dance. 

A good man there was of religioun, 
That was a poure Persone? of a toun : 
But riche he was of holy thought and werk. 
He was also a lerned man, a clerk, 
That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche. 
His parishens devoutly wolde he teche. 
Benigne he was, and wonder diligent, 
And in adversite ful patient: 
And swiche he was ypreved"" often sithes." 
Ful loth were him to cursen for his tithes, 
But rather wolde he yeven' out of doute, 
Unto his poure parishens aboute. 
Of his offring, and eke of his substance. 
He coude in litel thing have suffisance. 
Wide was his parish, and houses fer asonder. 
But he ne left nought for no rain ne thonder. 
In sikenesse and in mischief to visite 
The ferrest in his parish, moche and lite," 
Upon his fete, and in his hand a staf. 
This noble ensample to his shepe he yaf." 
That first he wrought and afterward he taught. 
Out of the go.spel he the wordes caught, 
And this figure he added yet thereto, 
That if golde ruste, what shuld iren do ] 
For if a preest be foule, on whom we trust, 
No wonder is a lewed man to rust : 



/Sky-coloured, or bluish gray. — ffThin silk. — A Expense. 
— • Gained, trot.- J Misfortune.—* Weigh.'d— ' Tied.— 
m Now; adv. — n Knew. — » A riding petticoat. — P Talk. — 
9 Parson — "' Proved. — » Times. — * Give. — u The nearest 
aad most distant of the parishioners. — « Gave. 

G 



74 



CHAUCER. 



And shame it is, if that a preest take kepe, 
To see a shitten shepherd, and clene shepe : 
Wei ought a preest ensample for to yeve, 
By his clenenesse how his shepe shuld hve. 

Ho sette not his benefice to hire, 
And kHte liis shepe accombred in the mire, 
And ran unto London, unto Seint Poules, 
To seeken him a chanterie for soules, 
Or with a brotherhede to be withold : 
But dwelt at home, and kepte wel his fold, 
So that the wolf ne made it not miscarie. 
He was a shepherd, and no mercenarie. 
And though he holy were, and vertuous, 
He was to sinful men not dispitous, 
Ne of his speche dangerous ne digne, 
But in his teching discrete and benigne. 
To drawen folk to heven, with faircnesse, 
By good ensample, was his besinesse : 
But it were any persone obstinat. 
What so he were of highe, or low estat, 
Him wolde he snibben"' shai-ply for the nones. 
A better preest I trowe that nowher^ non is 
He waited after no pompe ne reverence, 
Ne maked him no spicedw conscience. 
But Cristas lore, and his apostles twelve. 
He taught, but first he folwed it hiraselve. 

With him ther was a Plowman, was his brother. 
That hadde ylaid of dong^ ful many a fother." 
A trewe swinker, and a good was he. 
Living in pees,'' and parfite charitee. 
God loved he beste with alle his herte 
At alle times, were it gain as smerte,' 
And than his neighebour right as himselve. 
He wolde thresh, and therto dike, and delve. 
For Cristes sake, for every poure wight, 
Withouten hire, if it lay in his might. 

His tithes paied he ful fayre and wel 
Bothe of his propre swinke, and his catel. 
In a tabard he rode upon a mere. 

There was also a reve, and a millere, 
A sompnour,'' and a pardoner* also, 
A manciple,/ and myself, ther ne'ere no mo. 

The Miller was a stout carl for the nones, 
Ful bigge he was of braun, and eke of bones ; 
That proved wel, for over all ther he came, 
At wrastling he wold here away the ram.f 
He was short shuldered brode, a thikke gnarre,* 
Ther n'as no dore, that he n'olde heve of barre, 
Or breke it at a renning' with his hede. 
His herd as any sowe or fox was rede, 
And therto brode, as though it were a spade. 
Upon the copJ right of his nose he hade 
A wert, and theron stode a tufte of heres. 
Rede as the bristles of a sowes eres. 
His nose-thirles* blacke were and wide. 
A swerd and bokeler bare he by his side. 
His mouth as wide was as a'forneis. 
He was a jangler,' and a goliardeis,™ 



u> Snub, roprove. — « No where. — y Niee, in an affected 
Ben.se. — z Dung. — a Load. — ' Peace. — c Pain. — << A souip- 
nour, an officer employed to summon delinquents in eccle- 
niastical ciiurt«. now called an apparitor. (Ti/rwltitt.) — « A 
pardoner, a seller of pardons or indulireitces.— / A manci- 
ple, an officer who lias the care of furnishing victuals for 
an inn of court. — g The prize.—* .4. hard knot in a tree. 



And that was most of sinne, and harlotries. 
Wel coude he stelen come, and tollcn thries. 
And yet he had a thomb" of gold parde." 
A white cote and a blew hode wered lie. 
A baggepipe wel coude he blowe and soune. 
And therwithall he brought us out of toune. 

A gentil Manciple? was ther of a temple, 
Of which achatours? mighten take ensemple 
For to ben wise in bying of vitaille. 
For whether that he paide, or tokc by taille, 
Algate he waited so in his achate,'' 
That he was ay before in good estate. 
Now is not that of God a ful fayre grace. 
That swiche a lewed mannes wit shal pace 
The wisdom of an hepe of lered men 1 

Of maisters had he mo than thries ten, 
That were of lavve expert and curious : 
Of which ther was a dosein in that hous. 
Worthy to ben stewardes of rent and lond 
Of any lord that is in Englelond, 
To makn him live by his propre good. 
In honour detteles,' but if he were wood. 
Or live as scarsly, as him list desire ; 
And able for to helpen all a shire 
In any cas that mighte fallen or happe : 
And yet this manciple sette hit aller cappe.' 

The Reve was a slendre colerike man. 
His herd was shave as neighe as ever he can. 
His here was by his eres round yshorne. 
His top was docked like a preest beforne. 
Ful longe were his legges, and ful lene, 
Ylike a staff, there was no calf ysene. 
Wel coude he kepe a garner and a binne : 
Ther was non auditour coude on him winne. 
Wel wiste he by the drought, and by the rain, 
The yelding" of his seed, and of his grain. 
His lordes shepe, his nete," and his deirie. 
His swine, his hors, his store, and his pultrie, 
Were holly in his reves"" governing. 
And by h s covenant yave he rekening. 
Sin that his lord was twenty yere of age ; 
Ther coude no man bring him in arerage. 
Ther n'as baillif, ne herde, ne other hine. 
That he ne knew his sleight and his covine :* 
They were adradde of him, as of the deth. 
His wonning was ful fayre upon an heth. 
With grene trees yshadewed was his place. 
He coude better than his lord pourchace. 
Ful ryche he was ystored privily. 
His lord wel coude he plesen subtilly, 
To yeve and lene him of his owen good, 
And have a thank, and yet a cote and hood. 
In youthe he lerned hadde a good mistere.V 
He was a wel good wright, a carpentere. 
This reve sat upon a right good stot,* 
That was all pomelee" grey, and highte Scot. 
A long surcote of perse upon he hade. 
And by his side he bare a rusty blade. 



• A running.— i Top. — » NostrilH. — I Prater.—"" Buf- 
foon. — ^n lie was as honest as other millers, though 
he had, acoordinir to the proverb, like fvi-ry millir, a 
thumb of gold. — r Vide note/ above. — 9 Purchasers. — r I'ur- 
chase. — > Free from debt. — » Made a fool of them all. — 
u Yielding. — » Cows. — tu Steward. — x Secret contrivances. — 
V Trade, occupation. — * Horse, beast. — o Dappled. 



CHAUCER. 



Of Norfolk was this reve, of which I tell, 
Beside a toun, men clepen Baldeswell. 
Tucked he was, as is a frere, aboute, 
And ever he rode the hindrest of the route. 

A Sompnour was ther with us in that place, 
That had a fire-red chejubinnes'' face, 
For sausefleme"^ he was, with eycn narwe.'* 
As bote he was, and likerous as a sparwe. 
With scalled browcs blake, and pilled herd : 
Of his visage children were sore aferd. 
Ther n'as quicksilver, litarge, ne brimston, 
Boras, ceruse, ne o'Ae of tartre non, 
Ne oinement that wolde dense or bite, 
That him might helpen of his whelkes' white, 
Ne of the knobbes sitting on his chekes. 
Wei loved he garlike, onions, and lekes. 
And for to drinke strong win as rede as blood. 
Than wolde he speke, and crie as he were wood. 
And whan that he wel dronken had the win, 
Than wold he speken no word but Latin. 
A fewe termes coude he, two or three. 
That he had lerned out of som decree ; 
No wonder is, he herd it all the day. 
And eke ye knowen wel, how that a jay 
Can clepen watte, as wel as can the pope. 
But who so wolde in other thing him grope, 
Than hadde he spent all his philosophie, 
Ay, Questio quid juris, wolde he crie. 

He was a gentil harlot/ and a kind ; 
A better felaw shulde a man not find. 
He wolde sufTre for a quart of wine, 
A good felaw to have his concubine 
A twelve month, and excuse him at the full. 
Ful prively a finch eke coude he pull. 
And if he found owhere a good felawe, 
He wolde techen him to have non awe 
In swiche a cas of the archedekenes curse ; 
But if a mannes soule were in his purse ; 
For in his purse he shulde ypunished be. 
Purse is the aixhdekens helle, said he. 
But wel I wote, he lied right in dede : 
Of cursing ought eche gilty man him drede. 
For curse wol sle right as assoiling saveth, 
And also ware him of a signiftiavit. 

In danger hadde he at his owen gise 
The yonge girles of the diocise. 
And knew hir conseil, and was of hir rede.? 
A gerlond hadde he sette upon his hede, 
As gret as it were for an alestake:* 
A bokeler hadde he made him of a cake. 

With him ther rode a gentil Pardonere' 
Of Rouncevall,-'' his frend and his compere. 
That streit was comen from the court of Rome. 
Ful loude he sang, Come hither, love, to me. 



l Clierub's face. — c Red pimpled face. — <* Narrow, close. — 

« Spots. 

/ The name harlot was anciently pivpn to men as well 
as women, and without any bad si^^nification. '• When the 
word harlot," says GifTord, "became (like kvave) a term 
of reprnacli, it was appropriated solely to males : in Jon- 
son's day.s it was applied indiscriminately to both sexes; 
though without any di'terminate import; and it was not 
till long afievwards that it was restricted to females, and 
to the sense which it now bears. To ilerivn harlot from 
Arlotte, the mistress of the Duke of Normandy, is ridicu- 
lous." (BiiN JOxNSON, vol. iii. p. 312.) " The word harlott," 



This sompnour bare to him a stiflT burdoun,* 
Was never trompe of half so gret a soun. 
This pardoner had here as yelwe' as wax, 
But smoth it heng, as doth a strike of flax : 
By unces"* heng his lokkes that he hadde, 
And therwith he his shulders overspradde. 
Ful thinne it lay, by culpons" on and on, 
But hode, for jolite, ne wered he non, 
For it was trussed up in his wallet. 
Him thought he rode al of the newe get, 
Dishevele, sauf his cappe, he rode all bare. 
Swiche glaring eyen hadde he, as an hare. 
A vernicle hadde he sewed ubon his cappe. 
His wallet lay beforne him in his lappe, 
Bret-ful" of pardon come from Rome al hote. 
A vois he hadde, as smale as hath a gote. 
No herd hadde he, ne never non shulde have, 
As sniothe it was as it were newe shave ; 
I trovi'e he were a gelding or a mare. 

But of his craft, fro Berwike unto Ware, 
Ne was ther swiche an other pardonere. 
For in his male? he hadde a pilwebere,? 
Which, as he saide, was Our Ladies veil : 
He saide, he hadde a gobbef of the seyl' 
Thatte seint Peter had, whan that he went 
Upon the see, till Je.-iU Crist him hent.' 
He had a crois of laton" ful of stones, 
And in a glas he hadde pigges bones. 
But with these rehkes, whanne that he fond 
A poure persone dwelling up on lond. 
Upon a day he gat him more moneie 
Than that the persone gat in monethes tweie. 
And thus with fained flattering and japes," 
He made the persone, and the peple, his apes.' 

But trewely to tellen atte last, 
He was in chirche a noble ecclesiast. 
W^el coude he rede a lesson or a storie, 
But alderbest^ he sang an oflertorie -.v 
For wel he wiste, whan that song was songe. 
He muste preche, and wel afile' his tonge, 
To winne silver, as he right wel coude : 
Therefore he sang the merrier and loude. 



SIMILE. 



And as the newe-abashed nightingale, 
That stinteth first whan she beginneth sing, 
Whan that she heareth any herdes tale. 
Or in the hedges any wight stirring. 
And after sicker doth her voice outring ; 
Right so Creseide whan her dred stent 
Opened her hart and told him her intent. 



.Tonson told Drummond, "was taken from Arlotte, who 
was the mother of William the Conqueror; a Rogue from 
the l.atine, Krro, by putting a G to t.' (Akch. Scot. 
vol. iv. p. 100.) This supposition of Jonson's has been 
discovered since fiitford wrote. — C. 

g Advised.—" An alihouse sign.— • Vide note («) in pre- 
cedins: pagi-. — j Supposed by Stevens to be Hunceval Mall, 
in Oxford.—* Sail;; the bass. — I Yellow.— "> Ounces.— 
nShreds.— Brimful.— P Budget.— 9 Covering of a pillow.— 
T Morsel. — > Sail. — '.\ssisted, took. — " A mixi-d metal of the 
colour of brass— 1> Tricks.- «" Dupes.— J: Best.— » Part c? 
the mass. — » Polish. 



JOHN GOWER. 



[Born about 1323. Died about 1409.] 



Little is known of Gower's personal history. 
The proud tradition in the Marquis of Stafford's 
family," says Mr. Todd," " has been, and still is, 
that he was of Stitenhain; and who would 
nut consider the dignity of his genealogy aug- 
mented, by enrolling among its worthies the 
moral Gower?" 

His efligies in the church of St. Mary Overies 
is often inaccurately described as having a garland 
of ivy and roses on the head. It is, in fact, a 
chaplet of roses, such as, Thynne says, was an- 
ciently worn by knights; a circumstance which 
is favourable to the suspicion that has been sug- 
gested, of his having been of the rank of knight- 
hood. If Thynne's assertion, respecting the time 
of the lawyers first entering the temple be cor- 
rect, it will be difficult to reconcile it with the 
tradition of Gower's having been a student there 
in his youth. 

By Chaucer's manner of addressing Gower, 
the latter appears to have been the elder. He 
was attached to Thomas of Woodstock, as Chau- 
cer was to John of Gaunt. The two poets ap- 
pear to have been at one time cordial friends, but 
ultimately to have quarrelled. Gower tells us 
himself that he was blind in his old age. From 



his will it appears that he was living in 1408. 
His bequests to several churches and hospitals, and 
his legacy to his wife of 100/., of all his valuable 
goods, and of the rents arising from his manors 
of Southwell in the county of Nottingham, and 
of Multon in the county of Suffolk, undeniably 
prove that he was rich. 

One of his three gieat works, the Speculum 
Meditantis, a poem in French, is erroneously de- 
scribed by Mr. Godwin and others as treating of 
conjugal fidelity. In an account of its contents 
in a MS. in Trinity College, Cambridge, we are 
told that its principal subject is the repentance of 
a sinner. The Vox Clamantis, in Latin, relates 
to the insurrection of the commons, in the reign 
of Richard II. The Coufessio Amantis, in Eng- 
lish, is a dialogue between a lover and his con- 
fessor, who is a priest of Venus, and who explains, 
by apposite stories, and philosophical illustrations 
all the evil atiections of the heart which impede, 
or counteract the progress and success of the ten- 
der passion. 

His writings exhibit all the crude erudition and 
science of his age ; a knowledge sufficient to have 
been the fuel of genius, if Gower had possessed 
its fire. • 



THE TALE OF THE COFFERS OR CASICETS, &c. 

IN THE FIFTH BOOK OF THE "CO.VFESSIO AMANTIS." 



Ix a cronique thus I rede : 
Aboute a king, as must nede, 
Ther was of knyghtes and squiers 
Grct route, and eke of officers : 
Some of long time him hadden served. 
And thoughten that they haue deserved, 
Avancement, and gone withoute : 
And some also ben of the route, 
That comen but a while agon. 
And they advanced were anon. 

These olde men upon this thing, 
So as they durst, ageyne the king 
Among hemself ' compleignen ofte : 
But there is nothing said so softe, 
That it ne comith out at laste : 
The king it wiste, and als so faste, 
As he which was of high prudence : 
He shope therefore an evidence 
Of hem' that pleignen in the cas 
To knowe in whose defalte it was : 
And all within his owne entent. 
That non ma wiste what it ment. 
Anon he let two cOfres make. 
Of one semblance, and of one make, 

« ^B Illustrations of Gowit and Chaucer by the 1 
I. Todd.— t Themselves.—* Tbeui. 
76 



So lich,'' that no lif thilke throwe. 

That one may fro that other knowe : 

They were into his chamber brought. 

But no man wot why they be wrought, 

And natheles the king hath bede 

That they be set in privy stede, 

As he that was of wisdom slih, ^ 

When he therto his time sih,« 

All prively that none it wiste. 

His owne hondes that one chiste 

Of fin gold, and of fin perie,/ 

The which out of his tresorie 

Was take, anon he fild full ; 

The other cofre of straw and mull' 

With stones meynd* he fild also : 

Thus be they full bothe two. 

So that erliche' upon a day 

He had within, where he lay, 

Ther should be tofore his bed 

A bord up set and faire spred : 

And than he let the cofi-es fette.* 

Upon the bord, and did hem sette. 

He knewe the names well of tho,* 

The whiche agein him grutched so, 

d Like. — « Saw.—/ Jewels, or preciou,s stones. — S Kub- 
ish. — * Mingled.— t Eaxly.—j Fetched.—* Those 



JOHN GOWER. 77 ' 


Both of his chambre, and of his halle, 


That thcr is no defalte in me ; 


Anon and sent for hem alle ; 


Forthy"" my self I wol acquite. 


And seide to hem in this wise. 


And bereth he your owne wite* 


There shall no man his hap despise: 


Of that'./ fortune hath you refused. 


I wot well ye have longe served, 


Thus was this wise king excused : 


And god wot what ye have deserved; 


And they lefte off her evil speche, 


But if it is along on me 


And mercy of her king beseche. 


Of that ye unavanced be, 




Or elles if it belong on yow. 
The sothe shall be proved now : 






To stoppe with your evil word. 


OF THE GRATIFTCATION WHICH THE LOVER'S 


Lo ! here two cofres on the bord ; 


PASSION KECEIVES FROM THE SENSE OF HEAR- 


Chese which you list of bothe two; 


ING. 


And witeth well that one of tho 


IN THE SIXTH nooK. 


Is with tresor so full begon. 


Right as mine eye with his loke 


That if he happe therupon 


Is to myn herte a lusty cooke 


Ye shall be riche men for ever : 


Of loves foode delicate ; 


Now chese' and take which you is lever, 


Right so myn eare in his estate. 


But be well ware ere that ye take. 


Wher as myn eye may nought serve 


For of that one I undertake 


Can wel myn hertes thonk^ deserve ; 


Ther is no maner good therein. 


And feden him, fro day to day. 


Wherof ye mighten profit wnine. 


With such deynties as he may. 


Now gotli'" together of one assent, 


For thus it is that, over all 


And taketh your avisement ; 


Wher as I come in speciall. 


For but I you this day avance, 


I may heare of my lady price :" 


It stant upon your owne chance, 


I heare one say that she is wise ; 


Al only in defalte of grace ; 


Another saith that she is good ; 


So shall be shewed in this place 


And, some men sain, of worthy blood 


Upon you all well afyn," 


That she is come ; and is also 


That no defalte shal be myn. 


So fair that no wher is none so : 


They knelen all, and with one vois 


And some men praise hir goodly chere. 


The kmg they thonken of this chois . 


Thus every thing that I may heare, 


And after that they up arise. 


Which souneth to my lady goode, 


And gon aside and hem avise, 


Is to myn eare a lusty foode. 


And at laste they accorde 


And eke myn eare hath, over this, 


(Wherof her" tale to recorde 


A deyntie teste whan so is 


To what issue they be falle) 


That I may heare hirselve speke ; 


A knyght shall speke for him alle : 


For than anon my fast I breke 


He kneleth doun unto the king, 


On suche wordes as she saith, 


And seith that they upon this thing, 


That ful of trouth and ful of faith 


Or for to winne, or for to lese,P 


They ben, and of so good disport. 


Ben all a^^sed for to chese. 


That to myn eare great comfort 


Tho? toke this knyght a yerd"" on honde, 


They don, as they that ben delices 


And goth there as the cofres stonde, 


For all the meates, and all the spices, 


And with assent of everychone' 


That any Lombard couthe make, 


iHe leith his yerde upon one. 


Ne be so lusty for to take. 


And seith' the king how thilke same 


Ne so far forth restauratif. 


They chese in reguerdon" by name. 


(I say as for myn owne lif,) 


And preith him that they might it have. 


As ben the wordes of hir mouth. 


The king, which wolde his honor save, 


For as the windes of the South 


Whan he had heard the common vois. 


Ben most of alle debonaire ; 


Hath granted hem her owne chois. 


So, whan her list to speke faire. 


And toke hem therupon the keie ; 


The vertue of hir goodly speche 


But for he wolde it were seie" 


Is verily myn hertes leche. 


What good they have as they suppose. 


And if it so befalle among. 


He bad anon the cofre unclose. 


That she carol upon a song. 


Which was fulfild with straw and stones : 


Whan I it hear, I am so fedd. 


Thus be they served all at ones. 


That I am fro miself so ledd 


This king than in the same stede, 


As though I were in Paradis ; 


Anon that other cofre undede, 


For, certes, as to myn avis. 


Where as they sihen gret richesse, 


Whan I heare of her voice the steven. 


Wei more than they couthen gesse. 


Me thinketh it is a blisse of heven. 


Lo ! seith the king, now may ye see 


And eke in other wise also, 


I Choose— m Go.— n At last.— « Their.— P Lose.—? Then. 


u As their reward.—* See n.— «< Therefore.—' Blame — 


— ' A rod.— • Every one.—* Sayeth to the ting. 


V i. e. that which.—* Thank.— « Praise. 
G 2 



Full ofte time it flilleth so, 
Myn eare with a good pitance 
Is fed.l of reding of romance 
Of Ydoine and of Aniadiis, 
That whilom vveren in my cas ; 
And eke of other many a score, 
That loveden* long ere I was bore: 



For whan I of her loves rede, 
Myn eare with the tale I fede, 
And with the lust of her histoire 
Sometime I draw into memoire, 
How sorrow may not ever last ; 
And so hope cometh in at last. 



JOHN LYDGATE. 



[Born, 1375. Died, 1461.] 



Was born at a place of that name in Suffolk, 
about the year 1375. His translation (taken 
through the medium of Laurence's version) of 
Boccaccio's Fall of Princes, was begun while 
Henry VI. was in France, where that king never 
was, but when he went to be crowned at Paris, 
in 14.32. Lydgate was then above threescore. 
He was a monk of the Benedictine order, at St. 
Edmund's Bury, and in 1423 was elected prior of 
Hatfield Brodhook, but the following year had 
license to return to his convent again. His con- 
dition, one would imagine, should have supplied 
him with the necessaries of life, yet he more than 
once complains to his patron, Humphry, Duke of 
Gloucester, of his wants ; and he shows distinctly 
in one passage, that he did not dislike a little 
more wine than his convent allowed him. He 
was full thirty years of age when Chaucer died, 
whom he calls his master, and who probably was 



so in a literal sense. His Fall of Princes is rather 
a paraphrase than a translation of his original. 
He disclaims the idea of writing " a stile briefe 
and compendious." A great story he compares 
to a great oak, which is not to be attacked with 
a single stroke, but by " a long proreKse." 

Gray has pointed out beauties in this writer 
which had eluded the research, or the taste, of 
former critics. " I pretend not," says Gray, " to 
set him on a level with Chaucer, but lie cer- 
tainly comes the nearest to him of any contem- 
porary writer I am acquainted with. His choice 
of expression and the smoothness of his verse far 
surpass both Gower and Occleve. He wanted 
not art in raising the more tender emotions of 
the mind." Of these he gives several examples. 
The finest of these, perhaps, is the following pas- 
sage, descriptive of maternal agony and tender- 



CANACE, CONDEMNED TO DEATH BY HER FATHER .EOLUS. SENDS TO HER GUILTY BROTHER 
MACAREUS TUE LAST TESTIMONY OF UER UNUAPfY PASSION. 



Out of her swoone when she did abbraide. 
Knowing no mean but death in her distresse. 
To her brother full piteouslie she said, 
" Cause of my sorowe, roote of my heavinesse. 
That whilom were the sourse of my gladncsse, 
When both our joyes by wille were so disposed. 

Under one key our hearts to be enclosed 

This is mine end, I may it not astarte ; 

brother mine, there is no more to saye ; 
Lowly beseeching with mine whole heart 
For to remember specially, I praye, 

If it befall my littel sonne to dye. 

That thou mayst after some mind on us have. 

Sutler us both be buried in one grave. 

1 hold him strictly twene my amies twein. 
Thou and Natiire laide on me this charge ; 
He, guiltlesse, muste with me sutfer paine. 
And, sith thou art at freedom and at large, 
Let kindnesse oure love not so discharge, 
But have a minde, wherever that thou be, 
Once on a day upon my child and me. 
On thee and me dependelh the trespace 
Touching our guilt and our great oH'ence, 
liut, welaway ! most angelik of face 

^•ur childe, young in his pure innocence. 



Shall agayn right suffer death's violence, 
Tender of limbes, God wote, full guiltelesse 
The goodly faire, that lieth here speechless. 

A mouth he has, but wordis hath he none ; 
Cannot complaine alas ! for none outrage : 
Nor grutcheth not, but lies here all alone 
Still as a lambc, most meke of his visige. 
What heart of stele could do to him damage, 
Or suffer him dye, beholding the mancre 

And looke benigne of his twein eyen dere 

Writing hor letter, awhapped all in drede, 
In her right hand her pen ygan to quake. 
And a sharp sword to make her heartc blede. 
In her left hand her father hath her take. 
And most her sorrowe was for her childes sake. 
Upon whose face in her barme sleepy nge 
Full many a tere she wept in complaynlng. 
After all this so as she stoode and quoke, 
Her child beholding mid of her peines smart, 
Without abode the sharpe sword she tooke 
And rove herselfe even to the hearte ; 
Her childe fell down, which mighte not astcrt. 
Having no help to succour him nor save, 
But in her blood theselfe began to bathe. 



SCOTTISH POETRY. 



TiiF, oiigin of the Lowland Scottish language 
has, been a fruitful subject of controversy. Like 
the English, it is of Gothic materials ; and, at a 
certain distance of time from the Norman con- 
quest, is found to contain, as well as its sister 
dialect of the South, a considerable mixture of 
French. According to one theory, those Gothic 
elements of Scotch existed in the Lowlands, an- 
terior to the Anglo-Saxon settlements in England, 
among the Picts, a Scandinavian race : the sub- 
sequent mixture of French words arose from the 
French connections of Scotland, and the settle- 
ment of Normans among her people ; and thus, 
by the Pictish and Saxon dialects meeting, and 
an infusion of French being afterwards super- 
added, the Scottish language arose, independent 
of modern English, though necessarily similar, 
from the similarity of its materials. According 
to another theory, the Picts were not Goths, but 
Cambro-British, a Celtic race, like the Western 
Scots who subdued and blended with the Picts, 
under Kenneth Mac Alpine. Of the same Celtic 
race were also the Britons of Strathdyde, and 
the ancient people of Galloway. In Galloway, 
though the Saxons overran that peninsula, they 
are affirmed to have left but little of their blood, 
and little of their language. In the ninth century, 
Galloway was new-peopled by the Irish Cruithne, 
and at the end of the eleventh century was uni- 
versally inhabited by a Gaelic people. At this 
latter period, the common language of all Scot- 
land, with the exception of Lothian, and a corner 
of Caithness, was the Gaelic; and in the twelfth 
century commenced the progress of the English 
language into Scotland Proper:* so that Scotch 
is oidy migrated English. 

In support of the opposite system, an assertor, 
better known than trusted, namely Pinkerton, has 
maintained, that " there is not a shadow of proof 
that the Gaelic language was ever at all spoken 
in the Lowlands of Scotland." Yet the author 
of Caledonia has given not mere shadows of proof, 
but very strong grounds, for concluding that, in 
the first place, to the north of the Forth and 
Clyde, with the exception of Scandinavian settle- 
ments admitted to have been made in Orkney, 
Caithness, a strip of Sutherland, and partially in 
the Hebrides, a Gothic dialect was unknown in 
ancient Scotland. Amidst the arguments to this 
eflect deduced from the topography of (the sup- 
posed Gothic) Pictland, in which, Mr. Chalmers 
alHrms, that not a Saxon name is to be found 
older than the twelfth century ; and amidst the 
evidences accumulated from the laws, rchgion, 



* Lolhian, now containing the Scottish mptropolis, was, 
aftiT sevoral tluotuations of pospession. annexed to the 
terrilory of ScollantI in 1020; but even in the time of 



antiquities, and manners of North Britain, one 
recorded fact appears sufficiently striking. When 
the assembled clergy of Scotland met Malcolm 
Caenmore and Queen Margaret, the Saxon prin- 
cess was unable to understand their language. 
Her husband, who had learnt English, was obliged 
to be their interpreter. All the clergy of Pictland, 
we are told, were at that time' Irish ; but among 
a people with a Gaehc king, and a Gaelic clergy, 
is it conceivable that the Gaelic language should 
not have been commonly spoken 1 

With regard to Galloway, or south-western 
Scotland, the paucity of Saxon names in that 
peninsula (keeping apart pure or modern Eng- 
lish ones) are pronounced, by Mr. G. Chalmers, to 
show the establishments of the Saxons to have 
been few and temporary, and their language to 
have been thinly scattered, in comparison with 
the Celtic. As we turn to the south-east of Scot- 
land, it is inferred from topography, that the Sax- 
ons of Lothian never permanently settled to the 
westward of the Avon ; while the numerous Cel- 
tic names which reach as far as the Tweed, evince 
that the Gaelic language not only prevailed in 
proper Scotland, but overflowed her boundaries, 
and, like her arms, made inroads on the Saxon 
soil. 

Mr. Ellis, in discussing this subject, seems to 
have been startled by the difficulty of supposing 
the language of England to have superseded the 
native Gaelic in Scotland, solely in consequence 
of Saxon migrations to the north, in the reign of 
Malcolm Caenmore. Malcolm undoubtedly mar- 
ried a Saxon princess, who brought to Scotland 
her relations and domestics. Many Saxons also 
fled into Scotland from the violences of the Nor- 
man conquest. Malcolm gave them an asylum, 
and during his incursions into Cumberland and 
Northumberland, carried oft" so many young cap- 
tives, that English persons were to be seen in 
every house and village of his dominions, in the 
reign of David I. But, on the death of Malcolm, 
the Saxon followers, both of Edgar Atheling and 
Margaret, were driven away by the enmity of the 
Gaelic people. Those expelled Saxons must have 
been the gentry, while the captives, since they 
were seen in a subsequent age. must have been 
retained, as being servile, or vileyns. The fa^-t of 
the expulsion of Margaret and Edgar Atheling's 
followers, is recorded in the Saxon Chronicle. It 
speaks pretty clearly for the general Gaelicism of 
the Scotch at that period ; and it also prepares us 
for what is afterwards so fully illustrated by the 
author of Caledonia, viz. that it was the new 



David I. is spoken of as not a part of Scotland. David 
addresses his "faithful subjects of all Scotland and oJ 
Lothian." 

•9 



SCOTTISH rOETRY. 



dynasty of Scottish kings, after Malcolm Caen- 
more, that gave a more diffusive course to the 
peopling of proper Scotland, by Saxon, by Anglo- 
Norman, and by Flemish colonists. In the suc- 
cessive charters of Edgar, Alexander, and David I. 
we scarcely see any other witnesses than Saxons, 
who enjoyed under those monarchs all power, and 
acquired vast possessions in every district of Scot- 
land, settling with their followers in entire hamlets. 

If this English origin of Scotch be correct, it 
sufficiently accounts for the Scottish poets, in the 
fifteenth century, speaking of Chaucer, Gower, 
and Lydgate, as their masters and models of style, 
and extolling them as the improvers of a language 
to which they prefix the word " our," as if it be- 
longed in common to Scots and English, and even 
sometimes denominating their own language Eng- 
lish. 

Yet, in whatever light we are to regard Low- 
land Scotch, whether merely as northern English, 
or as having a mingled Gothic origin from the 
Pictish and Anglo-Saxon, its claims to poetical 
antiquity are respectable. The extreme antiquity 
of the elegy on Alexander III. on which Mr. Ellis 
rests so much importance, is indeed disputed ; but 
Sir Tristrem exhibits an original romance, com- 
posed on the north of the Tweed, at a time when 
there is no proof that southern English contained 
any work of that species of fiction, that was not 
translated from the French. In the fourteenth 
century, Barbour celebrated the greatest royal 
hero of his country, (Bruce), in a versified ro- 
mance that is not uninteresting. The next age 
is prolific in the names of distinguished Scottish 
" Makers." Henry the Minstrel, said to have 
been blind from his birth, rehearsed the exploits 
of Wallace in strains of fierce though vulgar 
fire. J ames I. of Scotland ; Henrysone, the au- 
thor of Robene and Makyne, the first known pas- 
toral, and one of the best, in a dialect rich with 
the favours of the pastoral muse ; Douglas, the 
translator of Virgil ; Dunbar, Mersar, and others, 
gave a poetical lustre to Scotland, in the fifteenth 
century, and fill up a space in the annals of 
British poetry, after the date of Chaucer and Lyd- 
gate, that is otherwise nearly barren. James I. 
had an elegant and tender vein, and the ludicrous 
pieces ascribed to him possess considerable comic 
humour. Douglas's descriptions of natural scenery 
are extolled by T. Warton, who has given ample 
and interpreted specimens of them, in his History 
of English Poetry. He was certainly a fond 
painter of nature : but his imagery is redundant 
and tediously profuse. His chief original work 
is the elaborate and quaint allegory of King 
Hart.* It is full of alliteration, a trick which 
the 8cottish poets might have learnt to avoid from 
'he " rose of rhetours" (as they call him) Chau- 
cer ; but in which they rival the anapsestics of 
Langland. 

Dunbar is a poet of a higher order. His tale 



* In wtiich the human hi'art is personified as a Sove- 
.eign in his castle, guarded by the five Senses, made captive 
»>v Dame I'liasaunce. a neii^hliouring jiotentate, liul finally 
brought back from thraldom by Age and Experience. 



of the Friars of Berwick is quite in the spirit of 
Chaucer. His Dance of the Seven Deadly Sins 
through Hell, though it would be absurd to com- 
pare it with the beauty and refinement of the cele- 
brated Ode on the Passions, has yet an animated 
picturesqueness not unlike that of Collins. The 
effect of both pieces shows how much more 
potent allegorical figures become by being made 
to fleet suddenly before the imagination, than by 
being detained in its view by prolonged descrip- 
tion. Dunbar conjures up the personified Sins, 
as Collins does the Passions, to rise, to strike, and 
disappear. They " come like shadows, so de- 
part." 

In the works of those northern makers of the 
fifteenth century,! there is a gay spirit, and an in- 
dication of jovial manners, which forms a contrast 
to the covenanting national character of subse- 
quent times. The frequent coarseness of this 
poetical gayety, it would indeed be more easy than 
agreeable to prove by quotations ; and if we could 
forget how very gross the humour of Chaucer 
sometimes is, we might, on a general comparison 
of the Scotch with the English poets, extol the 
comparative delicacy of English taste ; for Skel- 
ton himself, though more burlesque than Sir David 
Lyndsay in style, is less outrageously indecorous 
in matter. At a period when James IV. was 
breaking lances in the lists of chivalry, and when 
the court and court poets of Scotland might be 
supposed to have possessed ideas of decency, if 
not of refinement, Dunbar at that period addresses 
the queen, on the occasion of having danced in 
her majesty's chamber, with jokes which a beggar 
wench of the present day would probably con- 
sider as an offence to her delicacy. 

Sir David Lyndsay was a courtier, a foreign am- 
bassador, and the intimate companion of a prince ; 
for he attended James V. fi-om the first to the last 
day of that monarch's life. From his rank in 
society, we might suppose, that he had purposely 
laid aside the style of a gentleman, and clothed 
the satirical moralties, which he levelled against 
popery, in language suited to the taste of the vul- 
gar ; if it were easy to conceive the taste of the 
vulgar to have been, at that period, grosser than 
that of their superiors. Yet while Lyndsay's sa- 
tire, in tearing up the depravities of a corrupted 
church, seems to be polluted with the scandal on 
which it preys, it is impossible to peruse his writ- 
ings without confessing the importance of his 
character to the country in which he lived, and 
to the cause which he was born to serve. In his 
tale of Squyrc Mcldrum we lose sight of the re- 
former. It is a little romance, very amusing as a 
draught of Scottish chivalrous manners, appa- 
rently drawn from the life, and blending a spor- 
tive and familiar with an heroic and amatory in- 
terest. Nor is its broad, careless diction, perhaps, 
an unfavourable relief to the romantic spirit of 
the adventures which it portrays. 

f Tlie writings of some of those Scottish poets belong to 
the sixteenth century: but from the date of their births 
they are placed under the fifteeulh. 



JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND. 



[Born, 1394. Died, Feb. 1436-7.] 



James I. of Scotland was born in the year 
1394, and became heir-apparent to the Scottish 
crown by the death of his brother, Prince David. 
Taken prisoner at sea by the English, at ten years 
of age, he received some compensation for his cruel 
detention by an excellent education. It appears 
that he accompanied Henry V. into France, and 
there distinguished himself by his skdl and bravery. 
On his return to his native country he endeavoured, 
during too short a reign, to strengthen the rights 
of the crown and people against a tyrannical aris- 
tocracy. He was the first who convoked commis- 
sioners from the shires, in place of the numerous 
lesser barons, and he endeavoured to create a house 
of commons in Scotland, by separating the repre- 
sentatives of the people from the peers; but his 
nobility foresaw the etfects of his scheme, and too 
successfully resisted it. After clearing the low- 
lands of Scotland from feudal oppression, he visited 
tiio highlands, and crushed several refractory chief- 
tains. Some instances of his justice are recorded, 
which rather resemble the cruelty of the times in 
which he lived, than his own personal character ; 
but in such times justice herself wears a horrible 
aspect. One Macdonald, a petty chieftain of the 



north, displeased with a widow on his estate for 
threatening to appeal to the king, had ordered her 
feet to be shod with iron plates nailed to the soles ; 
and then insultingly told her that she was thus 
armed against the rough roads. The widow, 
however, found means to send her story to James, 
who seized the savage, with twelve of his asso- 
ciates, whom he shod with iron, in a similar man- 
ner, and having exposed them for several days in 
Edinburgh, gave them over to the executioner. 

While a prisoner in Windsor Castle, James 
had seen and admired the beautiful Lady Jane 
Beaufort, daughter of the Duke of Somerset. 
Few royal attachments have been so romantic 
and so happy. His poem entitled the Quair,* 
in which he pathetically laments his captivity, was 
devoted to the celebration of this lady ; whom he ob- 
tained at last in marriage, together with his liberty, 
as Henry conceived that his union with the grand- 
daughter of the Duke of Lancaster might bind 
the Scottish monarch to the interests of England. 

James perished by assassination, in the forty- 
second year of his age, leaving behind him the 
example of a patriot king, and of a man of genius 
universally accomplished. 



THE. KINO THUS DESCRIBES THE APPEARANCE OP HIS MISTRESS, WHEN HE FIRST SAW 
FROM A WINDOW OF HIS PRISON AT WINDSOR. 

FROM C.4.NT0 II. OF THE QUAIR.f 



X. 

The longe dayes and the nightes eke, 
I would bewail my fortune in this wise, 
For which, again" distress comfort to seek, 
My custom was, on mornes, for to rise 
Early as day : O happy exercise ! 
By thee Came I to joy out of torment ; 
But now to pur{fose of my first intent. 

XI. 

Bewailing in my chamber, thus alone, 
Despaired of all joy and remedy, 
For-tired of my thought, and woe begone ; 
And to the window gan I walk in hye,* 
To see the world and folk that went forby ; 
As for the time (though I of mirthis food 
Might have no more) to look it did me good. 

XII. 

Now was there made fast by the touris wall 

A garden fair ; and in the corners set 

Ane herbere"^ gi-een ; with wandis long and small 

Railed about and so with treeis set 

Was all the place, and hawthorn hedges knet, 

That life was none [a] walking there forby 

That might within scarce any wight espy. . . . 

* Quair is the old Scotch word for a book. 

1 In George Chalmers' reprint of the Quair (8to, 1824), 
there is no division into cantos. — C. 

• Against. — d Htt.9te.— « Herbary, or garden of liimples. 

11 



And on the smalle greene twistis sat 
The little sweete nightingale, and sung, 
So loud and clear the hymnis consecrate 
Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among,'' 
That all the gardens and the wallis rung 
Right of their song ; and on the couple next 
Of their sweet harmony, and lo the text. 

XV. 

Worshippe, O ye that lovers bene, this May ! 
For of your bliss the calends are begun ; 
And sing with us, " Away ! winter away ! 
Come summer come, the sweet season and sun ; 
Awake for shame that have your heavens won ; 
And amorously lift up your heades all 
Thank love that list you to his mercy call." . . 

XXI. 

And therewith cast I down mine eye again, 

Where as I saw walking under the tower, 

Ful secretly new coinyn to her pleyne,« 

The fairest and the frest younge flower 

That ever I saw (methought) before that hour • 

For which sudden abate/ anon astert? 

The blood of all my body to my heart. . . . 

rf Promiscuously. — e Sport. In Chalmers it is: — new 
cumyn her to pleyne, whicli he explains "coming forth to 
petition." {C.) — /An une.xpected accident. Chalmers sayi 
"depression of mind." (C.) — t Started back. 



82 



ROBERT HENRYSONE. 



XXVII. 

Of ber array the form gif* I shall write, 

Toward her golden hair, and rich attire, 

In fret wise couched with pearlis white. 

And greate balas' lemyng* as the fire ; 

With many an emeraut and faire sapphire, 

And on her head a chaplet fresh of hue, 

Of plumys parted red, and white, and blue. . . . 

XXIX. 

About her neck, white as the fyre amaille,' 
A goodly chain of small orfevyrie,"* 
Whereby there hang a ruby without fail 
Like to ane heart yshapen verily, 
That as a spark of lowe" so wantonly 
Seemed burnyng upon her white throat ; 
Now gif there was good perde God it wrote. 

A If. — •' Rubies. — * Buruing. — ' Mr. Ellis coDJectures 
that this is an error tor /air email, i. e. enamel. 



And for to walk that freshe Maye's morrow. 
An hook she had upon her tissue white. 
That goodlier had not been seen toforrow,o 
As I suppose, and girt she was a lyte? 
Thus halfling? loose for haste ; to such delight 
It was to see her youth in goodlihead, 
That for rudeness to speak thereof I dread. 

XXXI. 

In her was youth, beauty with humble port. 
Bounty, richess, and womanly feature : 
(God better wote than my pen can report) 
Wisdom, largess estate and cunning sure, . . 
In word, in deed, in shape and countenance, 
That nature might no more her childe avance. 



!.— e Heretofore.— P A little. 



ROBERT HENRYSONE. 



[Born, 1425. Died, 1493.] 



Nothing is known of the life of Henrysone, 
but that he was a schoolmaster at Dunfermline. 
Lord Hailes supposes his office to have been pre- 
cept/jr of youth in the Benedictine convent of 



that place. Besides a continuation of Chaucer's 
Troilus and Cresseide, he wrote a number of 
fables, of which MS. copies are preserved in the 
Scotch Advocates' Library. 



ROBENE AND MAKYNE. 
A BALLAD. 



RoBENE sat on gud grene hill,' 
Keipand a flock of fie :• 
Mirry Makyne said him till,' 
Robene thou rew on me :" 
I haif the luvit, lowd and still* 
This yieris two or thre ;"> 
My dule in dern hot gif thou diU,* 
Doubtless bot dreid I die.v 

II. 
He. Robene answcrit, be the rude,» 
Nathing of lufe I knaw ;« 
Bot keipis my scheip undir yone wud,* 
Lo quhair they raik on raw.* 
Quhat has marrit the in thy mude,' 
Makyne to me thow schaw !« 
Or what is luve, or to be lu'ed,/ 
Fain wald I leu- that law.? 



She. At luvis leir gif thow will leir,* 
Take thair an A, B, C,' 
Be kind, courtas, and fair of feir/ 
Wyse, hardy, and fre.* 

I. »■ Robene sat on a good green hill. — • Keeping a flock 
of cattle. — t Merry Makyne said to him. — « Kobene, take 
pity on me. — 1> I have loved thee openly and secretly. — 
to These years two or three. — r My sorrow, in secret, un- 
le.ss thou share.— y Undoubtedly I shall die. 

II. I Robene answered, by the rood. — o Nothing of love 
I know.^ But keep my shf^ep under yon wood. — c Lo 
where they range in a row. — d What has marred thee in 
thy mood. — ' Makyne, show thou to rae.^' Or what is love 
or to be loved. — S Faiu would I learn that law (of love). 

III. * At the lore of love if tliou wilt learn. — • Take 
there an A. B. C.—J Be kind, courteous, and fair of aspect 



Se that no danger do the deir,' 
Quhat dule in dern thow drie,"* 
Preiss the with pane at all poweir," 
Be patient, and previe." 

IV. 

He. Robene answerit her agane,' 
I wait not quhat is luve,» 
But I half marvell. in certaine,"" 
Quhat makis the this wanrufe.' 
The weddir is fiiir, and 1 am fane,' 
My scheip gois haill aboif." 
An we wald play us in this plane" 
They wald us baith reproif." 

V. 

She. Robene take tent unto my tale,* 
And wirk all as I reid,y 
And thow sail haif my hart all haile 
Eik and my maidenheid. 
Sen God scndis bute for baill,« 
And for murning remeid,* 
I dern with the, but gif I daiK, 
Doubtless I am bot dead.** 

or feature. — » Wisi-, hardv, and fre*-. — I &ce thai oodM.,;:t^ 
daunt thee. — •" Whatever sorrow in s< crt t thow sutfenst 
— " Jixert thyself with pains to thy utmost power. — " Bo 
patient and privy. 

IV. p Kobene answered her again. — J I wot not what is 
love. — r But 1 (have) wonder, certainly. — • What makes 
thee thus melanrhuly. — ' The weather is fair, and 1 am 
glad. — u My sheep go healthful above (or in the uplands). 
— » If we should play iu this plaiu. — w They would re- 
prove us both. 

V. X Kobene. take heed unto my tale. — y .And do all M 
I advise. — > And thou shalt have my heart entirely.— 



ROBERT HENRYSONE. 



He. Makyne, to morne this ilka tyde,« 
And ye will meit me heir/ 
Peradventure my sche p may gangbesyde,^ 
Quhtll we half liggit full neir,* 
Both maugre haif I, an I byde, 
Fra they begin to steir, 
Quhat lyis on hairt I will nocht hyd, 
Makyne then mak gud cheir. 

VII. 

She. Robene thou reivis me roif* and rest,' 

I iuve but the alone,i 
He. Makyne adew ! the sone gois west,* 

The day is neirhand gone.' 
She. Robene, in dule I am so drest,™ 

That Iuve will be my bone." 
He. Ga Iuve, Makyne, quhair evir thou list," 

For lemaii I lue none.P 

vni. 
She. Robene, I stand in sic a style,' 

I sicht, and that full sair."" 
He. Makyne, I haif bene heir this quhile,' 

At hame God gif I wair.' 
She. My hinny Robene, talk ane quhyle :" 

Gif thou wilt do na mair." 
He. Makyne, sum other man begyle;" 
or hamewart I will fair.' 

IX. 

Robene on his wayis went,v 
As licht as leif of ire:' 
Makyne murnit in her intent," 
And trow'd him nevir to se,* 
Robene brayd attour the bent,« 
Than Makyne cryit on hie,'' 
Now ma thow sing, for I am schent,' 
Quhat alis lufe with me/ 

X. 

Makyne went hame withouttin faill,' 
Full werry after couth weip,* 



« Since Otxl sends good for evil. — ^ And for mournins con- 
Roliition. — « I am now in secret with thee, butiflsepar 
rate.— rf lioiihtless I shiill die (broken-heart«-d). 

VI. « Mnkvne. to-morrow this very lime. — J If ye will 
meet hi-ri-. — g I'erhaps my sheep may go aside. — A Until 
We have lain near. 

VII. i llob'Mie. thou rohhest my qniet and rest. — j I hnt 
thee hIohh, — * Sliikyiie. adieu, the sun (roes west. — ' The 
(hiy is nearly trone. — "i I'.nb Mie, in sorrow 1 am so beset. — 
1 That love will he my bane. — o Go love, Makyne, where 
lhi)H wilt. — V For sweetlicart I love none. 

VIII. q Uobene, I am in such a stat<*. — ' I 8i<rh. and 
that full .sore. — ' Makyne, I have been here some lime. — 
« At home Ood frnint I were. — u My .«weet Kobene, talk a 
while. — B If thou wilt do no more. — w Makyue, some other 
man tpe'.ruile. — x For homeward I will fare. 

l.X. » Hobene on his way went. — « As lisrht as leaf of 
tree. — a Makyne mourned in her thouirhts. — t .\nd Ihouirht 
him nevi-r to fee. — c ItolHMie went over the hill. — i 'I'hen 
Makyne cried on high. — « Now you may slug, 1 am de- 
ttroj'ed. — / What ails. love, with me? 

X" ff .Makyne went h-ime without fail. — » Full? after 



* I'inkerton absurdly makes this word roiss; it is rnif 
in the liannatyne MS. 

■ t Th" line -Than liobfne in a full fairda^ll." may either 
mean that he assembled his shiM-p in a fair full number, 
or in a lair piece of low ground; the former is the more 
(irobable meaning. 

X Spend, if it be not a corruption of the t"xt, is ap- 
pareutly the imperfect uf a verb; but I caunot find in any 



Than Robene in a full fau- daill,t 
Assembl t all his sche'p. 
Be that sum parte of Makyne's ail,' 
Ourthrow his hairt cowd creip,J 
He followit hir fast thair till assaill.' 
And till hir tuke gude keep.' 



He. Abycl, abyd, thou fair Makyne,"* 
A word for any thing ;" 
For all my Iuve it shall be thine,« 
Withouttin departing.? 
All thy hairt for till have myne,« 
Is all my cuvating,' 

My scheip, to morne, quhyle houris nyne' 
Will need of no kepin'g.' 



For of my pane thow made it play," 
And all in vain I spend.J 
As thow hes done, sa sail I say," 
Murne on, I think to mend."" 



He. Makyne the howp of all my heill,* 
My ha'rt on the is sett ;y 
And evir mair to the be leill,* 
Quhile I may leif, but lett." 
Never to faill, as utheris faill,* 
Quhat grace that evir I get.« 

She. Robene, with the I will not dcill,^ 
Adew ! for thus we mett.« 

XVI. 

Makyne went hame blythe aneuche/ 

Attoure the holtis hair;? 

Robene murnit, and Makyne leuch,* 

Scho sang, he sichit sa;r.' 

And so left him baith wo and wreuch,i 

In dolour and in cair,* 

Kepand his bird under a heuch,' 

Amang the holtis hair.*" 



she would weep. — i By that (time) snm« of Makyne's 
sorrow. — i Crept through hi.s heart. — * lie followed fast ta 
lay hold of her. — ' And hidd good watch of her. 

XI. '" Abide, abide, thou fair Makyne. — n A word for 
anv things fsaki-).— o For all mv love shall he thine.— 
j> Without departin.'. — V To have thy hi-art all mine. — r la 
all that 1 covet. — • My sheep to-morrow, till nine. — ' Will 
need no keeping. 

XII. u Kor you made game of my pain. — v T shall say 
like you. — » .Mouru on, I think to do better (than be iu 
loveV 

XV. X Makyne, the hope of all my health.— y My heart 
is on tle'e set. — J And (I) shall evir nmrc be true to Ihee 
— « While I mav live, w thout ceasing. — 1> Never to fail as 
others fail. — c Whati'ver favour I oht;iin. — i Kobene, with 
thee 1 will not deal. — « Adieu! for thus we nn't. 

XVI. / Makyne went home blythe enough.— «■ Over the 
hoarv woiMllands.ll— A Robene mourn'd. and .Makvuo 
lauiheil.— >■ She sang, he sighed sore.— j And so left him 
woful and overconi'-. — * In dolour and care. — ' Keeping 
his herd under a cHff. — "• Among the hoary hillocks.^ 



glossary, or even in Dr. .lami-son's Scottish Dictionary, 
the verli to which it may he Iracd so lus to make sense. 
I suppose tlie meaning is " there was a time when I vainly 
mad" love to thee.'' 

i The word werry I am nnable to ex|dain. 

f Viile. Jamieson's Dictionary, roc. IHIR. 

\ The words huUU fiair have been differently explained 



WILLIAM DUNBAR. 



[Borol460? Died 1520?] 



The little that is known of Dunbar has been 
gleaned from the complaints in his own poetry, 
and from the abuse of his contemporary Kennedy, 
which is chiefly directed against his poverty. 
From the colophon of one of his poems, dated at 
Oxford, it has been suggested, as a conjecture, 
that he studied at that university.* By his own 
account, he travelled through France and Eng- 
land as a novice of the Franciscan order; and, 
in that capacity, confesses that he was guilty of 
sins, probably professional frauds, from the stain 



of which the holy water could not cleanse him. 
On his return to Scotland he commemorated the 
nuptials of James IV. with Margaret Tudor, in 
his poem of the Thistle and Kose ; but we find 
that James turned a deaf ear to his remonstrances 
for a benefice, and that the queen exerted her in- 
fluence in his behalf ineflectually-t Yet, from 
the verses on his dancing in the queen's chamber, 
it appears that he was received at court on fa- 
miliar terms. 



THE DAUNCE OF THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS THROUGH HELL. 



Of Februar the fiftene nycht," 
Full lang befoir the dayis licht,* 

I lay intill"^ a trance ; 
And then I saw baith'' Kevin and Hell ; 
Methocht amang the fiendis' fell, 

Mahoun gart cry ane Dance,/ 
Of shrewis that were never shrevin,* 
Against the feast of Fasternis evin,* 

To mak their observance :• 
He bad gallands ga graith a gyis,i 
And cast up gamountis in the skies,* 

As varlotis dois in France. . . . 
II. 
Heillie harlottis on hawtane wyis,' 
Come in with mony sindrie gyis,™ 

Bot yet leuch never Mahoun," 
Quhill priestis come in with bair sche^^n nekks," 
Then all the feynds lewche and made gekks,? 

Black-Belly and Bawsy-Broun.« . . . 
III. 
Let's see, quoth he, now quha begins :■■ 
With that the fowll Sevin Deidly Sins,» 

Begowth to leip at anis.' 
And first of all in dance was Pryd, 



I. a The fifteenth night.— ' Before the day-light.— c I lay 
in a trance. — d And then I saw both heaven and hell. — 

• Methought among the fell fiends. — /The devil made pro- 
claim a dance. — S Of sinners that were never shriven. — 
It The evening preceding Lent. « To make thi'ir ob- 
.servance. — j He bade (his) gallants to prepare a masque. — 

• And cast up dances in th" skies. 

II. ' Holy harlots m haughty guise. — m Came in with 
many sundry masks. — » But yet Satan never laughed. — 

• While priests came with tlieir bare shaven necks. — 
P Then all the fiends laughed and made signs of deri.sion. 
— 9 Names of spirits. 

III. f Let's see, quoth he, now who begins. — • With that 
the foul seven deadly sins. — * Began to leap at once. — 
" With hair combed back (and) bonnet to one side. — 

* Dunbar in 1477 was entered among the Determinantes, 
or Bachelors of Arts, at Salvator's College, St. Andrew's, 
and in 1479 he took bis degree there of Master of Arts. 
(See l.aing's Dunbar, vol. i. p. 9. 'I'hat he studied at Ox- 
ford at any time is highly improbable. — C. 

y In 1500 he received a yearly pension of ten pounds 



With hair wyld bak, and bonet on side," 
Like to mak vaistie wainis ;" 
And round about him, as a quheill," 
Hang all in rumpilis to the heill,* 

His kethat for the nanis.v 
Mony proud trompour with him trippit,* 
Throw skaldan fyre ay as they skippit," 

They girnd with hyddous granis.* 

IV. 

Then Ire cam in with sturt and strife,* 
His hand was ay upon his knyfe, 

He brandeist lyk a beir ; 
Bostaris, braggaris, and bargan'eris,'' 
After him passit into pairis,' 

All bodin in feir of weir./ 
In jakkis scryppis and bonnettis of steil,' 
Thair legges were chenyiet to the heill,* 

Frawart was thair aflelr,' 
Sum upon uder with brands beft,/ 
Some jaggit uthers to the heft* 

With knyves that scherp coud scheir.' 

V. 

Next in the. dance followit Invy,»" 
Fild full of feid and fellony," 
Hid malice and dispyte, 

V Likely to make wasteful wants. — w Like a wheel. — 
X Hung all the rumples to the heel. — y Uis cassock for 
the nonce. — z Many a proud impostor with him tripped. — 
o Through scalding fire as they skipt. — !> They grinned 
with hideous groans. 

IV. c Then Ire came with trouble and strife. — d Boasters, 
braggarts, and bullies. — « After him passed in pairs.— /All 
arrayed in feature of war. — e In coats of armour and 
bonnets of steel. — A Their legs were chained to the heel. 
(Probably it means cnvered with iron net-wnrk). — « Froward 
was their aspect. — j Some struck upon others with brands. 
— * Some stuck others to the hilt.^ With knives that 
sharply could mangle. 

V. m Followed Envy.— » Filled full of quarrel and 
felony. 

from king James, "to be pait to him for al the dais of his 
life, or quhil he be promovit be our Souerane Lord to a 
benefice of xl li. or aboue." The pension was rai.sed to 
XX li. in 1507, and to Ixxx li. in 1510, the latter to be paid 
till such time as he shculd receive a benefice of one hun- 
dred pounds or upwards. — C. 



WILLIAM DUNBAR. 



85 



For privy hatrent that tratour trymlit ; 
Him followit mony fieik dissymLt,? 

With fenyiet wordis quhytc.9 
And flattereris into nieiiis faces/ 
And backbyteris in secreit placis' 

To ley that had delyte,' 
And rownaris of false lesingisj" 
Allace, that courtis of noble kingis" 

Of thame can nevir be quyte."" 



Next him in Dance cam Cuvatyce,* 
Rute of all evill and grund of vyce,» 

That nevir cowd be content, 
Catyvis, wrechis, and ockeraris/ 
Hiid-pykis, hurdars, and gadderaris," 

All with that warlo went.* 
Out of thair throttis they shot on udder" 
Het moltin gold, methocht, a fudder,'' 

As fyre flaucht maist fervent;" 
Ay as they tumit thame of schot,/ 
Feynds fild them new up to the thrott 

With gold of allkin prent.^ 



Syne Sweirness at the second bidding* 
Com lyk a sow out of a midding,' 

Full slepy wes his grunyic.^ 
Mony sweir bumbard belly-huddroun,* 
Mony slute daw and slepy duddroun,' 

Him servit ay with sounyie."* 
He drew thame furth intiU a chenyie," 
And Belial with a brydill rennyie." 

Ever lascht thame on the lunyie.P 
In Dance they war so slaw of feit,« 
They gaif them in the fyre a heit/ 

Aiid maid theme quicker of counyie.' 



Than Lichery, that lathly corss,' 

Came berand lyk a bagit horse," 

And Idleness did him leid ;" 



For privy hatred that traitor trembled. — p Him 
followed many a dissemb'iiig rcm^sado. — 9 With feigned 
words fair, or white. — r And flatterers to men's faces. — 
• And backbiters in .secret places. — ( To lie that had de- 
light. — « .\nd spreajlers of fal.^e lies. — v Alas that courts 
of noble kings. — «> Of thini can never be rid. 

yi. X Covetousness. — y Koot of all evil and ground of 
vice. — z Caitiffs, wretches, and usurers. — a. Misers, hoard- 
ers, and gatherers. — b All with that barlnch or male fiend 
went. — c Out of their throats they shot on (each) oiher. — 
rf Hot molten gold, melhou^lit a vast quantity. — « Like 
fire flakes most ft-rvid. — f Aye as they emptied themselves 
of shot.— f With gold of all kind of coin. 

VII. A Then Sloth at a second bidding.— • Came like a 
sow fromailungliill.— j Full sleepy washisfirunt. — ^ Many 
a lazy glutton. — ' Many adiowsy sli epy sluggard. — "> Him 
served with caie. — n He dnw tlum fori h in a chain. — 
And Belial with a bridje-rein. — v Kver lashed th' m on the 
back. — 1 III dance th<!y were .«o slnw uf f.^et. — r They gave 
them in the; fire a heat. — • And made them quicker of ap- 
prehension. 

VIII. ' Then Lechery, that loathsome body. — u Rearing 



Thair wes with him ane ugly sort"" 
And mony stinkand fowU tramort 

That had in sin bene dcid.-^ 
Quhen they wer enterit in the Daunce,» 
They wer full strange of countenance, 

Lyk tortchis byrnand reid.* .... 



Than the fowl! monstir Glutteny, 
Of wame unsasiable and gredy," 

To Dance he did him dress ;* 
Him followit mony fowl! drunckhart* 
With can and collep, cop and quai't,'' 

In surfeit and excess. 
Full mony a waistless wally drag,* 
With waimis unwieldable did furth drag,/ 

In creisch that did incress ;? 
Drynk, ay they cryit, with mony a gaip, 
The Feynds gxif thame het leid to laip,'* 

Their leveray wes na less." .... 



Na menstrals playit to thame but dowt,/ 
For glemen thair wer halJin out,* 

By day and eke by nicht,' 
Except a menstrall that slew a man ;™ 
Swa till his heretage he wan" 

And enterit be brief of richt." .... 



Than cryd Mahoun for a Heleand Padyane,P 
Syn ran a Feynd to fetch Mac Fadyane,? 

Far northwart in a nuke,'' 
Be he the Correnoch had done schout,' 
Ersche-men so gadderit him about' 

In hell grit rume they tuke : 
Thae termegantis, with tag and tatter, 
Full lowd in Ersche begowd to clatter, 

And rowp like revin and ruke." 
The devil sa devit was with thair yell," 
That in the depest pot of hell 

He smurit thsime with smuke."" 



like a stallion. — o And Idleness did him lead. — to There 
was with him an ugly sort. — x That had been dead in sin. 
— y When they were entered iu the dance. — J Like torches 
burnin;; red. 

IX. o Of womb insatiable and greedy. — ' To dance then 
addressed himvelt'. — c Him followed many afoul drunkard. 
— d Dirt'erent naines of drinking ve.s.sels. — « Pull many a 
waistless sot— / W.tli belli,-8 unwie!dab!edid dragfcrth — 
e In grease that did increase. — * The fiends gave them hot 
lead to lap. — ■ Their love of drinki»g was not the less. 

X. j No minstrels without doubt. — * For gleemen there 
were kipt out. — ' By day and by night — "> Kxcept a min- 
strel that .slew a man. — n So till he won his inheritance. — 
And entered by letter of right. 

XI. p Then cried Satan for a highland pasreant. — 9 The 
name of some highland laird. '-1 suppose." says Lord 
Hailes. 'this name was chosen by the poet as one; of the 
harshest that occurred to him." — r Far northward in a 
nook. — » Hy the time that he had raised the Correnoch or 
cry of help. — t Highlanders .«o gathered abimt him. — « .And 
croaked like ravens and rooks. — « The devil was so deaf- 
ened with their yell. — v He smothered them with smoke 



SIR DAVID LYNDSAY. 



[Born, 1490? Died, 1557.) 



David Ltndsat, according to the conjecture 
of his latest editor,* was bom in 1490. He was 
educated at St. Andrews, and leaving that uni- 
versity, probably about the age of nineteen, be- 
came the page and companion of James V. during 
the prince's ch.ldhood : not his tutor, as has been 
sometimes inaccurately stated. When the young 
king burst from the faction which had oppressed 
himself and his people, Lyndsay published his 
Dream, a poem on the miseries which Scotland 
had suffered during the minority. In 1530, the 
king appointed him Lyon King-at-Arms, and a 
grant of knighthood, as usual, accompanie<l the 
office. In that capacity he went several times 
abroad, and was one of those who were sent to 
demand a princess of the Imperial line for the 
Scottish sovereign. James having, however, 
changed his mind to a connection with France, 
and having at length fixed his choice on the Prin- 
cess Magdalene, Lyndsay was sent to attend upon 
her to Scotland ; but her death happening six 
weeks after her arrival, occasioned another poem 
from our author, entitled the " Deploracion." On 
the arrival of Mary of Guise, to supply her place, 
he superintended the ceremony of her triumphant 
entry into Edinburgh ; and, blending the fancy 
of a poet with the godliness of a reformer, he so 
constructed the pageant, that a lady like an angel, 
who came out of an artificial cloud, exhorted her 
majesty to serve God, obey her husband, and keep 
her body pure, according to God's command- 
ments. 

On the 14th of December, 1542, Lyndsay wit- 
nessed the decease of James V., at his palace of 
Falkland, after a connection between them which 
had subsisted since the earliest days of the prince. 
If the death of James (as some of his biographers 



have asserted) occasioned our poet's banishment 
from court, it is certain that his retirement was 
not of long continuance ; since he was sent, in 
1543, by the Regent of Scotland, as Lyon King, 
to the Emperor of Germany. Before this period 
the principles of the Reformed religion had begun 
to take a general root in the minds of his coun- 
trymen ; and Lyndsay, who had already written 
a drama in the style of the old moralities, with a 
view to ridicule the corruptions of the popish 
clergy, returned from the Continent to devote his 
pen and his personal influence to the cause of the 
new faith. In the parliaments which met at 
Edinburgh and Linlithgow, in 1544^5 and 46, 
he represented the county of Cupar in Fife ; and 
in 1547, he is recorded among the champions of 
the Reformation, who counselled the ordination 
of John Knox. 

The death of Cardinal Beaton drew from him 
a poem on the subject, entitled, a Tragedy, (the 
term tragedy was not then confined to the drama,) 
in which he has been charged with drawing toge- 
ther all the worst things that could be said of the 
murdered prelate. It is incumbent, however, on 
those who blame him for so doing, to prove that 
those worst things were not atrocious. Beaton's 
principal falling was a disposition to burn with 
fire those who opposed his ambition, or who dif- 
fered from his creed ; and if Lyndsay was malig- 
nant in exposing one tyrant, what a libeller must 
Tacitus be accounted ! 

His last embassy was to Denmark, in order to 
negotiate for a free trade with Scotland, and t.o 
solicit ships to protect the Scottish coasts against 
the English. It was not till after returning from 
this business that he published Squyre Meldrum, 
the last, and the liveliest of his works. 



DESCRIPTION OF SQUTRE MELDRUM. 



He was hot" twintie yeiris* of age, 
Quehen<^ he began his vassalage : 
Proportionat wcill, of mid stature : 
Feirie'' and wicht« and micht endure 
Ovirset/ with travell both nicht and day, 
Richt hardie baith in ernist and play : 
Blyith in countenance, richt fair of face, 
And studeff weill ay in his ladies grace : 
For he was wondir amiabill, 
And in all deides honourabill ; 
And ay his honour did advance, 
In Ingland first and syne* in France ; 



» Mr. G. Chalmers. 

o But. — ' Wars. — c When. — d Conraspou'.- 
/ Could endure excessive fatigue. — g Stood.- 
86 



And thare his manheid did assail 
Under the kingis great admirall, 
Quhen the greit navy of Scotland 
Passit to the sea againis Ingland. 

HIS GALLANTRY TO AN IRISH DAMSEl. 

And as they passit be Ireland coist' 
The admirall gart land his oist;> 
And set Craigfergus into fyre. 
And saifit nouther barne nor byre :* 
It was greit pitie for to heir,' 
Of the pepill" the bail-full cheirj 



pie. 



Coast.— i Uost, army.—* Cowhouse.— ' Hear.— "» Peo 



SIR DAVID LYNDSAY. 



87 



And how the landfolk were spuilyeit," 
Fair women under fute were fuilyeit." 

But this young Squyer bauld and wicht 
Savit all women quhairP he micht ; 
All priestis and freyeris he did save ; 
Till at the last he did persave? 
Behind ane gardin amiabill,'" 
Ane woman's voce' richt lamentabill ; 
And on that voce he followit fast, 
Till he did see her at the last, 
Spuilyeit,' nakit" as scho" was bom ; 
Twa men of weir"" were hir beforne," 
Quhilkv were richt cruel men and kene, 
Partand= the spudyie thame between. 
Ane fairer woman nor sho wes" 
He had not sene in onie* place. 
Befoir'^ him on her kneis scho fell, 
Sayand, " for him that heryeif* hell. 
Help me sweit sir, I am ane maid ;" 
Than softlie to the men he said, 
I pray yow give againe hir sark,« 
And tak to yow all uther wark. 
Hir kirtill was of scarlot reid,/ 
Of gold ane garland of hir heid, 
Decorits^ with enamelyne : 
Belt and brochis of silver fyne. 
Of yellow taftais* wes hir sark, 
Begaryit all with browderit wark, 
Richt craftilie with gold and silk. 
Than, said the ladie, quhyte' as milk, 
Except my sark nothing I crave, 
Let thame go hence with all the lave. 
Quod they to hir be Sanct Fillane 
Of this ye get nathing agane. 
Than, said the squyer courteslie, 
Gude friendis I pray you hartfuUie, 
Gif ye be worthie men of weir, 
RestoirJ to hir agane hir geir ; 
Or be greit God that all has wrocht,* 
That spuilyie sail be full dere bocht.' 
Quod™ they to him we the defy. 
And drew their swordis hastily. 
And straik at him with sa greit ire. 
That from his harness flew the fyre : 
With duntis" sa derfly" on him dang,P 
That he was never in sic ane thrang :i 
Bot he him manfuUie defendit, 
Ane with ane bolt on thame he bendit 

And when he saw thay wer baith slane. 
He to that ladie past agane : 
Quhare scho stude nakit on the bent,'" 
And said, tak your abuzlement.' 
And scho him thankit full humillie, 
And put hir claithis on speedJie. 
Than kissit he that ladie fair, 
And tuik' his leif of hir but mair." 
Be that the taburne and trumpet blew, 
And every man to shipburd drew 

" Spoilt. — Abused. — P Where. — v Perceive. — r Beauti- 
fVil.— s Voif-e. — ' Spoiled. — « Naked. — " She. — 'J> War. — 
* Befiire. — y Who. — z Parting. — " Than she was. — ' Any. 
— " Before .^-rf Means for biin. viz. Christ, who conquered 
or plundered hell.— « Shift— / Bed.— ff Adorned.— A Mr. 
Chalmers omits e.xplaining this word in his glossary to 
Lyndsay. [The meaning is plain enough : her sark or 
shirt was of yellow taffeta.— C.J— » White.— i llestore.— 
» Wrought.— i Bought.— m Quoth.— » Strokes. 



HELDRCH'8 DDEI. WITH THB ENOLISH CHAMPION 
TALBART 

Then clariouns and trumpets blew, 

And weiriours" many hither drew ; 

On eviry side come"" mony man 

To behald wha the battel wan. 

The field was in the meadow green, 

Quhare everie man micht weil be seen ; 

The heraldis put tham sa in order 

That na man past within the border, 

Nor preissit^ to com within the green, 

Bot heraldis and the campiouns keen ; 

The order and the circumstance 

Wer lang to put in remembrance. 

Quhen thir twa nobill men of weir 

Wer Weill accouterit in their geir, 

And in thair handis strong burdounis,i 

Than trumpettis blew and clariounis. 

And heraldis cryit hie on hicht. 

Now let thame go — God shaW^ the richt. 1 

Than trumpettis blew triumphantly, 

And thay twa campiouns eagerlie, 

They spurrit their hors with speir on breist 

Pertly to prief" their pith they preist.* 

That round rink-room<^ was at utterance, 

Bot Talbart's hors with ane mischance 

He outterit,'* and to run was laith ;' 

Quharof Talbart was wonder wraith./ 

The Squyer furth his rink? he ran, 

Commendit weill with every man. 

And him discharget of his speir 

Honestile, like ane man of weir 

The trenchour* of the Squyreis speir 

Stak still into Sir Talbart's geir ; 

Than everie man into that steid* 

Did all beleve that he was dede. 

The Squyer lap richt haistillie 

From his coursour> deliverlie. 

And to Sir Talbart made support, 

And humillie* did him comfort. 

When Talbart saw into his schield 

Ane otter in ane silver field, 

This race, said he, I sair may rew. 

For I see weill my dreame was true; 

Methocht yon otter gart' me bleid. 

And buir™ me backwart firom my sted ; 

But heir I vow to God soverane, 

That I sail never just" agane. 

And sweitlie to the Squiyre said, 

Thou knawis" the cunningP that we made, 

Quhilk? of us twa suld tyne"" the field, 

He suld baith hors and armour yield 

Till him* that wan, quhairfore I will 

My hors and harness geve th6 till. 

Then said the Squyer, courteouslie, 

Brother, I thank you hartfuUie ; 

Of you, forsooth, nothing I crave, 

For I have gotten that I would have. 

strongly. — p Drove. — q Throng, trouble. — r Grass, or 
field. — « Dress, clothing.— < Tdok his leave.—" Without 
more aio. — » Warrior.-i. — «> Came. — x Pressed. — y Spears. 
— z Show. — » Prove.— i Tried. — o Course-room. — <* Swerved, 
fiom the course.—* Loth.—/ Wroth.— < Course.— A Head 
of the spear.— i In that situation.— j Courser. — * Hum- 
bly.—^ Made. — m Bore. — » Joust. — o Thou knowest. — 
P Agreemeut or understanding. — q Which. — >■ Lose. — » To 
him. 



88 SIR DAVID 


LYNDSAT. 


8QCTRE MELDRCM, AFTER MANY FOREIGN' EXPLOITS, COMES 


Did piers him sa throwout the hart. 


HOME AND HAS THE FOLLOWING LOVE-ADVENTURE. 


Sa all that nicht he did but murnit — 


Out throw the land then sprang the fame, 


Sum tyme sat up, and sum tyme turnil — 


That Squyer Meldrum was come hame. 


Sichand,* with mony gant and grane, 


Quhen they heard tell how he debaitit,' 


To fair Venus makand his mane, 


With every man he was sa treitet," 


Sayand,' fair ladie, what may this Uiene, 


That quhen he travellit throw the land, 


I was ane free man lait"» yestreen, 


They bankettit" him fra hand to hand 


And now ane cative bound and thrall. 


With greit solace, till, at the last, 


For ane that I think flowr of all. 


3ut thro\\ Stratherne the Squyer past. 


I pray to God sen scho knew my mynd. 


And as it did approach the nicht, ■ 


How for hir saik I am sa pynd : 


Of ane castell he gat ane sicht. 


Wald God I had been yit in France, 


Beside ane montane in ane vale. 


Or I had hapnit sic mischance ; 


And then eftir his greit travaill"" 


To be subject or serviture 


He purposit him to repoise* 


Till ane quhilk takes of me na cure. 


Quhare ilk man did of him rejois. 


This ladie ludgit" nearhand by. 


Of this triumphant pleasand place 


And hard the Squyer prively. 


Ane lustie lady!/ was maistr^s, 


With dreidful hart makand his mane. 


Quhais^ lord was dead schort time befoir, 


With monie careful gant and grane ;" 


Quhairthrow her dolour wes the moir; 


Hir hart fulfillit with pitie. 


Dot yit scho tuik some comforting, 


Thocht scho wald half of him mercie, 


To heir the plesant dulce talking 


And said, howbeit I suld be slane. 


Of this young Squiyer, of his chance, 


He sail have lufe for lufe agayne : 


And how it fortunit him in France. 


Wald God I micht, with my honour. 


This Squyer and the ladie gent" 


Have him to be my paramour. 


Did wesche, and then to supper went : 


This was the merrie tyme of May, 


During that nicht there was nocht ellis' 


Quhen this fair ladie, freshe and gay, 


But for to heir of his novellis.' 


Start up to take the hailsumP air. 


En^as, quhen he fled from Troy, 


With pantouns9 on her feit ane pair, 


Did not Quene Dido greiter joy : . . . . 


Airlie into ane cleir morning. 


The wonderis that he did rehers. 


Befoir fair Phoebus' uprysing : 


Were langsum for to put in vers. 


Kirtill alone, withouten clok. 


Of quhilk this lady did rejois : 


And saw the Squyers door unlok. 


They drank and syne"* went to repois, 


She slippit in or evir he wist. 


He found his chalmer' well aiTayit 


And feynitlie-- past till ane kist. 


With dornik/ work on bord displayit : 


And with hir keys oppenit the lokkis, 


Of venison he had his waill,? 


And made' hir to take furth ane boxe, 


Gude aquavitae, wyne, and aill. 


Bot that was not hir errand thare : 


With nobill confeittis, bran, and geill* 


With that this lustie young Squyar 


And swa the Squyer fuir' richt weill. 


Saw this ladie so pleasantile 


Sa to heir mair of his narration, 


Com to his chalmer quyetlie. 


The ladie cam to his collation, 


In kirtill of fyne damais brown, 


Sayand he was richt welcum hame, 


Hir golden tresses hingand' doun ; 


Grand-mercie, then, quod he, Madame ! 


Hir pappis were hard, round, and quhyte, 


They past the time with ches and tabill, 


Quhome to behold was greit deleit ; 


For he to everie game was abill. 


Lyke the quhyte lillie was her lyre ;" 


Than unto bed drew everie wicht ; 


Hir hair wes like the reid gold weir ; 


To chalmer went this ladie bricht ; 


Her schankis quhyte, withouten hois," 


The quilk this Squyer did convoy. 


Quhareat the Squyar did rejois. 


Syne till his bed he went with joy. 


And said, then, now vailye quod vailye," 


That nicht he sleepiti never ane wink. 


Upon the ladie thow mak ane sailye. 


But still did on the ladie think. 


Hir courtlyke kirtill was unlaist. 


Cupido, with his fyrie dart, 


And sone into his armis hir braist 


« Fought.— « Entertained.— B Feft.«ted.— •• Toil.—* Re- 


» Sighinft.— J Saying— "» Late.— » Lodged.— o Groan.— 


pose.— y Handsome, pleHsant. — z Whose.— <» Neat pretty. 


P Wholesome.— 9 Slippers.— r Feigningly.—* Pretended. 


— i Else.—* News.— d Then.— « Chamber.—/ Napery.— 


— ^ Hanging.— u Throat.— » Hose, stockings.- «- Happen 


S Choice.—* Jelly.—* Fared.—; Slept. 


what may. 



SIR THOMAS WYAT, 



[Born, 1503. Died, Oct. 1542.] 



C.\LLED the Elder, to distinguish him from his 
eon, who sufi'ered in the reign of Queen Mary, 
was born at Allington Castle, in Kent, in 1503, 
and was educated at Cambridge. He married 
early in life, and was still earlier distinguished at 
the court of Henry VIII. with whom his interest 
and favour were so great as to be proverbial. His 
per.son was majestic and beautiful, his visage (ac- 
cording to Surrey's interesting description) was 
"stern and mild :" he sung and played the lute 
with remarkable sweetness, spoke foreign lan- 
guages with grace and fluency, and possessed an 
hiexhaustible fund of wit. At the death of Wol- 
sey he could not be more than nineteen ; yet he 
is said to have contributed to that minister's down- 
fall by a humorous story, and to have promoted 
the reformation by a seasonable jest. At the 
coronation of Anne Boleyn he olliciated for his 
father as ewerer, and possibly witnessed the cere- 
mony not with the most festive emotions, as there 
is reason to suspect that he was secretly attached 
to the royal bride. When the tragic end of that 
princess was approaching, one of the calumnies 
circulated against her was that Sh Thomas Wyat 
had confessed having had an iUicit intimacy with 
her. The scandal was certainly false ; but that 
it arose from a tender partiality really bel.eved to 
e.xist between them seems to be no overstrained 
conjecture. His poetical mistress's name is Anna : 
and in one of his sonnets he complains of being 
obliged to desist from the pursuit of a beloved ob- 
ject, on account of its being the king's. The pe- 
rusal of his poetry was one of the unfortunate 
queen's last consolations in prison. A tradition 
of Wyat's attachment to her was long preserved 
in his family. She retained his sister to the last 
about her person ; and as she was about to lay her 
head on the block, gave her weeping attendant a 
small prayer-book, as a token of remembrance, 
with a smile of which the sweetness was not 
eflaced by the horrors of approaching death. 
Wyat's favour at court, however, continued un- 
diminished ; and notwithstanding a quarrel with 
the Duke of Suffolk, which occasioned his being 
committed to the Tower, he was, immediately on 
his liberation, appointed to a command under the 
Duke of Norfolk, in the army that was to act 
against the rebels. He was also knighted, and, 
in the following year, made high-sheriff of Kent. 

When the Emperor Charles the Fifth, after 
the death of Anne Boleyn, apparently forgetting 
the disgrace of his aunt in the sacritice of her 
successor, showed a more conciliatory disposition 
towards England, Wyat was, in 1537, selected 
to go as amlassador to the Spanish court. His 
situation there was rendered exceedingly diffi- 
cult, by the mutual insincerity of the negotiat- 
ing powr's, and by his religion, which exposed 
12 



him to prejudice, and even at one time to dang v. 
from tire Inquisition. He had to invest Henry's 
bullying remonstrances with the graces of mo- 
derate diplomacy, and to keep terms with a bigoted 
court while he questioned the Pope's supremacy. 
In spite of those obstacles, the dignity and dis- 
cernment of Wyat gave him such weight in ne- 
gotiation, that he succeeded in expelling from 
Spain his master's most dreaded enemy, Cardinal 
Pole, who was so ill received at Madrid that tiie 
haughty legate quitted it with indignation. The 
records of his different embassies exhibit not only 
personal activity in following the Emperor Charles 
to his most important interviews with Francis, but 
sagacity in foreseeing consequences, and in giving 
advice to his own sovereign. Neither the dark 
policy, nor the immovable countenance of Charles, 
eluded his penetration. When the Emperor, on 
the death of Lady Jane Seymour, offered the 
King of England the Duchess of Milan in mar- 
riage, Henry's avidity caught at the offer of her 
duchy, and Heynes and Bonner were sent out to 
Spain as special commissioners on the business ; 
but it fell off, as Wyat had predicted, from the 
Spanish monarch's insincerity. 

Bonner, who had done no good to the English 
mission, and who had felt himself lowered at the 
Spanish court by the superior ascendancy of 
Wyat, on his return home sought to indemnify 
himself tor the mortification, by calumniating his 
late colleague. In order to answer those calum- 
nies, Wyat was obliged to obtain his recall from 
Spain ; and Bonner's charges, on being investi- 
gated, fell to the ground. But the Emperor's 
journey through France having raised another 
crisis of expectation, Wyat was sent out once 
more to watch the motions of Charles, and to 
fathom his designs. At Blois he had an inter- 
view with Francis, and another with the Empe- 
ror, whose friendship for the king of France he 
pronounced, from all that he observed, to be insin- 
cere. "He is constrained (said the English am- 
bassador) to come to a show of friendship, mean- 
ing to make him a mockery when he has done." 
When events are made familiar to us by history, 
we are perhaps disposed to undervalue the wis- 
dom that foretold them ; but this much is clear, 
that if Charles's rival had been as wise as Sir 
Thomas Wyat, the Emperor would not have 
made a mockery of Francis. Wyat's advice to 
his own sovereign at this period was to support 
the Duke of Cleves, and to ingratiate himself 
with the German protestant princes. His zeal 
was praised : but the advice, though sanctioned 
by Cromwell, was not followed by Henry. Warned 
probably, at last, of the approiuh.ug downfall of 
Cromwell, he obtained his final rerall from Spain. 
On his return, Bonner had surlicient interest to 
h2 89 



90 



SIR THOMAS WYAT. 



get him committed to the Tower, where he was 
harshly treated and unfairly tried, but was never- 
theless most honourably acquitted ; and Henry, 
satisfied of his innocence, made him considerable 
donations of land. Leland informs us, that about 
this time he had the command of a ship of war. 
The sea service was not then, as it is now, a dis- 
tinct profession. 

Much of his time, however, after his return to 
England, must be supposed, from his writings, to 



have been spent at his paternal seal of Allington, 
in study and rural amusements. From that plea- 
sant retreat he was summoned, in the autumn of 
1542, by order of the king, to meet the Spanish 
ambassador, who had landed at Falmouth, and to 
conduct him from thence to London. In his zeal 
to perform this duty he accidentally overheated 
himself with riding, and was seized, at Sherborne 
with a malignant fever, which carried him olT, 
after a few days' illness, in his thirty-nuith year. 



ODE. 
THE LOVER COMPLAINETU THE UNKINDNESS OF HI3 LOVE. 



My lute, awake ! perform the last 
Labour that thou and I shall waste, 
And end that I have now begun ; 
For when this song is sung and past, 
My lute be still, for I have done. 

As to be heard where ear is none, 
As lead to grave in marble stone, 
My song may pierce her heart as soon : 
Should we then sing, or sigh, or moan 1 
No, no, my lute ! for I have done. 

The rocks do not so cruelly 
Repulse the waves continually, 
As she my suit and affection ; 
So that I am past remedy ; 
"Whereby my lute and I have done- 
Proud of the spoil that thou hast got 
Of simple hearts, thorough Love's shot, 
By whom, unkind ! thou hjist them won ; 
Think not he hath his bow forgot. 
Although my lute and I have done. 

Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain. 
That mak'st but game of earnest payne. 
Think not alone under the sun, 
Unquit the cause thy lovers plaine. 
Although my lute and I have done. 

May chance thee lye withred and old, 
In winter nights that are so cold, 
Playning in vain unto the moon ; 
Thy wishes then dare not be told : 
Care then who list ! for I have done. 

And then may chaunce thee to repent 
The time that thou hast lost and spent, 
To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon ; 
Then shalt thou know beauty but lent, 
And wish and want, as I have done. 

Now cease, my lute ! this is the last 
Labour that thou and I shall waste, 
And ended is that I begun ; 
Now is this song both sung and past ; 
My lute ! be still, for I have done. 



FROM HIS SONGS AND EPIGRAMS. 

A DESCRIPTION OF SUCH A ONE AS HE WOULD LOVE. 

A FACE that should content me wondrous well, 
Should not be fair, but lovely to behold 
With gladsome cheer, all grief for to expell; 
With sober looks so would I that it should 
Speak without words, such words as none can tell ; 
The tress also should be of crisped gold. 
With wit and these, might chance I might be tied, 
And knit again with knot that should not sUde. 



FROM THE SAME. 

OF HIS RETURN FROM SP.UN. 

Taous, farewell ! that westward with thy streams 
Turns up the grains of gold already tried ; 
For I, with spur and sail, go seek the Thames, 
Gainward the sun that showeth her wealthy pride; 
And to the town which Brutus sought by dreams, 
Like bended moon, doth lend her lusty side. 
My king, my country, I seek for whom I live, 
Of mighty Jove the winds for this me give. 



FROM HIS ODES. 



And wilt thou leave me thus 1 
Say nay ! say nay ! for shame ! 
To save thee from the blame 
Of all my grief and grame. 
And wilt thou leave me thus 1 
Say nay ! say nay ! 

And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
That hath loved thee so long 1 
In wealth and woe among : 
And is thy heart so strong 
As for to leave me thusi 
Say nay ! say nay ! 

And wilt thou leave me thusi 
That hath given thee my heart, 
Never for to depart. 
Neither for pain nor smart. 
And wilt thou leave me thusi 
Say nay ! say nay ! 



HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY. 



91 



And wilt thou leave me thus 1 
And have no more pity 
Of him that loveth thee ; 
Alas ! thy cruelty ! 
And wilt thou leave me thus 1 
Say nay ! say nay ! 



IIE LAMENTETII THAT HE HAD EVER CAUSE 
TO DOUBT UIS LADY'S FAITU. 

Deem as ye list upon good cause, 
I may or think of this or that ; 
But what or why myself hest knows, 
Whereby I think and fear not. 
But thereunto I may well think 
The doubtful sentence of this clause ; 
I would it were not as I think ; 
I would I thought it were not. 

For if I thought it were not so, 
Though it were so, it grieved me not ; 
Unto my thought it were as tlio 
I hearkened though I hear not. 
At that I see I cannot wink, 
Nor from my thought so let it go : 
I would it were not as I think ; 
I would I thought it were not. 

Lo ! how my thought might make me free. 
Of that perchance it needs not: 
Perchance none doubt the dread I see ; 
I shrink at that I bear not. 
But in my heart this word shall sink. 
Until the proof may better be : 
I would it were not as I think ; 
- I would I thought it were not. 



If it be not, show no cause why 
I should so think, then care I not; 
For I shall so myself apply 
To be that I appear not. 
That is, as one that shall not shrink 
To be your own until I die ; 
And if that be not as I think, 
Likewise to think it is not. 



TO niS MISTRESS. 

Forget not yet the tried intent 
Of such a truth as I have meant ; 
My great travail so gladly spent, 
Forget not yet ! 

Forget not yet when first began 
The weary life, ye know since whan, 
The suit, the service, none tell can ; 
Forget not yet ! 

Forget not yet the great assays. 
The cruel wrong, the scornful ways. 
The painful patience in delays, 
Forget not yet ! 

Forget not ! — Oh ! forget not this, 
How long ago hath been, and is 
The mind that never meant amiss, 
Forget not yet ! 

Forget not then thine own approved, 
The which so long hath thee so loved, 
"Whose steadfast faith yet never moved. 
Forget not this ! 



HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY. 

[Born, 1516. Died. 1547.] 



Walpole, Ellis, and Warton, gravely inform 
us that Lord Surrey contributed to the victory of 
Flodden, a victory which was gained before Lord 
Surrey was born. The mistakes of such writers 
may teach charity to criticism. Dr. Nott, who 
has cleared away muth fable and anachronism 
from the noble poet's biography, supposes that he 
was born in or about the year 1516, and that he 
was educated at Cambridge, of which university 
he was afterwards elected high steward. At the 
early age of sixteen he was contracted in marriage 
to the I^ady Frances Vere, daughter to John Earl 
of Oxford. The Duke of Richmond was after- 
wards affianced to Surrey's sister. It was custo- 
mary, in those times, to delay, frequently for 
years, the consummations ofsuch juvenile matches ; 
and the writer of Lord Surrey's life, already men- 
tioned, gives reasons for supposing that the poet's 
residence at Windsor, and his intimate friendship 
with Richmond, so tenderly recorded in his verses, 
took place, not in their absolute childhood, as has 
been generally imagined, but immediately after 



their being contracted to their respective brides. 
If this was the case, the poet's allusion to 

The spcri't groves which oft we made resound 
Of pleasant plaint, and of our ladies' praise. 

may be charitably understood as only recording 
the aspirations of their conjugal impatience. 

Surrey's marriage was consummated in 1535. 
In the subsequent year he sat with his father, as 
Earl Marshal, on the trial of his kinswoman Anne 
Boleyn. Of the impression which that event 
made upon his mind, there is no trace to be found 
either in his poetry, or in tradition. His grief for 
the amiable Richmond, whom he lost soon afte--, 
is more satisfictorily testified. It is about this 
period that the fiction of Nash, unfiiithfully mis- 
applied as reality by Anthony Wood,* and from 
him copied, by mistake, by Walpole and Warton, 
sends the poet on his romantic tour lo Italy, as 
the knight-errant of the fair Geraldine. There 
is no proof, however, that Surrey was ever in 

* Kash's History of Jack Wilton. 



92 



HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY. 



Italy. At the period of his imagined errantry, 
his lepeated appearance at the court of England 
can be ascertained; and Geraldine, if she was a 
daughter of the Earl of Kildare, was then only a 
chdd of seven years old.* 

That Surrey entertained romantic sentiments 
for the fair Geraldine, seems, however, to admit of 
little doubt ; and that too at a period of her youth 
which makes his homage rather surprising. The 
fashion of the age sanctioned such courtships, 
under the liberal interpretation of their being 
platonic. Both Sir P. Sydney and the Chevalier 
Bayard avowed attachments of this exalted nature 
to married ladies, whose reputations were never 
«ullied, even when the mistress wept openly at 
parting from her admirer. Of the nature of Sur- 
rey's attachment we may conjecture what we 
please, but can have no certain test even in his 
verses, which might convey either much more or 
much less than he felt ; and how shall we search 
in the graves of men for the shades and limits of 
passions that elude our living observation 1 

Towards the close of 1540, Surrey embarked 
in j)ublic business. A rupture with France being 
anticipated, he was sent over to that kingdom, with 
Lord Russell and the Earl of Southampton, to 
see that every thing was in a proper state of de- 
fence within the English pale. He had previ- 
ously been knighted; and had jousted in honour of 
Anne of Cleves, upon her marriage with Henry. 
The commission did not detain him long in France. 
He returned to England before Christmas, having 
acquitted himself entirely to the king's satisfaction. 
In the next year, 1541, we may suppose him to 
have been occupied in his literary pursuits — per- 
haps in his translation of Virgil. England was 
then at peace both at home and abroad, and in no 
other subsequent year of Surrey's life could his 
active service have allowed him le.sure. In 1542 
he received the order of the Garter, and followed 
his father in the expedition of that year into Scot- 
land, where he acquired his first military experi- 
ence. Amidst these early distinctions it is some- 
what mortifying to find him, about this period, twice 
committed to the Fleet prison ; on one occasion on 
account of a private quarrel, on another for eating 
meat on Lent, and for breaking the windows of 
the citizens of London with stones from his cross- 
bow. This was a strange misdemeanour indeed, 
for a hero and a man of letters. His apology, 
perhaps as curious as the fact itself, turns the ac- 
tion only into quixotic absurdity. His motive, he 
said, wa^ religious. He saw the citizens sunk in 
papal corruption of manners, and he wished to 
break in upon their guilty secrecy by a sudden 
chastisement, that should remind them of Divine 
retribution ! 

The war with France called him into more 
honourable activity. In the first campaign he 

* If concurring proofu did not ?o strongly point out his 
poi'liral niistrrss GeraldinH to be I In- diiu^hter of the Earl 
of iiildaiH. we mitfht well suspect, from the d;ite of Surrey's 
att;ichment, that the object of his praises must have been 
Bome olhir person, (ieraldine, when he declared his de. 
votinn to her, was only thirteen years of ay;e. She was 
tatea iu her childhood under the protection of the court, 



joined the army under Sir John Wallop, at the 
siege of Landrecy ; and in the second and larger 
expedition he went as marshal of the army of 
which his father commanded the vanguard. The 
siege of Montreuil was allotted to the Duke of 
Norfolk and his gallant son ; but their operations 
were impeded by the want of money, ammunition, 
and artillery, suppl es most probably detained from 
reaching them by the influence of the Earl of 
Hertford, who had long regarded both Surrey and 
his father with a jealous eye. In these disastrous 
circumstances Surrey seconded the duke's elTorts 
with zeal and ability. On one expedition he was 
out two days and two nights, spread destruction 
among the resources of the enemy, and returned 
to the camp with a load of supplies, and without 
the loss of a single man. In a bold attempt to 
storm the town he succeeded so far as to make a 
lodgment in one of the gates ; but was danger- 
ously wounded, and owed his life to the devoted 
bravery of his attendant Clere, who received a 
hurt in rescuing him, of which he died a month 
after. On the report of the Dauphin of France's 
approach with 60,000 men, the English made an 
able retreat, of which Surrey conducted the move- 
ments as marshal of the camp. 

He returned with his father to England, but 
must have made only a short stay at home, as we 
find him soon after fighting a spirited action in the 
neighbourhood of Boulogne, in which he chased 
back the French as far as Montreuil. The follow- 
ing year he commanded the vanguard of the army 
of Boulogne, and finally solicited and obtained the 
government of that place. It was then nearly de- 
fenceless ; the breaciies unrepaired, the fortifica- 
tions in decay, and the enemy, with superior num- 
bers, established so near as to be able to command 
the harbour, and to fire upon the lower town. 
Under such disadvantages, Surrey entered on his 
command, and drew up and sent home a plan of 
alterations in the works, which was approved of 
by the king, and ordered to be acted upon. Nor 
were his efibrts merely defensive. On one occa- 
sion he led his men into the enemy's country as 
far as Samerau-Bois, which he destroyed, and re- 
turned in safety with considerable booty. After- 
wards, hearing that the French intended to revic- 
tual their camp at Outreau, he compelled them 
to abandon their object, pursued them as far as 
Hardilot, and was only prevented from gaining a 
complete victory through the want of cavalry. 
But his plan for the defence of Boulogne, which, 
by his own extant memorial, is said to evince great 
military skill, was marred by the issue of one unfor- 
tunate sally. In order to prevent the French from 
revictu ailing a fortress that menaced the safety of 
Boulogne, he found it necessary, \\ith his slender 
forces, to risk another attack at St. Etienne. 
His cavalry first charged and routed those of the 

and attended the Princess Mary. At the a^e of fifteen 
she married Sir Anlhoiiy Wood, a man of si.\ty, and aftiT 
his deaih iiccepted the Earl of Lincoln. Frojn Surrey's 
verses we find ihat she slighted his ad Iresse.s, after having 
for some time encou raged ibem: and from his conduct it 
appears that he liurried into war and public business iu 
order to forget her iudifference. 




-^<^a^t^,!fl-<fy7;_ 



J.B.lxppiacott & Co.Hulad^ 



HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY. 



D3 



French : the foot, which he commanded in person, 
next advanced, and the first line, consisting chiefly 
of gentlemen armed with corselets, behaved gal- 
lantly, but the second line, in coming to the push 
of the pike, were seized with a sudden panic, and 
fled back to Boulogne, in spite of all the efforts 
of their commander to rally them. Within a few 
months after this afliair he was recalled to Eng- 
land, and Hertford went out to France as the 
king's lieutenant-general. 

It does not appear, however, that the loss of 
this action was the pretext for his recall, or the 
direct cause of the king's vengeance, by which 
he was subsequently destined to fall. If the fac- 
tion of Hertford, that was intriguing against him 
at home, ever succeeded in fretting the king's hu- 
mour against him, by turning his misfortune into 
a topic of blame, Henry's irritation must have 
passed away, as we find Surrey recalled, with 
promises of being replaced in his command (a 
promise, however, which was basely falsified), and 
again appearing at court in an honourable station. 
But the event of his recall (though it does not 
seem to have been marked by tokens of royal dis- 
pleasure) certainly contributed indirectly to his 
ruin, by goading his proud temper to farther hos- 
tilities with Hertford. Surrey, on his return to 
England, spoke of his enemy with indignation and 
menaces, and imprudently expressed his hopes 
of being revenged in a succeeding reign. His 
words were reported, probably with exaggeration, 
to the king, and occasioned his being sent, for 
some time, as a prisoner to Windsor. He was 
liberated, however, from thence, and again made 
his appearance at court, unsuspicious of his im- 
pending ruin. 

It is difficult to trace any personal motives that 



could impel Henry to wish for his destruction. 
He could not be jealous of his intentions to marry 
the Princess Mary — that fable is disproved by the 
discovery of Surrey's widow having survived him. 
Nor is it likely that the king dreaded him as an 
enemy to the Relbrmation, as there is every rea- 
son to believe that he was a Protestant. The 
natural cruelty of Henry seems to have been but 
an instrument in the designing hands of Hertford, 
whose ambition, fear, and jealousy, prompted him 
to seek the destruction of Norfolk and his son. 
His measures were unhappily aided by the vindic- 
tive resentment of the Duchess of Norfolk against 
her husband, from whom she had been long se- 
parated, and by the still more unaccountable and 
unnatural hatred of the Duchess of Richmond 
against her own brother. Surrey was arrested 
on the 12th of December, 1546, and committed to 
the Tower. The depositions of witnesses against 
him, whose collective testimony did not substan- 
tiate even a legal offence, were transmitted to the 
king's judges at Norwich, and a verdict was re- 
turned, in consequence of which he was indicted 
for high treason. We are not told the full parti- 
culars of his defence, but are only generally in- 
formed that it was acute and spirited. With re- 
spect to the main accusation, of his bearing the 
arms of the Confessor, he proved that he had the 
authority of the heralds in so doing, and that he 
had worn them himself in the king's presence, as 
his ancestors had worn them in the presence of 
former kings. Notwithstanding his manifest in- 
nocence, the jury was base enough to find him 
guilty. The chancellor pronounced sentence of 
death upon him ; and in the flower of his age, in 
his thirty-first year, this noble soldier and accom- 
plished poet was beheaded on Tower-hill. 



PRISONED IN WINDSOR, HE RECOUNTETH HIS PLEASURE THERE PASSED. 



So cruel prison how could betide, alas ! 
As proud Windsor 1 Where I in lust and joy, 
With a king's son, my childish years did pass, 
In greater feast than Priam's sons of Troy ; 
Where each sweet place returns a taste full sour. 
The large green courts,where we were wont to rove. 
With eyes upcast unto the maiden's tower, 
And easy sighs, such as folk draw in love. 
The stately seats, the ladies bright of hue, 
The dances short, long tales of great delight ; 
With words and looks that tigers could but rue, 
When each of us did plead the other's right. 
The palm play," where dosported' for the game, 
With dazed eyes oft we, by gleams of love, 
Have miss'd the hall, and got sight of our dame, 
To bait her eyes, which kept the leads above. 
Ttie gravell'd ground, with sleeves tied on the helm, 
On foaming horse with swords and friendly hearts ; 
With cheer as though one should another whelm. 
Where we have fought, and chased oft with darts. 
With silver drops the meads yet spread for ruth ; 
In active games of nimbleness and strength. 



Tennis-court. 



* Stript. 



Where we did strain, trained with swarms of youth. 
Our tender limbs that yet shot up in length. 
The secret groves, which oft we made resound 
Of pleasant plaint, and of our ladies' praise ; 
Recording oft what grace each one had found, 
What hope of speed, what dread of long delays. 
The wild forest, the clothed holts with green ; 
With reins avail'd,' and swift ybreathed horse, 
With cry of hounds, and merry blasts between, 
Where we did chase the fearful hart of force. 
The void walls eke that harbour'd us each night : 
Wherewith, alas ! revive within my breast 
The sweet accord, such sleeps as yet delight ; 
The pleasant dreams, the quiet bed of rest ; 
The secret thoughts, imparted with such trust : 
The wanton talk, the divers change of play ; 
The friendship sworn, each promise kept so just, 
Wherewith we past the winter nights away. 
And with this thought the blood forsakes the face , 
The tears berain my cheeks of deadly hue : 
The which, as soon as sobbing sighs, alas ! 
Upsupped have, thus I my plaint renew : 

« Shortened. 



94 



LORD VAUX. 



O place of bliss ! renewer of my woes ! 
Give me account, where is my noble ferel'' 
Whom in thy walls thou didst each night enclose; 
To other lief:' but unto me most dear. 
Echo, alas ! that doth my sorrow rue. 
Returns thereto a hollow sound of plaint. 
Thus I alone, where all my freedom grew. 
In prison pine, with bondage and restraint: 
And with remembrance of the greater grief. 
To banish the less, I find my chief relief. 



DESCRIPTION OF SPRING. 
The soote/ season, that bud and bloom forth 

brings. 
With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale, 
The nightingale with feathers new she sings ; 
The turtle to her niakc^ hath told her tale. 
Summer is come, for every spray now springs. 
The hart hath hung his old head on the pale ; 
The buck in brake his winter coat he flings ; 
The fishes fleet with new repaired scale ; 
The adder all her slough away she fiings ; 

d Compauion.^ Beloved.^ Sweet. — t Mate. 



The swift swallow pursueth the flies small ; 
The busy bee her honey now she mings ;* 
Winter is worn that was the flower's bale.' 
And thus I see among these pleasant things 
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs. 



now EACH THING, SAVE THE LOVER IN 
SPRING, RKVIVETU TO PLEASURE. 

When Windsor walls sustain'd my wearied arm 
My hand my chin, to ease my restless head ; 
The pleasant plot revested green with warm ; 
The blossom'd boughs with lusty ver yspread ; 
The flower'd meads, the wedded birds so late 
Mine eyes discover; and to my mind resort . 
The jolly woes, the hateless short debate. 
The rakehell* life that longs to love's disport. 
Wherewith, alas ! the heavy charge of care 
Heap'd in my breast, breaks forth against my will 
In smoky sighs that overcast the air. 
My vapour'd eye such dreary tears distil, 
The tender green they quicken where they fall ; 
And I half bend to throw me down withal. 

h Mingles. — > Di-struction.^ Careless. — Rakil, or rakle, 
seems g^nouymous with reckless. 



LORD VAUX. 



It is now universally admitted that Lord Vaux, 
the poet, was not Nicholas the first peer, but 
Thomas, the second baron of that name. He 
was one of those who attended Cardinal Wolsey 
on his embassy to Francis the First. He received 
the order of the Bath at the coronation of Anne 
Boleyn, and was for some time Captain of the 
island of Jersey. A considerable number of his 



pieces are found in the Paradise of Dainty De- 
vices. Mr. Park* has noticed a passage in the 
prose prologue to Sackville's Introduction to the 
Mirror for Magistrates, that Lord Vaux had un- 
dertaken to complete the history of king Edward's 
two sons who were murdered in the Tower, but 
that it does not appear he ever executed his m- 
tention. 



UPON HIS WHITE HAIRS. 
FROM THE AGED LOVER'S RENUNCIATION OF LOVE. 



Thert; hairs of age are messengers 
Which bid me fast repent and pray; 
They be of death the hari)ingers, 
That doth prepare and dress the way : 
Wherefore I joy that you may see 
Upon my head such hairs to be. 

They be the lines that lead the length 
How far my race was for to run ; 
They say my youth is fled with strength, 
And how old age is well begun ; 
'J'he which I feel, and you may see 
Such lines upon my head to be. 



They be the strings of sober sound, 
Whose music is harmonical ; 
Their tunes declare a time from ground 
I came, and how thereto I shall : 
Wherefore I love that you may see 
Upon my head such hairs to be. 

God grant to those that white hairs have, 
No worse them take than I have meant; 
That after they be laid in grave. 
Their souls may joy their lives well spent. 
God grant, likewise, that you may see 
Upon my head such hairs to be. 



In his edition of Walpole's Royal and Noble Authors. 



RICHARD EDWARDS 



[Born, 1523. Died, 156G.] 



Mas a principal contributor to the Paradise of 
Dainty Devices, and one of our earliest dramatic 
authors. He wrote two comedies, one entitled 
Damon and Pythias, the other Palamon and 
Arcite, both of which were acted before Queen 
Elizabeth. Besides his regular dramas, he appears 
to have contrived masques, and to have written 
verses for pageants ; and is described as having 



been the first fiddle, the most fashionable Sonni teer, 
and the most facetious mimic of the court, In the 
beginning of Elizabeth's reign he was one of the 
gentlemen of her chapel, and master of the ch.klren 
there, having the character of an excellent musician. 
Hispleasing little poem,the^//i(i/i. iM«i La, has been 
so often reprinted, that, for the sake of variety, I 
have selected another specimen of his simplicity. 



HE REQUESTETH SOME FKIENDLY COMFORT, AFKIRMIxa HIS CONSTAXCY. 



The mountains high, whose lofty tops do meet 

the haughty sky ; 
The craggy rock, that to the sea free passage doth 

deny ; 
The aged oak, that doth resist the force of blus- 

triiig blast ; 
The pleasant herb, that everywhere a pleeisant 

smell doth cast ; 
The lion's force, whose courage stout declares a 

prince-like might ; 
The eagle, that for worthiness is bom of kings in 

fight 

Then these, I say, and thousands more, by tract 

of time decay. 
And, like to time, do quite consume, and fade 

from form to clay ; 
But my true heart and service vow'd shall last 

time out of mind. 
And still remain as thine by doom, as Cupid hath 

assigned ; 



My fiiith, lo here ! I vow to thee, my troth thou 

know'st too well ; 
My goods, my friends, my life, is thine; what 

need I more to tell 1 
I am not mine, but thine ; I vow thy hestsi will 

obey, 
And serve thee as a servant ought, in pleasing if 

I may ; 
And sith I have no flying wings, to serve thee as 

I wish, 
Ne fins to cut the silver streams, as doth the 

gliding fish ; 
Wherefore leave now forgetfulness, and send 

again to me, 
And strain thy azure veips to write, that I may 

greeting see. 
And thus farewell ! more dear to me than chiefest 

friend I have. 
Whose love in heart I mind to shrine, till Death 

his fee do crave. 



WILLIAM HUNNIS 



Was a gentleman of Edward the Sixth's 
Chapel, and afterwards master of the boys of 
Queen Elizabeth's Chapel. He translated the 
Psalms, and was author of a "Hive of Honey," a 



"Handful of Honeysuckle," and other godly 
works. He died in 1568. Hunnis was also a 
writer of Interludes. — See CoLi,iEu'3 Annuls of 
the S.age, vol. i. p. 235. 



THE LOVE THAT IS REQUITED WITH DISDAIN. 



In search of things that secret are my mated 

muse began. 
What it might be molested most the head and 

mind of man; 
The bending brow of prince's face, to wrath that 

doth attend. 
Or want of parents, wife, or child, or loss of faith- 
ful friend ; 
The roaring of the cannon shot, that makes the 

piece tQ shake. 
Or terror, such as mighty Jove from heaven above 

can make : 
All these, in fine, may not compare, experience so 

doth prove. 
Unto the torments, sharp and strange, of such as 

be in love. 



Iiove looks alofl, and laughs to scorn all such as 

griefs annoy. 
The more extreme their passions be, the greater 

is his joy ; 
Thus Love, as victor of the field, triumphs above 

the rest. 
And joys to see his subjects lie with living death 

in breast ; 
But dire Disdain lets drive a shaft, and galls this 

bragging fool, 
He plucks his plumes, unbends his bow. and sets 

him new to school ; 
Whereby this boy that bragged late, as conqueror 

over all. 
Now yields himself unto Disdain, his vassal and 

his thrall. 

95 



THOMAS SACKVILLE, 

BAEON BUCKHURST, AND EARL OF DORSET, 

[Born, 1536. Died, April 19, I6118.] 



Was the son of Sir Richard Sackville, and was 
born at Withyam, in Sussex, in 1536. He was 
educated at both universities, and enjoyed an early 
reputation in Latin as well as in English poetry. 
While a student of the Inner Temple, he wrote 
his tragedy of Gorbodue, which was played by 
the young students, as a part of a Christmas en- 
tertainment, and afterwards before Queen Eliza- 
beth at Whitehall, in 1561. In a subsequent edi- 
tion of this piece it was entitled the tragedy of 
Ferrex and Porrex. He is said to have been as- 
sisted in the composition of it by Thomas Norton ; 
but to what extent does not appear. T. Warton 
disputes the fact of his being at all indebted to 
Norton. The merit of the piece does not render 
the question of much importance. This tragedy 
and his contribution of the Induction and Legend 
of the Duke of Buckingham to the " Mirror for 
Magistrates,"* compose the poetical history of 
Sackvdle's life. The rest of it was political. He 
had been elected to parliament at the age of thirty. 
Six years afterwards, in the same year that his 
Induction and Legend of Buckingham were pub- 
lished, he went abroad on his travels, and was, for 
some reason that is not mentioned, confined, for a 
time, as a prisoner at Rome ; but he returned home, 
on the death of his father, in 1566, and was soon 
after promoted to the title of Baron Buckhurst. 
Having entered at first with rather too much pro- 
digality on the enjoyment of his patrimony, he is 
said to have been reclaimed by the indignity of 
being kept in waiting by an alderman, from whom 
he was borrowing money, and to have made a re- 
solution of economy, from which he never de- 
parted. The queen employed him, in the four- 
teenth year of her reign, in an embassy to Charles 
IX. of France. In 1587 he went as ambassador 
to the United Provinces, upon their complaint 
against the Earl of Leicester ; but, though he per- 



formed his trust with integrity, the favourite had 
sufficient influence to get him recalled ; and on 
his return, he was ordered to confinement in his 
own house, for nine or ten months. On Leices- 
ter's death, however, he was immediately rein- 
stated in royal favour, and was made knight of 
the garter, and chancellor of Oxford. On the 
death of Burleigh he became lord high-treasurer 
of England. At Queen Elizabeth's demise he 
was one of the privy councillors on whom the 
administration of the kingdom devolved, and he 
concurred in proclaiming King James. The new 
sovereign confirmed him in the office of high- 
treasurer by a patent for life, and on all occasions 
consulted him with confidence. In MarcJi, 1604, 
he was created Earl of Dorset. He died suddenly 
[1608] at the council table, in consequence of a 
dropsy on the brain. Few ministers, as Lord 
Oxford remarks, have left behind them so un- 
blemished a character. His family considered his 
memory so invulnerable, that when some partial 
aspersions were thrown upon it, after his death, 
they disdained to answer them. He carried taste 
and elegance even into his formal political func- 
tions, and for his eloquence was styled the b?ll of 
the Star Chamber. As a poet, his attempt to 
unite allegory with heroic narrative, and his giv- 
ing our language its earliest regular tragedy, 
evince the views and enterprise of no ordinary 
mind; but, though the induction to the Mirror 
for Magistrates displays some potent sketches, it 
bears the complexion of a saturnine genius, and 
resembles a bold and gloomy landscape on which 
the sun never shines. As to Gorbodue, it is a 
piece of monotonous recitals, and cold and hea^'y 
accumulation of incidents. As an imitation of 
classical tragedy it is peculiarly unfortunate, in 
being without even the unities of place and time, 
to circumscribe its dulness. 



FROM SACKVILLE'S INDUCTIOX TO THE COMPLAINT OF HENRY, DTJKE OF BUCKINGHAM. 



The wrathful Winter, 'proaching on apace. 
With blust'ring blasts had all ybared the treen, 
And old Saturnus, with his frosty face. 
With chilling cold had pierced the tender green ; 
The mantles rent .wherein enwrapped been 
The gladsome groves that now lay overthrown, 
The tapets torn, and every tree down blown. 

* The "Mirror for SlaEistrates" was int«ndpd to cele- 
brate the chief unfortunate personages in English history, 
in a series of poitical legends spoken by the characters 
themselves, with epilogues intersprrsed to connect the 
Stories, in imitation of Itoccaccio's Fall of Princes, which 
had been translated by Lydgate. The historian of Eng- 
lish poetry ascribes the plan of this work to Sackville, and 
'Foems to have supposed that his Induction and legi-nd of 
Ilenry Duke of Buckingham appeared in the first edition : 
but Sir E. Brydges has shown that it was not until the 
96 



The soil that erst so seemly was to seen. 
Was all despoiled of her beauty's hue ; [Queen 
And soote'' fresh flowers, therewith the Summer's 
Had clad the earth, now Boreas blasts down blew ; 
And small fowls, flocking, in their song did rue 
The Winter's wrath,wherewith each thing defaced 
In woeful wise bewail'd the Summer past. 

second edition of the Mirror for Magistrates that Sackville'g 
contribution was published, viz. in 15tJ3. Baldwin and 
Ferrers were the authors of the first edition, in 1559. Hig- 
gins, Phayer, Churchyard, and a crowd of inferior versi- 
fiers, contributed successive legends, not confining thfm- 
selves to English history, but treating the reader with the 
lamentations of Geta and Caracalla, Brennus. &c. &<: till 
the improvement of the drama superseded those dreary 
monologues, by giving heroic history a more engaging air 
o Sweet. 



THOMAS SACKVILLE. 



97 



Hawthorn had lost his motley livery, 

The naked twigs were shivering all for cold, 

And dropping down the tears abundantly ; 

Each thing, methought, with weeping eye me told 

The cruel season, bidding me withhold 

Myself within ; for I was gotten out 

Into the fields, whereas I walk'd about. 

When lo, the Night with misty mantles spread, 
Gan dark the day, and dim the azure skies; 
And Venus in her message Hermes sped 
To bloody Mars, to wile him not to rise, 
While she herself approach'd in speedy wise : 
And Virgo hiding her disdainful breast. 
With Thetis now had laid her down to rest. . . . 

And pale Cynthea, with her borrow'd light. 
Beginning to supply her brother's place, 
Was past the noon steed six degrees in sight. 
When sparkling stars amid the Heaven's face. 
With twinkling light shone on the Earth apace. 
That while they brought about the Nightes chair. 
The dark had dimm'd the day ere I was ware. 

And sorrowing I to see the Summer flowers, 
The lively green, the lusty leas forlorn ; 
The sturdy trees so shatter'd with the showers, 
The fields so fade that flourish'd so beforn'e ; 
It taught me well all earthly things be borne 
To die the death, for nought long time may last; 
The Summer's beauty yields to Winter's blast. 

Then looking upward to the Heaven's leams. 
With Nighte's stars thick powder'd everywhere, 
Which erst so glisten'd with the golden streams. 
That cheerful Phoebus spread down from his 

sphere. 
Beholding dart oppressing day so near ; 
The sudden sight reduced to my mind 
The sundry changes that in earth we find. 

That musing on this worldly wealth in thought, 
Which comes and goes more faster than we see 
The fleckering flame that with the fire is wrought, 
My busy mind presented unto me 
Such fall of Peers as in this realm had be,* 
That oft I wish'd some would their woes descrive. 
To warn the rest whom fortune left alive. 

And strait forth-stalking with redoubled pace, 

For that I saw the Night draw on so fast. 

In black all clad, there fell before my face 

A piteous wight, whom Woe had all forewaste. 

Forth from her eyen the chrystal tears out brast. 

And sighing sore, her hands she wrung and fold. 

Tare all her hair, that ruth was to behold. 

Her body small, forewither'd and forespent, 
As is the stalk that Summer's drought oppress'd ; 
Her wealked face with woeful tears besprent. 
Her colour pale, and as it seem'd her best ; 
•In woe and plaint reposed was her rest ; 
And as the stone that drops of water wears. 
So dented vi^as her cheek with fall of tears 

Sackville's contribution to "The Mirror for Magistrates," 
is the only part of it that is tolerable. It is observable that 
Ills plan differs materially from that of the other contri- 
I'utors. He lays the scene, like Dante, in Hell, and makes 
his characters relate their history at the gates of Elysium, I 
> 13 



SORROW THE\ ABDIi ESSES THE POET. 

For forth she paced in her fearful tale : 

" Come, come," quoth she, " and see what I shall 

show; 
Come, hear the plaining and the bitter bale 
Of worthy men by Fortune overthrow: 
Come thou, and see them rewing all in row. 
They were but shades that erst in mind thou roll'd. 
Come, come with me, thine eyes shall them behold." 

And with these words, as I upraised stood. 

And 'gan to follow her that strait forth paced. 

Ere I was ware, into a desart wood 

We now were come, where,hand in hand embraced. 

She led the way, and through the thick so traced, 

As, but I had been guided by her might. 

It was no way for any mortal wight. . . . 

ALLEGORICAL PERSONAGES DESCRIBED IN HELL. 

And first within the porch and jaws of Hell 
Sat deep Remorse of Conscience, all besprent . 
With tears ; and to herself oft would she tell 
Her wretchedness, and cursing never stent' 
To sob and sigh ; but ever thus lament 
With thoughtful care, as she that all in vain 
Would wear and waste continually in pain. 

Her eyes unstedfast, rolling here and there, 
Whhl'd on each place, as place that A'engeance 

brought, 
So was her mind continually in fear, 
Toss'd and tormented by the tedious thought 
Of those detested crimes which she had wrought : 
With dreadful cheer and looks thrown to the sky. 
Wishing for death, and yet she could not die. 

Next saw we Dread, all trembling how he shook, . 
With foot uncertain profFer'd here and there ; 
Benumm'd of speech, and with a ghastly look, 
Search'd every place, all pale and dead for fear, 
His cap upborn with staring of his hair, 
Stoyn'd'' and amazed at his shade for dread. 
And fearing greater dangers than was need. 

And next within the entry of this lake 

Sat fell Revenge, gnashing her teeth for ire, 

Devising means how she may vengeance take. 

Never in rest till she have her desire ; 

But frets within so far forth with the fire 

Of wreaking flames, that now determines she 

To die by death, or venged by death to be. 

When fell Revenge, with bloody foul pretence. 
Had show'd herself, as next in order set, 
With trembling limbs we softly parted thence, 
Till in our eyes another sight we met. 
When from my heart a sigh forthwith I fet,« 
Rewing, alas ! upon the woeful plight 
Of Misery, that next appear'd in sight 

His face was lean and some-deal pined away, 
And eke his handes consumed to the bone, 
But what his body was I cannot say ; 
For on his carcass raiment had he none. 



under the guidance of Sorrow ; while the authors of th" 
other legends are generally contented with simply dream, 
ing of the unfortunate persoiiaaes, and, by going to sleep, 
offer a powerful inducement to follow their example, 
i Been.— e Stopped.— << Astoiiished. — » Tetched. 



GEORGE GASCOIGNE. 



Save clouts and patches, pieced one by one ; 
With staff in hand, and scrip on shoulders cast, 
His chief defence against the winter's blast. 

His food, for most, was wild fruits of the tree ; 
Unless sometime some crumbs fell to his share, 
Which in his wallet long, God wot, kept he, 
As on the which full daintily would he fare. 
His drink the running stream, his cup the bare 
Of his palm closed, his bed the hard cold ground ; 
To this poor life was Misery ybound. 

Whose wretched state, when he had well beheld 

"With tender ruth on him and on his feres,/ 

In thoughtful cares forth then our pace we held. 

And, by and by, another shape appears, 

Of greedy Care, still brushing up the breres,' 

His knuckles knob'd, his flesh deep dented in. 

With tawed hands and hard ytanned skin. 

The morrow gray no sooner had begun 
T» spread his light, even peeping in our eyes, 
When he is up and to his work yrun ; 
And let the night's black misty mantles rise, 
And with foul dark never so much disguise 
The fair bright day, yet ceaseth he no while. 
But hath his candles to prolong his toil. 

By him lay heavy Sleep, the cousin of Death, 
Flat on the ground, and still as any stone, 

/ Companions. S Briars. 



A very corps, save yielding forth a breath ; 
Small keep took he whom Fortune frowned on. 
Or whom she lifted up into the throne 
Of high renown : but as a living death. 
So dead, alive, of life he drew the breath. 

The body's rest, the quiet of the heart, 

The travail's ease, the still night's fere was he ; 

And of our life in earth the better part, 

Reever of sight, and yet in whom we see 

Things oft that tide,* and oft that never be ; 

Without respect esteeming equally 

King Croesus' pomp, and Irus' poverty. 

And next in order sad Old Age we found. 
His beard all hoar, his eyes hollow and blind ; 
With drooping cheer still poring on the ground, 
As on the place where Nature him assign'd 
To rest, when that the sisters had entwined 
His A-ital thread, and ended with their knife 
The fleeting course of fast declining life. 

Crook'd-back'd he was,tooth-shaken and bleareyed, 
Went on three feet, and sometime crept on four ; 
With old lame bones that rattled by his side, 
His scalp all pill'd,' and he with eld forlore. 
His wither'd fist still knocking at Death's door; 
Trembling and driv'ling as he draws his breath, 
For brief, the shape and messenger of Death. 

A Happen. •" Bare. 



GEORGE GASCOIGNE 



[Born, 1536. 

Was bom in 1536,* of an ancient family in 
Essex, was bred at Cambridge, and entered at 
Gray's-Inn ; but being disinherited by his father 
for extravagance, he repaired to Holland, and 
obtained a commission under the Prince of 
Orange. A quarrel with his colonel retarded 
his promotion in that service ; and a circumstance 
occurred which had nearly cost him his life. A 
lady at the Hague (the town being then in the 
enemy's possession) sent him a letter, which was 
intercepted in the camp, and a report against his 
loyalty was made by those who had seized it. 
Gascoigne immediately laid the affair before the 
Prince, who saw through the design of his ac- 
cusers, and gave him a passport for visiting his 
female friend. At the siege of Middlcburgh he 
displayed so much bravery, that the Prince re- 
warded him with 300 gilders above his pay ; but 
he was soon after made prisoner by the Spaniards, 
and having spent four months in captivity, re- 



Died, 1577.] 

turned to England, and resided generally at 
Walthamstow. In 1575 he accompanied Queen 
Elizabeth in one of her stately progresses, and 
wrote for her amusement a mask, entitled the 
Princely Pleasures of Kenilworth Castle. He is 
generally said to have died at Stamford, in 1578 ; 
but the registers of that place have been searched 
in vain for his name, by the writer of an article 
in the Censura Literaria,t who has corrected 
some mistakes in former accounts of him. It is 
not probable, however, that he lived long after 
1576, as, from a manuscript in the British Mu- 
seum, it appears that, in that year, he complains 
of his infirmities, and nothing afterwards came 
from his pen. 

Gascoigne was one of the earliest contribu- 
tors to our drama. He wrote The Supposes, a 
comedy, translated from Ariosto, and Jocasta, 
a tragedy from Euripides, with some other 
pieces.;}: 



DE PROFUNDIS. 



I-'rom depth of dole, wherein my soul doth dwell. 
From heavy heart, v.'hich harbours in my breast, 

* Mr. Ellis conjectures that he was born much earlier. 

t Cens. Lit. vol. i. p. 100. Gascoigne died at Stamford 
on the 7th of October, 1577 —See Collier's Annals, vol. i. 
p. 192. 



From troubled sprite, which seldom taketh rest. 
From hope of heaven, from dread of darksome hell, 

[X One of his principal works is The Fruits nf War : it 
was sujrgested by his personal adventures and observa- 
tions. His Terse is smooth, flowing, and unsSffected. One 
of his best pieces is De Profundis, which I have added tc 
Mr. Campbell's selections. — G.] 



GEORGE GASCOIGNE, 



99 



O gracious God, to thee I cry and yell : 
My God, my T.ord, my lovely Lord, alone 
To thee I call, to thee I make my moan. 
And thou, good God, vouchsafe in grace to take 
This woful plaint 
Wherein I faint ; 
Oh ! hear me, then, for thy great mercy's sake. 

Oh ! bend thine ears attentively to hear. 

Oh ! turn thine eyes, behold me how I wail ! 
Oh ! hearken. Lord, .give ear for mine avail, 

Oh ! mark in mind the burdens that I bear ; 

See how I sink in sorrows everywhere. 
Behold and see what dolors I endure. 
Give ear and mark what plaints I put in ure ;" 

Bend willing ears ; and pity therewithal 
My willing voice, 
Which hath no choice 

But evermore upon thy name to call. 

If thou, good Lord, shouldst take thy rod in hand. 
If thou regard what sins are daily done, 
If thou take hold where we our works begun, 
If thou decree in judgment for to stand. 
And be extreme to see our 'scuses' scanned ; 
If thou take note of every thing amiss, 
And write in rolls how frail our nature is, 

glorious God, O King, Prince of power ! 

What mortal wight 
May thus have light 
To feel thy power, if thou have list to lower ? 

But thou art good, and hast of mercy store, 
Thou not delight'st to see a sinner fall. 
Thou hearkenest first, before we come to call. 

Thine ears are set wide open evermore. 

Before we knock thou comest to the door; 
Thou art more prest to hear a sinner cry 
Than he is quick to climb to thee on high. 

Thy mighty name be praised then alway, 
Let faith and fear 
True witness bear. 

How fast they stand which on thy mercy stay. 

1 look for thee, my lovely Lord, therefore 

For thee I wait, for thee I tarry still, 
Mine eyes do long to gaze on thee my fill, 

For thee I watch, for thee I pry and pore, 

My soul for thee attendeth evermore. 

My soul doth thirst to take of thee a taste. 
My soul desires with thee for to be placed. 

And to thy words, which can no man deceive, 
Mine only trust, ' 
My love and lust, 

In confidence continually shall cleave, 

Before the break or dawning of the day. 
Before the light be seen in Ipfty skies, 
Before the sun appear in pleasant wise. 

Before the watch, (before the watch, I say,) 

Before the ward that waits therefore alway. 
My soul, my sense, my secret thought, my sprite, 
My will, my wish, my joy, and my delight. 

Unto the Lord, that sits in heaven on high, 



With hasty wing 
From me doth fling. 
And striveth still unto the Lord to fly. 

Israel ! O household of the Lord ! 

O Abraham's sons ! brood of blessed seed ! 

chosen sheep, that love the Lord indeed ! 
hungry hearts ! feed still upon his word. 
And put your trust in Him with one accord. 

For He hath mercy evermore at hand. 

His fountains flow, his springs do never stand ; 
And plenteously He loveth to redeem 
Such sinners all 
As on Him call. 
And faithfully his mercies most esteem. 

He will redeem our xleadly, drooping state, 
He will bring home the sheep that go astray. 
He will help them that hope in Him alway, 

He will appease our discord and debate. 

He will soon save, though we repent us late. 
He will be ours, if we continue his. 
He will bring bale' to joy and perfect bliss ; 

He will redeem the flock of his elect 
From all that is 
Or. was amiss 

Since Abraham's heirs did first his laws reject. 



ARRAIGNMENT OF A LOVER. 
At Beauty's bar as I did stand, 
When False Suspect accused me, 
George, quoth the Judge, hold up thy hand, 
Thou art arraign'd of Flattery ; 
Tell, therefore, how wilt thou be tried, 
W' hose judgment thou wilt here abide 1 

My lord, quod I, this lady here, 
Whom I esteem above the rest, 
Doth know my guilt, if any were ; 
Wherefore her doom doth please me best. 
Let her be judge and juror both. 
To try me guiltless by mine oath. 

Quoth Beauty, No, it fitteth not' 
A prince herself to judge the cause ; 
Wdi is our justice, well ye wot, 
Appointed to discuss our laws ; 
If you will guiltless seem to go, 
God and your country quit you so. 

Then Crafl the crier call'd a quest. 
Of whom was Falsehood foremost fere ; 
A pack of pickthanks were the rest. 
Which came false witness for to bear ; 
The jury such, the judge unjust. 
Sentence was said, " I should be truss'd." 

Jealous the gaoler bound me fast, 

To hear the verdict of the bill ; 

George, quoth the judge, now thou art cast, 

Thou must go hence to Heavy Hill, 

And there be hang'd all but the head ; 

God rest thy soul when thou art dead ! 

c Misery. 



100 



JOHN HARRINGTON. 



Down fell I then upon my knee, 

All flat before dame Bemcly's face, 

And cried. Good Lady, pardon me ! 

Who here appeal unto your grace ; 

You know if I have been untrue, 

It was in too much praising you. 

And though this Judge doth make such haste 

To shed with shame my guiltless blood, 

Yet let your pity first be placed 

To save the man that meant you good ; 

&o shall you show yourself a Queen, 

And I may be your servant seen. 

Quoth Beauty, Well ; because I guess 
What thou dost mean henceforth to be ; 
Although thy faults deserve no less 
Than Justice here hath judged thee ; 
Wilt thou be bound to stint all strife, 
And be true prisoner all thy life 1 

Yea, madam, quoth I, that I shall ; 
Lo, Faith and 'Truth my sureties: 
W'hy then, quoth she, come when I call, 
I ask no better warrantise. 
Thus am I Beauly^s bounden thrall. 
At her command when she doth call. 

THE VANITY OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 
Thet course the glass, and let it take no rest; 
They pass and spy, who gazeth on their face ; 
They darkly ask whose beauty seemeth best ; 
They hark and mark who marketh most their 

grace ; 
They stay their steps, and stalk a stately pace ; 
They jealous are of every sight they see ; 
They strive to seem, but never care to be. . . . 



W^hat grudge and grief our joys may then sup- 
press, 
To see our hairs, which yellow were as gold. 
Now gray as glass ; to feel and find them less ; 
To scrape the bald skull which was wont to hold 
Our lovely locks with curling sticks controurd ; 
To look in glass, and spy Sir Wrinkle's chair 
Set fast on fronts which erst were sleek and fair. . . . 



VANITY OF YOUTH. 
Of lusty youth then lustily to treat, 
It is the very May-moon of delight ; 
When boldest bloods are full of wilful heat. 
And joy to think how long they have to fight 
In fancy's field, before their life take flight ; 
Since he which latest did the game begin, 
Doth longest hope to linger still therein., . • . 



SWIFTNESS OF TIME. 
The heavens on high perpetually do move ; 
By minutes meal the hour doth steal away, 
By hours the days, by days the months remove. 
And then by months the years as fast decay ; 
Yea, Virgil's verse and Tully's truth do say. 
That Time flieth, and never claps her wings ; 
But rides on clouds, and forward still she flings. 



FROM GASCOIGNE'S GRIEF OF JOY, 
An unpublished Poem in the British Museum. 
There is a grief in every kind of joy. 
That is my theme, and that I mean to prove ; 
And who were he which would not drink annoy, 
To taste thereby the lightest dram of love 1 . . . . 



JOHN HARRINGTON. 



, 1534. Died, 1582.] 



John Hakbington, the father of the translator 
of Ariosto, was imprisoned by Queen Mary for 
his suspected attachment to Queen Elizabeth, by 
whom he was afterwards rewarded with a grant 
of lands. Nothing that the younger Harrington 
has written seems to be worth preserving; but 



the few specimens of his father's poetry which 
are found in the Nugse Antiquoe may excite a 
regret that he did not write more. His love 
verses have an elegance and terseness, more mo- 
dern, by an hundred years, than those of his con- 
temporaries. 



VERSES ON A MOST STONY-HEARTED MAIDEN WHO DID SORELY BEGUILE THE NOBLE KNIGHT, 
MY TRUE FRIEND. 



J. H. MSS. 1564.— From 
I. 
Why didst thou raise such woeful wail. 
And waste in briny tears thy days? 
'Cause she that wont to flout and rail. 
At last gave proof of woman's ways ; 
She did, in sooth, display the heart 
That might have wrought thee greater smart, 

II. 
Why, thank her then, not weep or moan ; 
Let others guard tlieir careless heart. 
And praise the day that thus made known 
The faithless hold on woman's art ; 



the Nug» Antiquoe. 
Their lips can gloze and gain such root. 
That gentle youth hath hope of fruit. 

III. 
But, ere the blossom fan- doth rise, 
To shoot its sweetness o'er the taste, 
Crecpeth disdain in canker-wise. 
And chilling scorn the fruit doth blast 
There is no hope of all our toil ; 
There is no fruit from such a soil. 

IV. 

Give o'er thy plaint, the danger's o'er ; 
She might have poison'd all thy life; 



SIR PHILIP SYDNEY. 



101 



Such wayward mind had bred thee more 
Of sorrow had she proved thy wife : 
Leave her to meet all hopeless meed, 
And bless thyself that so art freed. 

V. 

No youth shall sue such one to win, 
Unmark'd by all the shining fair, 
Save for her pride and scorn, such sin 
As heart of love can never bear ; 
Like leafless plant in blasted shade. 
So liveth she — a barren maid. 

SONNET MADE ON ISABELLA MARKHAM, 

WBEX I FIKST THOUGHT HER FAIR, AS SHE STOOD AT THE PRIN- 
CESS'S WINDOW, IN GOODLY ATTIRE, AND TALKED TO DIVERS 
IN THE OOUET-Y.UID. 

Whence comes my love 1 O heart, disclose ; 
It was fi-om cheeks that shamed the rose. 



From lips that spoil the ruby's 
From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze : 
Whence comes my woe 1 as freely own ; 
Ah me ! 'twas from a heart like stone. 

The blu.shing cheek speaks modest mind. 
The lips befitting words most kind. 
The eye does tempt to love's desire. 
And seems to say " 'tis Cupid's fire ;" 
Yet all so fair but speak my moan, 
Sith nought doth say the heart of stone. 

Why thus, my love, so kind, bespeak 
Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek — 
Y'et not a heart to save my pain ; 
O Venus, take thy gifts again ; 
Make not so fair to cause our moan. 
Or make a heart that's like our own. 

From the Nug* Antiquse, where the original 
Manuscript is said to be dated ISOi. 



SIR PHILIP SYDNEY. 



[Born, 1554, 

Without enduring Lord Orford's cold-blooded 
depreciation of this hero, it must be owned that 
his writings fall short of his traditional glory ; 
nor were his actions of the very highest importance 
to his country. Still there is no necessity for sup- 
posing the impression which he made upon his 
contemporaries to have been either illusive or exag- 
gerated. Traits of character will distinguish great 
men, independently of their pens or their swords. 
The contemporaries of Sydney knew the man : and 
foreigners, no less than his own countrymen, seem 
to have felt, from his personal influence and con- 
versation, an homage for him, that could only be 
paid to a commanding intellect guiding the prin- 
ciples of a noble heart. The variety of his ambi- 
tion, perhaps, unfavourably divided the force of 
his genius ; feeling that he could take diflerent 
paths to reputation, he did not confine himself to 
one, but was successively occupied in the punc- 
tilious duties of a courtier, the studies and pur- 



Died, 1586.] 

suits of a scholar and traveller, and in the life of 
a soldier, of which the chivalrous accomplish- 
ments could not be learnt without diligence and 
fatigue. All his excellence in those pursuits, and 
all the celebrity that would have placed him among 
the competitors for a crown, was gained in a life 
of thirty-two years. His sagacity and independ- 
ence are recorded in the advice which he gave to 
his own sovereign. In the quaiTcl with Lord 
Oxford,* he opposed the rights of an English com- 
moner to the prejudices of aristocracy and of roy- 
alty itself. At home he was the patron of litera- 
ture. All England wore mourning for his death. 
Perhaps the well-known anecdote of his generosity 
to the dying soldier speaks more powerfully to the 
heart than the whole volumes of elegies, in He- 
brew, Greek, and Latin, that were published at 
his death by the universities. 

Mr. Ellis has exhausted the best specimens of 
his poetry. I have only offered a few short ones. 



SONNETS. 



Come sleep, sleep, the certain knot of peace. 
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe ; 
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, 
Th' indifferent judge between the high and low. 
With shield of proof shield me from out the 

prease" 
Of those fierce darts despair doth at me throw: 

make in me those civil wars to cease, 

1 will good tribute pay if thou do so. 

Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, 
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, 
A rosy garland and a weary head ; 
And if these things, as being thine by right, 
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me 
Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see. 
o I'ress, or crowd. 



Ix martial sports I had my cunning tried. 
And yet to break more staves did me address, 
While with the people's shouts, I must confess. 
Youth, luck, and praise, e'en fill'd my veins with 

pride ; 
When Cupid having me his slave descried 
In Mars's hvery, prancing in the press, 
" What now, Sir Fool 1" said he, "I would no less; 
Look here, I say." — I look'd, and Stella spied. 
Who hard by made a window send forth light ; 
My heart then quaked, then dazzled were mine eyes ; 
One hand forgot to rule, the other to fight; 
Nor trumpet's sound I heard, nor friendly cries. 
My foe came on' and beat the air for me. 
Till that her blush taught me my shame to see. 

* Vida the biograpUical nolice of Lurd Oxford. 





102 ROBERT GREENE. 


! HAPPY Thames, that didst my Stella bear, 
1 I saw myself, with many a smiling line 
Upon thy cheerful face, joy's livery wear, 
While those fair planets on thy streams did shine ; 
The boat for joy could not to dance forbear ; 
While wanton winds, with beauties so divine 
Ravish'd, staid not till in her golden hair 
They did themselves, oh sweetest prison ! twine ; 
And fain those Eol's youth there would their stay 
Have made, but forced by Nature still to fly, 
First did with puffing kiss those locks display : 
She, so dishevell'd, blush'd : — from window I, 
With sight thereof, cried out, fair disgrace. 
Let Honour's self to thee grant highest place. 


With howsad steps,OMoon,thou climb'st the skies 
How silently, and with how wan a face ! 
What ! may it be, that even in heavenly place 
That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries ] 
Sure, if that long with love acquainted eyes 
Can judge of love, thou fcel'st a lover's case; 
I read it in thy looks, thy languish'd grace ; 
To me that feel the like thy state descries. 
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, 
Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit] 
Are beauties there as proud as here they be 1 
Do they above love to be loved, and yet 
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess 1 
Do they call virtue there ungi-atefulness ] 


ROBERT 

[Born, 1560. 

Was born at Norwich about 1560, was educated 
at Cambridge, travelled in Spain and Italy, and on 
1 his return held, for about a year, the vicarage of 
1 Tollesbury, in Essex. The rest of his life seems 
to have been spent in London, with no other sup- 
port than his pen, and in the society of men of 
more wit than worldly prudence. He is said to 
have died about 1592,* from a surfeit occasioned 
by pickled herrings and Rhenish wine. Greene 
has acknowledged, with great contrition, some of 
the follies of his life; but the charge of profligacy 
which has been so mercilessly laid on his memory 
must be taken with great abatement, as it was 
chiefly dictated by his bitterest enemy, Gabriel 
Harvey, who is said to have trampled on his dead 
body when laid in the gi-ave. The story, it may 
be hoped, for the credit of human nature, is un- 
true ; but it shows to what a pitch the malignity 
of Harvey was supposed to be capable of being 
excited. Greene is accused of having deserted 
an amiable wife ; but his traducers rather incon- 
sistently reproach him also with the necessity of 
writing for her maintenance. 


GREENE 

Died, 1592.] 

A list of his writings, amounting to forty-five 
separate productions, is given in the Censura 
Literaria, including five plays, several amatory 
romances, and other pamphlets, of quaint titles 
and rambling contents. The writer of that article 
has vindicated the personal memory of Greene 
with proper feeling, but he seems to overrate the 
importance that could have ever been attached to 
him as a writer. In proof of the once great 
popularity of Greene's writings, a passage is 
quoted from Ben Jonson's Every Man out of his 
Humour, where it is said that Saviolina uses as 
choice figures as any in the Arcadia, and Carlo 
subjoins, "or in Greene's works, whence she may 
steal with more security." This allusion to the 
facility of stealing without detection from an 
author surely argues the reverse of his being 
popular and well known.f Greene's style is in 
truth most whim.sical and grotesque. He lived 
before there was a good model of familiar prose ; 
and his wit, like a stream that is too weak to force 
a channel for itself, is lost in rhapsody and dif- 
fuseness. 


DORASTUS ( 

Ah, were she pitiful as she is fair, 
Or but as mild as she is seeming so. 
Then were my hopes greater than my despair, 
Then all the world were Heaven, nothing woe. 
Ah, were her heart relenting as her hand. 
That seems to melt e'en with the mildest touch. 
Then knew I where to seat me in a land, 
Under the wide Heavens, but yet not such. 
So as she shov\s, she seems the budding rose, 
Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower ; 
Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows ; 
Compass'dsheiswith thorns and canker'd flower ;{ 
Yet, were she willing to be pluck'd and worn. 
She would be gather'd, though she grew on thorn. 

Ah, when she sings, all music else be still, 
For none must be compared to her note ; 
Ne'er breathed such glee from Philomela's bill. 
Nor from the morning singer's swelling throat. 


)N FAWNIA. 
And when she riseth from her blissful bed, 
She comforts all the world, as doth the sun. 

JEALOUSY. 

FROM TULLY'S LOVE. 

When gods had framed the sweets of womaa's 

face. 
And lockt men's looks within her golden hair, 
That Phoebus blush'd to see her matchless grace, 
And heavenly gods on earth did make repair, 
To quip fair Venus' overweening pride, 
Love's happy thoughts to jealousy were tied. 
Then grew a wrinkle on fair Venus' brow. 
The amber sweet of love is turn'd to gall ! 
Gloomy was Heaven ; bright Phoebus did avow 
He would be coy, and would not love at all ; 
Swearing no greater mischief could be wroug ht, 
Than love united to a jealous thought. 

rt See Gifford's Beu Jon.^^on, vol. ii. p. 71.— C.J 
I Qy. power or sloure. Dyce, vol. ii. p. 2i2.] 


[* Rsduced to utter bcggary.anil abaiKioncd bj-tiie friends 
of his festive hnurs.Greene died in London, on Sept. 3, 1592. 
See h\s Dramatic VVorlis, by Dyoe, Loudon, 1831.— G.] 





CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 



[Born, 1563. Died, May 1593.] 



[Christopher Marlowe, the son ofa shoema- 
ker, at Canterbury, was born in February, 1563-4,] 
took a bachelor's degree at Cambridge, [in 1683,] 
and came to London, where he was a contempo- 
rary player and dramatic writer with Shakspeare. 
Had he lived longer to profit by the example of 
Shakspeare, it is not straining conjecture to suppose, 
that the strong misguided energy of Marlowe would 
have been kindled and refined to excellence by 
the rivalship ; but his death, at the age of thirty, 
is alike to be lamented for its disgracefulness and 
prematurity, his own sword being forced upon 
him, in a quarrel at a brothel.* Six tragedies, 
however, and his numerous translations from the 
classics, evince that if his life was profligate, it 
was not idle. The bishops ordered his transla- 
tions of Ovid's Love Elegies to be burnt in public 
for their licentiousness. If all the licentious 
poems of that period had been included in the 



martyrdom, Shakspeare's Venus and Adonis 
would have hardly escaped the flames. 

In Marlowe's tragedy of "Lust's Dominion" 
there is a scene of singular coincidence with an 
event that was two hundred years after exhibited 
in the same country, namely Spain. A Spanish 
queen, instigated by an usurper, falsely proclaims 
her own son to be a bastard. 

Prince Philip is a bastard born; 

give me leave to blush at mine own shame : 

But I for love to you — love to fair Spain, 

Chuse rather to rip up a queen's disgrace, 

Than, by concealing it, to set the crown 

Upon a bastard's head. — Lust's Bom. Sc. iv. Act 3. 

Compare this avowal with the confession which 
Bonaparte either obtained, or pretended to have 
obtained, from the mother of Ferdinand VII., in 
1808, and one might almost imagine that he had 
consulted Marlowe's tragedy. 



THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. 



CoJiE live with me and be my love. 
And we will all the pleasures prove. 
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields. 
Woods or steepy mountain yields. 

And we will sit upon the rocks. 
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls ' 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 

And I will make thee beds of roses. 
And a thousand fragrant posies : 
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle, 
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle. 

[* Marlowe closed his life of gross impiety and careless 
ieliauchery, at Deptford, where, in the register of the 
ihurch of St. Nicholas, may still be read the entry, " Chris- 
topher Marlow, slaine by ffrancis Archer, the 1 of June, 



A gown made of the finest wool, 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; 
Fair lined slippers for the cold. 
With buckles of the purest gold. 
A belt of straw and ivy buds. 
With coral clasps and amber studs ; 
And if these pleasures may thee move, 
Come live with me, and be my love. 

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing, 
For they delight each May morning. 
If these delights thy mind may move. 
Come live with me, and be my love. 

1593." See for the circumstances of his death, and a very 
interesting biographical and critical notice of Marlowe and 
his works, Mr. Dyce's edition, 3 vols. 8vo, London, Pick- 
ering, 1850.— G.] 



ROBERT SOUTHWELL 



[Born, 1560. 

Is said to have been descended from an ancient 
and respectable family in Norfolk, and being sent 
abroad for his education, became a Jesuit at Rome. 
He was appointed prefect of studies there in 1585, 
and, not long after, was sent as a missionary into 
England. His chief residence was with Anne, 
Countess of Arundel, who died in the Tower of 
London. Southwell was apprehended in July, 
1592, and carried before Queen Elizabeth's agents, 
who endeavoured to extort from him some dis- 
closure of secret conspiracies against the govern- 
ment ; but he was cautious at his examination, 
and declined answering a number of ensnaring 
questions. Upon which, being sent to prison, he 



Died, 1595.] 

remained near three years in strict confinement, 
was repeatedly put to the rack, and, as he himself 
affirmed, underwent very severe tortures no less 
than ten times. He owned that he was a priest 
and a Jesuit, that he came into England to preach 
the Catholic religion, and was prepared to lay 
down his life in the cause. On the 20th of Feb- 
ruary, 1595, he was brought to his trial at the 
King's Bench, was condemned to die, and was exe- 
cuted the next day, at Tyburn. His writings, of 
which a numerous list is given in the sixty-seventh 
volume of the Gentleman's Magazine, togethoi 
with the preceding sketch of his life, were pro- 
bably at one time popular among the Cathohcs. 



104 



THOMAS WATSON. 



In a small collection of his pieces there are two 
specimens of his prose compositions, entitled 
" Mary Magdalene's Tears," and the " Triumph 
over Death," which contain some eloquent sen- 



tences. Nor is it possible to read the volume 
without lamenting that its author should have 
been either the instrument of bigotry, or the ob- 
ject of persecution. 



LOVE'S SERVILE LOT. 
Love mistress is of many minds, 
Yet few know whom they serve ; 
They reckon least how little hope 
Their service doth deserve. 
The will she robbeth from the wit, 
The sense from reason's lore ; 
She is delightful in the rind, 
Corrupted in the core. . . . 
May never was the month of love ; 
For May is full of flowers ; 
But rather April, wet by kipd ; 
For love is full of showers. 
With soothing words inthralled souls 
She chains in servile bands ! 
Her eye in silence hath a speech 
Whicli eye best understands. 
Her little sweet hath many sours, 
Short hap, immortal harms : 
Her loving looks are murdering darts, 
Her songs bewitching charms. 
Like winter rose, and summer ice, 
Her joys are still untimely; 
Before her hope, behind remorse. 
Fair first, in fine unseemly. 
Plough not the seas, sow not the sands. 
Leave ofi' your idle pain ; 
Seek other mistress for your minds. 
Love's service is in vain. 



LOOK HOME. 
Retired thoughts enjoy their own delights. 
As beauty doth in self-beholding eye : 
Man's mind a mirror is of heavenly sights, 
A brief wherein all miracles summed lie ; 
Of fairest forms, and sweetest shapes the store, 
Most graceful all, yet thought may grace them 

more. 
The mind a creature is, yet can create. 
To nature's patterns adding higher skill 
Of finest works ; wit better could the state. 
If force of wit had equal power of will. 
Devise of man working hath no end ; 
What thought can think, another thought can 

mend. 

Man's soul of endless beauties image is. 
Drawn by the work of endless skill and might: 
This skilful might gave many sparks of bliss. 
And, to discern this bliss, a native light. 
To frame God's image as his worth required ; 
His might, his skill, his word and will con- 
spired. 

All that he had, his image should present ; 
All that it should present, he could afford ; 
To that he could aiford his will was bent; 
His will was followed with performing word. 
Let this suffice, by this conceive the rest. 
He should, he could, he would, he did the 
be^t. 



THOMAS WATSON 



[Born, 1560.' Died about 1592.] 

Was a native of London, and studied the com- I to have devoted himself to lighter studies. Mr. 
mon law, but from the variety of his productions Steevens has certainly overrated his sonnets in 
(Vide Theatrum Poetarum, p. 213) would seem I preferring them to Shakspeare's.* 



THE NYMPHS TO THEIR MAY QUEEN. 
From England's Helicon. 
With fragrant flowers we strew the way. 
And make this our chief holiday: 
For though this clime was blest of yore, 
Yet was it never proud before. 
O beauteous queen of second Troy, 
Accept of our unfeigned joy. 

Now the air is sweeter than sweet balm. 
And satyrs dance about the palm ; 
Now earth with verdure newly dight. 
Gives perfect signs of her delight : 
beauteous queen ! 

Now birds record new harmony, 
And trees do whistle melody : 
And every thing that nature breeds 
Doth clad itself in pleasant weeds. 

* The wnrU Sonnet, in its laxest sense, means a small 
oop^ -yf verses; in its true and accepted seuse, a poem of 



SONNET. 
AcTiEON lost, in middle of his sport. 
Both shape and life for looking but awry : 
Diana was afraid he would report 
What secrets he had seen in passing by. 
To tell the truth, the self-same hurt have I, 
By viewing her for whom I daily die ; 
I leese my wonted shape, in that my mind 
Doth suffer wreck upon the stony rock 
Of her disdain, who, contrary to kind. 
Does bear a breast more hard than any stock ; 
And former form of limbs is changed quite 
By cares in love, and want of due delight. 
I leave my life, in that each secret thought 
Which I conceive through wanton fond regard, 
Dotli make me say that life availeth nought. 
Where service cannot have a due reward. 
I dare not name the nymph that works my smart, 
Though love hath graven her name within myheart. 



fourteen lines, written in heroic verse, with alternate and 
couplet rhymes. Watson's sonnets are all of eighteen lines. 



EDMUND SPENSER, 

[Born, 1553. Died, 159S-9.] 



Descended from the ancient and honourable 
family of Spenser, was Born in London, in East 
Smitlifield, by the Tower, probably about the 
year 1553. He studied at the university of Cam- 
bridge, where it appears, from his correspondence, 
that he formed an intimate friendship with the 
learned, but pedantic, Gabriel Harvey.* Spen- 
ser, with Sir P. Sydney, was, lor a time, a con- 
vert to Harvey's Utopian scheme for changing 
the measures of English poetry into those of the 
Gi'ceks and Romans. 

Spenser even vn-ote trimeter iambicsf suffi- 
ciently bad to countenance the English hexame- 
ters of his friend ; but the Muse would not sutler 
such a votary to be lost in the pursuit after chi- 
meras, and recalled him to her natural strains. 
From Cambridge Spenser went to reside with 
some relations in the north of England, and, in 
this retirement, conceived a passion for a mistress, 
whom he has celebrated under the name of Rosa- 
lind. It appears, however, that she trifled with 
his affection, and preferred a rival. 

Harvey, or Hobinol (by so uncouth a name did 
the shepherd of hexameter memory, the learned 
Harvey, deign to be called in Spenser's eclogues), 
with better judgment than he had shown in poeti- 
cal matters, advised Spenser to leave his rustic 
obscurity, and introduced him to Sir Phdip Syd- 
ney, who recommended him to his uncle, the Earl 
of Leicester. The poet was invited to the family 
seat of Sydney at Penshurst, in Kent, where he 
is supposed to have assisted the Platonic studies 
of his gallant and congenial friend. To him he de- 
dicated his " Shepheard's Calendar." Sydney did 
not bestow unqualified praise on those eclogues ; 
he allowed that they contained much poetry, but 
condemned the antique rusticity of the language. 
It was of these eclogues, and not of the Fairy 
Queen (as has been frequently misstated), that 
Ben Jonson said, that the author in affecting the 
ancients had written no language at all.J They 
gained, however, so many admirers, as to pass 
through five editions in Spenser's lifetime ; and 
though Dove, a contemporary scholar, who trans- 
lated them into Latin, speaks of the author being 
unknown, yet when Abraham Fraunce, in 1583, 
published his " Lawyer's Logicke," he illustrated 
his rules by quotations from the Shepheard's Ca- 
lendar. 

Pope, Dryden and Warton have extolled those 
eclogues, and Sir William Jones has placed Spen- 
ser and Gay as the only genuine descendants of 



* Fur an acoount of Harvey, the rc'ider may consult 
Wood's Athrn. Oxen. vol. i. Fasti col. 128. 

t A short Pxample of Spenser's lambicum Trimetrum 
will suffice, from a copy of verses in one of his own letters 
to Harvey. 

Unhappy verse ! the witness of my unhappy state, 



Theocritus and Virgil in pastoral poetry. This 
decision may be questioned. Favourable as tlie 
circumstances of England have been to the de- 
velopment of her genius in all the higher walks 
of poetry, they have not been propitious to the 
humbler pastoral muse. Her trades and manu- 
factures, the very blessings of her wealth and in- 
dustry, threw the indolent shepherd's life to a dis- 
tance from her cities and capital, where poets, 
with all their love of the country, are generally 
found ; and impressed on the face of the country, 
and on its rustic manners, a gladsome, but not 
romantic appearance. 

In Scotland, on the contrary, the scenery, rural 
economy of the country, and the songs of the 
peasantry, sung, " at the watching of the fold," 
presented Ramsay with a much nearer image of 
pastoral life, and he accordingly painted it with 
the fresh feeling and enjoyment of nature. Had 
Sir William Jones understood the dialect of that 
poet, I am convinced that he would not have 
awarded the pastoral crown to any other author. 
Ramsay's shepherds are distinct, intelligible beings, 
neither vulgar, like the caricatures of Gay, nor 
fantastic, like those of Fletcher. They afford such 
a view of national peasantry as we should wish to 
acquire by travelling among them ; and form a 
draft entirely devoted to rural manners, which for 
truth, and beauty, and extent, has no parallel in 
the richer language of England. Shakspeare's 
pastoral scenes are only subsidiary to the main 
interest of the plays where they are introduced. 
Milton's are rather pageants of fancy than pic- 
tures of real life. The shepherds of Spenser's 
Calendar are parsons in disguise, who converse 
about heathen divinities and points of Christian 
theology. Pahnode defends the luxuries of the 
Catholic clergy, and Piers extols the purity of 
Archbishop Grindal; concluding with the story 
of a fox, wh6 came to the house of a goat, in the 
character of a pedlar, and obtained admittance 
by pretending to be a sheep. This may be bur- 
lesquing ^sop, but certainly is not imitating 
Theocritus. There are fine thoughts and images 
in the Calendar, but, on the whole, the obscurity 
of those pastorals is rather their covering than 
their principal defect. 

In 1580, Arthur Lord Grey, of Wilton, went as 
lord-lieutenant to Ireland, and Spenser accompa- 
nied him as his secretary ; we may suppose by 
the recommendation of the Earl of Leicester. 
Lord Grey was recalled from his Irish govern- 

Make thyself fluttering wings of thy fast flying 
Thought, and fly forth unto my love, wheresoever she be 
Whether lyiug ivstkss in heavy bed, or else 
Sitting so cheerless at the cheerful board, or else 
Playing alone, careless on her heavenly virgiuals. 
[J Ben Jonson's Works, by Gifford, vol. ix. p. 215.— C.J 
105 



106 



EDMUND SPENSER. 



ment in 1582, and Spenser returned with him to 
England, where, by the interest of Grey, Leices- 
ter, and Sydney, he obtained a grant from Queen 
Elizabeth of 3028 acres in the county of Cork, out 
of the forfeited estates of the Earl of Desmond. 
This was the last act of kindness which Sydney 
had a share in conferring on him : he died in the 
same year, furnishing an almost solitary instance 
of virtue passing through life uncalumniated. 

Whether Sydney was meant or not, under the 
character of Prince Arthur in the Fairy Queen, 
we cannot conceive the poet, in describing heroic 
excellence, to have had the image of Sir Philip 
Sydney long absent from his mind. 

By the terms of the royal grant, Spenser was 
obliged to return to Ireland, in order to cultivate 
the lands assigned to him. His residence at Kil- 
colman, an ancient castle of the Earls of Des- 
mond, is described by one* who had seen its ruins, 
as situated on the north side of a fine lake, in the 
midst of a vast plain, which was terminated to 
the east by the Waterford mountains, on the north 
by the Ballyhowra hdls, and by the Nagle and 
Kerry mountains on the south and east. It com- 
manded a view of above half the breadth of Ireland, 
and must have been, when the adjacent uplands 
were wooded, a most romantic and pleasant situa- 
tion. The river Mulla, which Spenser has so 
often celebrated, ran through his grounds. In 
this retreat he was visited by Sir Walter Raleigh, 
at that time a captain in the queen's army. His 
visit occasioned the first resolution of Spenser to 
prepare the first books of the Fairy Queen for 
immediate publication. Spenser has commemo- 
rated this interview, and the inspiring influence 
of Raleigh's praise, under the figurative descrip- 
tion of two shepherds tuning their pipes, beneath 
the alders of the Mulla ; — a fiction with which 
the mind, perhaps, will be much less satisfied, 
ihan by recalling the scene as it really existed. 
When we conceive Spenser reciting his composi- 
tions to Raleigh, in a scene so beautifully appro- 
priate, the mind casts a pleasing retrospect over 
that influence which the enterprise of the disco- 
verer of Virginia, and the genius of the author 
of the Fairy Queen, have respectively produced 
on the fortune and language of England. The 
fancy might even be pardoned for a momentary 
superstition, that the Genius of their country ho- 
vered, unseen, over their meeting, casting her first 
look of regard on the poet that was destined to 
inspire her future Milton, and the other on the 
maritime hero, who paved the way for colonizing 
distant regions of the earth, where the language 
of England was to be spoken, and the poetry of 
Spenser to be admired. Raleigh, whom the poet 
accompanied to England, introduced him to Queen 
Elizabeth. Her majesty, in 1590-1, conferred on 
him a pension of 50/. a year. In the patent for 
his pension he is not styled the laureat, but his 
contemporaries have frequently addressed him by 



* Smith's History of Cork, quoted by Todd, 
t Viz. 1. The Ruins of Time.— 2. The Tears of the Muses. 
■—3. Virgil's Gnat. — i. Prosopopoia, or Mother Hubbard's 



that title. Mr. Malone's discovery of the patent 
for this pension refutes the idle story of Burleigh's 
preventing the royal bounty being bestowed upon 
the poet, by asking if so much money was to be 
given for a song ; as well as that of Spenser's pro- 
curing it at last by the doggrel verses, 
I was promised, on a time, 
To have reason for my rhyme, &c. 

Yet there are passages in the Fairy Queen which 
unequivocally refer to Burleigh with severity. 
The coldness of that statesman to Spenser most 
probably arose fi-om the poet's attachment to Lord 
Leicester and Lord Essex, who were each suc- 
cessively at the head of a party — opposed to the 
Lord Chancellor. After the publication of the 
Fairy Queen, he returned to Ireland, and, during 
his absence, the fame which he had acquired by 
that poem (of which the first edition, however, 
contained only the first three books) induced his 
publisher to compile and reprint his smaller 
pieces-t He appears to have again visited Lon- 
don about the end of 1591, as his next publica- 
tion, the Elegy on Douglas Howard, daughter of 
Henry Lord Howard, is dated January 15.91-2. 
From this period there is a long interval in the 
history of Spenser, which was probably passed 
in Ireland, but of which we have no account. 
He married, it is conjectured, in the year 1594, 
when he was past forty ; and it appears from his 
Epithalamium, that the nuptials were celebrated 
at Cork. In 1596, the second part of the Fairy 
Queen appeared, accompanied by a new edition 
of the first. Of the remaining six books, which 
would have completed the poet's design, only frag- 
ments have been brought to light ; and there is 
little reason to presume that they were regularly 
furnished. Yet Mr. Todd has proved that the 
contemporaries of Spenser believed much of his 
valuable poetry to have been lost, in the destruc- 
tion of his house in Ireland. 

In the same year, 1596, he presented to the 
queen his " View of the State of Ireland," which 
remained in manuscript, tdl it was published by 
Sir James Ware, in 1633. Curiosity turns natu- 
rally to the prose work of so old and eminent a 
poet, which exhibits him in the three-fold charac- 
ter of a writer delineating an interesting country 
from his own observation, of a scholar tracing back 
its remotest history, and of a politician investigat- 
ing the causes of its calamities. The antiquities 
of Ireland have been since more successfully ex- 
plored ; though on that subject Spenser is still a 
respectable authority. The great value of the 
book is the authentic and curious picture of na- 
tional manners and circumstances which it exhi- 
bits ; and its style is as nervous as the matter is 
copious and amusing. A remarkable proposal, in 
his plan for the management of Ireland, is the 
establishment of the Anglo-Saxon system, of 
Borseholders. His political views are strongly 
coercive, and consist of little more than station- 



Tale.— 5. The Ruins of Rome, by Bellay.— 6. Muiopotmoa, 
or the Tale of the Butterfly.-". Visions of the World's 
Vauitie. — 8. Beliay's Visions. — 9. Petrarch's Visions 



EDMUND SPENSER. 



107 



iiig proper garrisons, and abolishing ancient cus- 
toms : and we find him declaiming bitterly against 
the Irish minstrels, and seriously dwelling on the 
loose mantles, and glibs, or long hair, of the va- 
grant poor, as important causes of moral depra- 
vity. But we ought not try the plans of Spenser 
by modern circumstances, nor his temper by the 
liberality of more enlightened times. It was a 
great point to commence earnest discussion on 
such a subject. From a note in one of the oldest 
copies of this treatise, it appears that Spenser was 
at that time clerk to the council of the province 
of Ulster. In 1597, our poet returned to Ireland, 
and in the following year was destined to an ho- 
nourable situation, being recommended by her 
majesty to be chosen sheritf for Cork. But in the 
subsequent month of that year, Tyrone's rebel- 
lion broke out, and occasioned his immediate flight, 
with his family, from Kilcolman. In the confu- 
sion attending this calamitous departure, one of 
liis children was left behind, and perished in the 



conflagration of his house, when it was destroyed 
by the Irish insurgents. Spenser returned to Eng- 
land with a heart broken by distress, and died at 
London on the 16th of January, 1598-9. He 
was buried, according to his own desire, near the 
tomb of Chaucer ; and the most celebrated poets 
of the time (Shakspeare was probably of the num- 
ber), followed his hearse and threw tributary verses 
into his grave. 

Mr. Todd, the learned editor of his works, has 
proved it to be highly improbable that he could 
have died, as has been sometimes said, in absolute 
want. For he had still his pension and many 
friends, among whom Essex provided nobly for 
his funeral. Yet that he died broken-hearted and 
comparatively poor, is but too much to be feared, 
from the testimony of his contemporaries, Cam- 
den and Jonson. A reverse of fortune might 
crush his spirit without his being reduced to abso- 
lute indigence, especially with the horrible recollec- 
tion of the manner in which his cliild had perished. 



FAIRY QUEEN, BOOK L, CANTO III. 



TJNA FOLLOWED BY THE LION. 

Forsaken Truth long seeks her love, 
And makes the Li'tn mild ; 
Mars blind Devnlioci's mart, and falls 
In hand of lecher wild. 

Nought is there under Heaven's wide hollowness, 
That moves more dear compassion of mind, 
Than beauty brought t'unworthy wretchedness, 
Through envy's snares,or fortune's freaks unkind. 
I, whether lately through her brightness blmd, 
Or through allegiance and fast felllty. 
Which I do owe unto all womankind. 
Feel my heart pierced with so great agony. 

When such I see, that all for pity I could die. 
And now it is impassioned so deep. 
For fairest Una's sake, .of whom I sing. 
That my frail eyes these lines with tears do steep, 
To think how she through guileful "handelling, 
Though true as touch, though daughter of a king. 
Though fair as ever living wight was fair, 
Though nor in word nor deed ill meriting, 
Is from her knight divorced in despair, 

And her due love's derived to that vile witch's share. 
Yet she, most faithful lady, all this while 
Forsaken, woeful, solitary maid. 
Far from all people's preace, as in exile. 
In wilderness and wasteful deserts stray'd, 
To seek her knight, who, subtily betray 'd 
Through that late vision, which the enchanter 

wrought. 
Had her abandon'd : she, of nought afraid. 
Through woods and wasteness wide him daily 
sought; 

Yet wished tidings none of him unto her brought. 
One day, nigh weary of the irksome way, 
From her unhasty beast she did alight ; 
And on the grass her dainty limbs did lay 
In secret shadow, far from all men's sight ; 
From her fur head her fillet she undight. 
And hud her stole aside : her angel's face, 



As the great eye of heaven, shined bright, 
And made a sunshine in a shady place ; 

Did never mortal eye behold such heavenly grace. 
It fortuned, out of the thickest wood, 
A ramping lion rushed suddenly. 
Hunting full greedy after savage blood ; 
Soon as the royal virgin he did spy. 
With gaping mouth at her ran greedily. 
To have at once devour'd her tender corse ; 
But to the prey when as he drew more nigh, 
His bloody rage assuaged with remorse. 

And, with the sight amazed, forgot his furious force. 
Instead thereof he kiss'd her weary feet. 
And lick'd her lily hands with fawning tongue, 
As he her wronged innocence did weet. 
how can beauty master the most strong. 
And simple truth subdue avenging wrong ! 
Whose yielded pride and proud submission, 
Still dreading death, when she had marked long, 
Her heart 'gan melt in great compassion. 

And drizzling tears did shed for pure aflection. 
" The lion, lord of every beast in field," 
Quoth she, " his princely puissance doth abate. 
And mighty proud to humble weak does yield, 
Forgetful of the hungry rage which late 
Him prick'd, in pity of my sad estate: 
But he, my lion, and my noble lord. 
How does he find in cruel heart to hate 
Her that him loved, and ever most adored, 

As the God of my life ! why hath he me abhorr'd]" 
Redounding tears did choke th' end of her plaint, 
Which softly echoed from the neighbour wood ; 
And, sad to see her sorrowful constraint. 
The kingly beast upon her gazing stood ; 
With pity calm'd, down fell his angry mood. 
At last, in close heart shutting up her pain. 
Arose the virgin, born of heavenly blood. 
And to her snowy palfrey got again, 

To seek her strayed champion, if she might attain 



The lion would not leave her desolate, 
But with her went along, as a strong guard 
Of her chaste person, and a faithful mate 
Of her sad troubles, and misfortunes hard. 
Still, when she slept, he kept both watch and ward ; 
And, when she waked, he waited diligent. 
With humble service to her will prepared : 
From her fair eyes he took commandenient, 
And ever by her looks conceived her intent. 



BOOK I., CANTO V. 

THE FAITHFUL KNIGHT HAVING KILLED THE SARACEN SANSFOY, 
DUKSSA THE -nlTCH MAKES A JOURNEV TO THE INFERNAL 
REGWNS TO RECOVER THE UODY OF HER INF1U£L CHAMPION. 

So wept Duessa until eventide, 

. That shining lamps in love's high house were light; 
Then forth she rose, no longer would abide, 
But comes unto the place where th' heathen 

knight, 
In slumb'ring swoon'd, nigh void of vital sp'rit, 
Lay cover'd with enchanted cloud all day ; 
Whom, when she found, as she him left in plight, 
To wail his woeful case she would not stay, 

But to the eastern coast of Heaven makes speedy 
way. 
Where grisly Night, with visage deadly sad, 
That Phoebus' cheerful face durst never view, 
And in a foul black pitchy mantle clad, 
She finds forthcoming from her darksome mew, 
Where she all day did hide her hated hue. 
Before the door her iron chariot stood, 
Already harnessed for journey new ; 
And coal-black steeds, yborn of hellish brood, 

That on their rusty bits did champ as they were 
wood." 
So well they sped, that they be come at length 
Unto the place whereas the Paynim lay, 
Devoid of outward sense and native strength, 
Cover'd with charmed cloud, from view of day 
And sight of men, since his late luckless fray. 
His cruel wounds with cruddy blood congeal'd, 
They binden up so wisely as they may. 
And handled softy till they can be heal'd : 

So lay him in her chari't, close in Night conceal'd. 
And all the while she stood upon the ground. 
The wakeful dogs did never cease to bay, 
As giving warning of th' unwonted sound. 
With which her iron wheels did them atiiray, 
And her dark grisly look them much dismay ; 
The messenger of death, the ghastly owl. 
With dreary shrieks did also her bewray ; 
And hungry wolves continually did howl 

At her abhorred face, so filthy and so foul. 
B\' that same way the direful dames do drive 
Their mournful chariot, fiU'd with rusty blood, 
And down to Pluto's house are come bilive ;'> 
Which passing through, on every side them stood 
The trembling ghosts, with sad amazed mood, 
Chattering their iron teeth, and staring wide 
With stony eyes; and ail the hellish brood 
Of fiends infernal flock'd on every side [ride. 

'Ji> gaze on earthly wight, that with the Night durst 



» Jlad. 



b Quickly. 



BOOK ir., CANTO TI. 
A HARDEE lesson to learn continence 
In joyous pleasure than in grievous pain ; 
For sweetness doth allure the weaker sense 
So strongly, that uneathes it can refrain 
From that which feeble nature covets fain ; 
But grief and wrath, that be her enemies 
And toes of life, she better can restrain : 
Yet Virtue vaunts in both her victories, 

And Guyon in them all shows goodly masteries. 
When bold Cymochles travelling to find, 
With cruel purpose bent to wreak on him 
The wrath which Atin kindled in his mind, 
Came to a river, by whose utmost brim 
Waiting to pass, he saw whereas did swim 
Along the shore, as swift as glance of eye, 
A little gondclay, bedecked trim 
With boughs and arbours woven cunningly, 

That like a little forest seemed outwardly ; 
And therein sate a lady fresh and fair, 
Making sweet solace to herself alone ; 
Sometimes she sung as loud as lark in air, 
Sometimes she laugh'd, that nigh her breath was 
Yet was there not with her else any one, [gone, 
That to her might move cause of merriment ; 
Matter of mirth enough, though there were none, 
She could devise, and tliousand ways invent 

To feel her foolish humour and vain jollmient. 
Which when far oft* Cymochles heard and saw. 
He loudly call'd to such as were aboard 
The little bark, unto the shore to draw, 
And him to ferry over that deep ford : 
The merry mariner unto his word 
Soon heark'ned, and her painted boat straightway 
Turn'd to the shore, where that same warlike lord 
She in received ; but Atin by no way 

She would admit, albe the knight her much did 
pray. 
Eftsoons her shallow ship away did slide, 
More swift than swallow sheers the liquid sky, 
Withouten oar or pilot it to giiide, 
Or winged canvas with the wind to fly : 
Only she turn'd a pin, and by and by 
It cut away upon the yielding wave ; 
Ne cared she her course for to apply. 
For it was taught the way which she would have. 

And both from rocks and flats itself could wisely 
save. 
And all the way the wanton damsel found 
New mirth her passenger to entertain ; 
For she in pleasant purpose did abound, 
And greatly joyed merry tales to feign, 
Of which a store-house did with her remain. 
Yet seemed nothing well they her became ; 
For all her words she drown'd with laughter vain. 
And wanted grace in utt'ring of the same, 
That turned all her pleasaunce to a scolUng game. 
And other whiles vain toys she would devise 
As her fantastic wit did most delight : 
Sometimes her head she fondly would agnize 
With gaudy garlands, or fresh flowrets dight 
About her neck, or rings of rushes plight: 



EDMUND SPENSER. 



109 



Sometimes to do him laugh, she would assay 
To laugh at shaking of the leaves light, 
Or to behold the water work and play 
About her little frigate, therein making way. 

Her light behaviour and loose dalliance 
Gave wondrous great contentment to the knight, 
That of his way he had no sovenaunce, 
Nor care of vow'd revenge and cruel fight, 
But to weak wench did yield his martial might : 
So easy was to quench his flamed mind 
With one sweet drop of sensual delight ; 
So easy is t' appease the stormy wind 
Of malice in the calm of pleasant womankind. 

Diverse discourses in their way they spent ; 
'Mongst which Cymochles of her questioned 
Both what she was, and what the usage meant, 
Which in her cot she daily practised ! 
"Vain man !" said she, "that wouldst be reckoned 
A stranger in thy home, and ignorant 
Of Phcedria (for so my name is read) 
Of Phcedria, thine own fellow-servant : 
For thou to serve Acrasia thyself dost vaunt. 

" In this wide inland sea, that hight by name 
The Idle Lake, my wand'ring ship I row, 
That knows her port, and thither sails by aim, 
Ne care ne fear I how the wind do blow, 
Or whether swift I wend or whether slow : 
Both slow and swift alike do serve my turn : 
Ne swelling Neptune, ne loud-thund'ring Jove, 
Can change my cheer, or make me ever mourn ; 
My little boat can safely pass this perilous 
bourne." 

Whiles thus she talk'd, and whiles thus she toy'd, 
They were far past the passage which he spake, 
And come unto an island waste and void, 
That floated in the midst of thaf great lake ; 
There her small gondelay her port did make, 
And that gay pair issuing on the shore 
Disburthen'd her : their, way they forward take 
Into the land that lay them fair before. 
Whose pleasaunce she him shew'd, and plentiful 
great store. 

It was a chosen plot of fertile land. 
Amongst wide waves set like a httle nest, 
As if it had by_ Nature's cunning hand 
Been choicely picked out from all the rest, 
And laid forth for ensample of the best : 
No dainty flower or herb that grows on ground, 
Nor arboret with painted blossoms drest. 
And smelling sweet, but there it might be found 
To bud out fair, and her sweet smells throw all 
around. 

No tree, whose branches did not bravely spring ; 
No branch, whereon a fine bird did not sit ; 
No bird, but did her shrill notes sweetly sing ; 
No song, but did contain a lovely dit. 
Trees, branches, birds, and songs, were framed fit 
F ^r to allure frail mind to careless ease, 
Careless the man soon woxe, and his weak wit 
Was overcome of thing that did him please :, 
So pleased, did his wrathful purpose fair 



Thus wben she had his eyes and senses fed 
With false delights, and fiU'd with pleasures vain, 
Into a shady dale she soft him led. 
And laid him down upon a grassy plain, 
And her sweet self, without dread or disdain, 
She set beside, laying his head disarm'd 
In her loose lap, it softly to sustain, 
Where soon he slumber'd, fearing not be harm'd ; 
The whiles with a love-lay she thus him sweetly 
charm'd : 

" Behold, man ! that toilsome pains dost take, 
The flowers, the fields, and all that pleasant grows. 
How they themselves do thine ensample make, 
Whdes nothing envious Nature them forth throws 
Out of her fruitful lap : how no man knows 
They spring, they bud, they blossom fresh and fair, 
Anddeck theworldwith their rich pompous shows ; 
Yet no man for them taketh pains or care. 
Yet no man to them can his careful pains compare. 

"The lily, lady of the flow'ring field, 
The flower-de-luce, her lovely paramour. 
Bid thee to them thy fruitless labours yield. 
And soon leave off this toilsome weary stour ; 
Lo,lo ! how brave she decks her bounteous bower, 
With silken curtains and gold coverlets. 
Therein to shroud her sumptuous belamourc; 
Yet neither spins nor cards, ne cares nor frets, 
But to her mother Nature all her care she lets. 

"Why then dost thou, O Man, that of them all 
Art lord, and eke of Nature sovereign. 
Wilfully make thyself a wretched thrall. 
And waste thy joyous hours in needless pain, 
Seeking for danger and adventure vain ] 
What boots it all to have and nothing use 1 
Who shall him rue that, swimming in the main, 
Will die for thirst, and water doth refuse 7 

Refuse such fi-uitless toil and present pleasures 
choose." 
By this she had him lulled fast asleep, 
That of no worldly thing he care did take ; 
Then she with liquors strong his eyes did steep, 
That nothing should him hastily awake : 
So she him left, and did herself betake 
Unto her boat again, with which she cleft 
The slothful wave of that great grisly lake ; 
Soon she that island far behind her left, 

And now is come to that same place where first 
she weft. 

By this time was the worthy Guyon brought 
Unto the other side of that wide strand 
Where she was rowing, and for passage sought; 
Him needed not long call ; she soon to hand 
Her ferry brought, where him she biding found 
With his sad guide : himself she took aboard, 
But the black palmer sufl'er'd still to stand, 
Ne would for price or prayers once afford 
To ferry that old man over the perilous ford. 

Guyon was loath to leave his guide behind. 
Yet being enter'd might not back retire ; 
For the flit bark obeying to her mind. 
Forth launched quickly, as she did desire, 
Ne gave him leave to bid that aged sire 



110 



EDMUND SPENSER. 



Adieu, but nimbly ran her wonted cgurse 
Through the dull billows, thick as troubled mire, 
Whom neither wind out of their seat could force. 

Nor timely tides did drive out of their sluggish 
source. 
And by the way, as was her wonted guise, 
Her merry fit she freshly 'gan to rear, 
And did of joy and jolity devise. 
Herself to cherish, and her guest to cheer. 
The knight was courteous, and did not forbear 
Her honest mirth and pleasaunce to partake ; 
But when he saw her toy, and gibe, and jeer, 
And pass the bonds of modest merimake, 

FIcr dalliance he despised, and follies did forsake. 
Yet she still followed her former style. 
And said, and did all that mote him delight, 
Till they arrived in that pleasant isle. 
Where sleeping late she left her other knight : 
But whenas Guyon of that land had sight, 
He wist himself amiss, and angry said, 
" Ah ! Dame, perdy ye have not done me right, 
Thus to mislead me, whiles I you obey'd : 

Me little needed from my right way to have stray 'd." 
"Fair Sir!" quoth she, "be not displeased at all; 
Who fares on sea may not command his way, 
Ne wind and weather at his pleasure call : 
The sea is wide, and easy for to stray, 
The wind unstable, and doth never stay : 
But here a while ye may in safety rest. 
Till season serve new passage to assay : 
Better safe port, than be in seas distrest." 

Therewith she laugh'd, and did her earnest end 
in jest. 
But he, half discontent, mote natheless 
Himself appease, and issued forth on shore ; 
The joys whereof, and happy fruitfulness. 
Such as he saw, she 'gan him lay before. 
And all though pleasant,yet she made much more. 
The fields did laugh,the flowers did freshly spring. 
The trees did bud, and early blossoms bore. 
And ail the quire of birds did sweetly sing. 

And told the garden's pleasures in their caroling. 
And she, more sweet than any bird on bough, 
Would oftentimes amongst them bear a part, 
And strive to pass (as she could well enough) 
Their native music by her skilful art : 
So did she all, that might his constant heart 
Withdraw from thought of warlike enterprise, 
And drown in dissolute delights apart. 
Where noise of arms, or view of martial guise 

Might not revive desire of knightly exercise. 
But he was wise, and wary of her will. 
And ever held his hand upon his heart ; 
Yet would not seem so rude and thewed ill, 
As to despise so courteous seeming part. 
That gentle lady did to him impart ; 
But fairly tempering, fond desire subdued. 
And ever her desired to depart; 
She list not hear, but her disports pursued. 

And ever bade him stay til! time the tide renew'd. 
And now by this Cymochles' hour was spent 
That he awoke out of his idle dream ; 
^nd shaking off his drowsy dreriment. 



'Gan him advise how ill did him beseem 
In slothful sleep his moulten heart to steme. 
And quench the brand of his conceived ire ; 
Tho' up he started, stirr'd with shame extreme, 
Ne stayed for his damsel to enquire, 

Butmarched to the strand, there passage to require. 
And in the way he with Sir Guyon met, 
Accompanied with Phoedria the fair ; 
Eftsoons he 'gan to rage and inly fret. 
Crying, " Let be that lady debonair. 
Thou recreant knight, and soon thyself prepare 
To battle, if thou mean her love to gain. 
Lo, lo, already how the fowls in air 
Do flock, awaiting shortly to obtain 

Thy carcass for their prey, the guerdon of thy pain." 
And therewithal he fiercely at him flew. 
And with importune outrage him assail'd ; 
Who soon prepared, to field his sword forth drew, 
And him with equal value countervail'd ; 
Their mighty strokes their haberieons dismail'd. 
And naked made each other's manly spalles ; 
The mortal steel dispiteously entail'd 
Deep in their flesh, quite through the iron walls, 

That a large purple stream adown their giambeux 
falls. 
Cymochles, that had never met before 
So puissant foe, with envious despight 
His proud presumed force encreased more. 
Disdaining to be held so long in fight. 
Sir Guyon, grudging not so much his might, 
As those unknightly railings which he spoke, 
With wrathful fire his courage kindled bright. 
Thereof devising shortly to be wroke. 

And doubling all his powers, redoubled every stroke. 

Both of them high at once their hands enhaunst, 
And both at once their huge blows down did sway ; 
Cymochles' S\vord on Guyon's shield yglaunst, 
And thereof nigh one quarter shear'd away ; 
But Guyon's angry blade so fierce did play 
On th' other's helmet, which as Titan shone. 
That quite it clove his plumed crest in tway. 
And bared all his head into the bone. 

Wherewith astonish'd still he stood as senseless 
stone. 
Still as he stood, fair Phoedria (that beheld 
That deadly danger) soon atweene them ran, 
And at their feet herself mosrtiunil)ly fell'd. 
Crying with piteous voice and count'nance wan, * 
" Ah ! well away ! most noble lords, how can 
Your cruel eyes endure so piteous sight 
To shed your lives on ground I woe worth the man 
That first did teach the cursed steel to bite 

In his own flesh, and make way to the living sp right ! 
« If ever love of lady did empierce 
Your iron breasts, or pity could find place. 
Withhold your bloody hands from battle fierce, 
And sith for me ye fight, to me this grace 
Both yield, to stay your deadly strile a space ;" 
They stay'd awhile, and forth she 'gan proceed : 
" Most wretched woman, and of wicked race. 
That am the author of this heinous deed. 

And cause of death between two doughty knights 
do breed. 



EDMUND SPENSER. 



Ill 



♦' But if for me ye fight, or me will serve, 
Not this rude kind of battle, nor these arms 
Are meet, the which do men in bale to sterve, 
And doleful sorrow heap with deadly harms : 
Such cruel game my scarmoges disarms. 
Another war and other weapons I 
Do love, where love does give his sweet alarms 
Without bloodshed, and where the enemy 
Does yield unto his foe a pleasant victory. 

" Debateful strife and cruel enmity 
The famous name of knighthood foully shend ; 
But lovely peace and gentle amity, 
And in amours the passing hours to spend, 
The mighty martial hands do most commend ; 
Of love they ever greater glory bore 
Than of their arms : Mars is Cupido's friend, 
And is for Veirus' loves renowned more 
Than all his wars and spoils the which he did of 
yore." 

Therewith she sweetly smiled. They, though 

full bent 
To prove extremities of bloody fight, 
Yet at her speech their rages 'gan relent. 
And calm the sea of their tempestuous spite : 
Such power have pleasing words: such is the might 
Of courteous clemency in gentle heart. 
Now after all was ceased, the Faery Knight 
Besought that damsel suffer him depart. 
And yield him ready passage to that other part. 

She no less glad than he desirous was 
Of his departure thence ; for of her joy 
And vain delight she saw he light did pass, 
A foe of folly and immodest toy. 
Still solemn sad, or still disdainful coy, 
Delighting all in arms and cruel war. 
That her sweet peace and pleasures did annoy, 
Troubled with terror and unquiet jar. 
That she well pleased was thence to amove him far. 

Tho' him she brought abroad, and her swift boat 
Forthwith directed to that further strand. 
That which on the dull waves did lightly float. 
And soon arrived on the shallow sand. 
Where gladsome Guyon sallied forth to land, 
And to that damsel thanks gave for reward : 
Upon that shore he espied Atin stand. 
There by his master left, when late he fared 
In Phoedria's fleet bark, over that perlous shard 



Bm GUYON, GUrOED BY THE PALMER TEMPERANCE, PASSES 
THE DANGERS OF THE BOWER OF BUSS. 

With that the rolling sea resounding soft, 
In his big base them fitly answered. 
And on the rock the waves breaking aloft, 
A solemn mean unto them measured ; 
The whiles sweet Zephyrus loud whistled 
His treble, a strange kind of harmony, 
V.'liich Guyon's senses softly tickled, 
'i bat he the boatman bade row easily. 
And let him hear some part of their rare melody. 

But him the palmer from that vanity 
W ith temperate advice discounselled, 



That they it past, and shortly 'gan descry 
The land to which their course they levelled; 
When suddenly a gross fog overspread 
With his dull vapour all that desert has, 
And heaven's cheerful fa-ce enveloped. 
That all things one, and one as nothing was, 
And this great universe seem'd one confused mass. 

Thereat they greatly was dismay'd, ne wist 
How to direct their way in darkness wide, 
But fear'd to wander in that wasteful mist. 
For tumbling into mischief unespied : 
Worse is the danger hidden than descried. 
Suddenly an innumerable flight 
Of harmful fowls about them fluttering cried. 
And with their wicked wings them oft did smite, 
And sore annoy'd, groping in that griesly night. 

Even all the nation of unfortunate 
And fatal birds about them flocked were, 
Such as by nature men abhor and hate ; 
The ill-faced owl, death's dreadful messenger ; 
The hoarse night-raven, trump of doleful drear ; 
The leather-winged bat, day's enemy ; 
The rueful strich, still waiting on the bier; 
The whistler shrill, that whoso hears doth die , 
The hellish harpies, prophets of sad destiny ; 

All those, and all that else does horror breed. 
About them flew, and fiU'd their sails with fear . 
Yet stay'd they not, but forward did proceed. 
Whiles th' one did row, and th' other stiffly steer , 
Till that at last the weather gan to clear. 
And the fair land itself did plainly show. 
Said then the palmer, " Lo where does appear 
The sacred soil where all our perils grow. 
Therefore, Sir Knight, your ready arms about you 
throw." 

He hearken'd, and his arms about him took, 
The whiles the nimble boat so well her sped. 
That with her crooked keel the land she struck 
Then forth the noble Guyon sallied. 
And his sage palmer that him governed ; 
But the other by his boat behind did stay. 
They marched fairly forth, of nought ydred, 
Both firmly arm'd for every hard assay. 
With constancy and care,gainst danger and dismay. 

Ere long they heard an hideous bellowing 
Of many beasts, that roar'd outrageously. 
As if that Hunger's point, or Venus' sting. 
Had them enraged with fell surquedry ; 
Yet nought they fear'd, but past on hardily, 
Untd they came in -view of those wild beasts, 
Who all at once, gaping full greedily, 
And rearing fiercely their upstarting crests. 
Ran towards to devour those unexpected guests. 

But soon as they approach'd with deadly threat, 
The palmer over them his stafl' upheld, 
His mighty staff", that could all charms defeat ; 
Eftsoons their stubborn courages were quell'd. 
And high-advanced crests down meekly fell'd: 
Instead of fraying they themselves did fear. 
And trembled, as them passing they beheld : 
Such wond'rous power did in that staff" appear. 
Ail monsters to subdue to him that did it bear. 



112 



EDMUND SPENSER. 



Of that same wood it fi-amed was cunningly 
Of which Caduceus whilcome was made, 
Caducous, the rod of Mercury, 
With which he wont the Stygian realms invade 
Through ghastly horror and eternal shade ; 
Th' internal fiends with it he can assuage. 
And Orcus tame, whom nothing can persuade, 
And rule the furies when they most do rage : 
Such virtue in his staff had eke this palmer sage. 

Thence passing forth, they shortly do arrive 
Whereat the Bower of Bliss was situate ; 
A place pick'd out by choice of best alive, 
That Nature's work by art can imitate : 
In which whatever in this worldly state 
Is sweet and pleasing unto living sense, 
Or that may daintiest fantasy aggrate. 
Was poured forth with plentiful dispense. 
And made there to abound with lavish affluence. 

Goodly it was, enclosed round about. 
As well their enter'd guests to keep within, 
As those unruly beasts to hold without ; 
Yet was the fence thereof but weak and thin ; 
Nought fear'd they force that fortilage to win, 
But Wisdom's power, and Temperance's might. 
By which the mightiest things efforced been ; 
And eke the gate was wrought of substance light. 
Rather for pleasure than for battery or fight. 

It framed was of precious ivory. 
That seem'd a work of admirable wit. 
And therein all the famous history 
Of Jason and Medsa was ywrit; 
Her mighty charms, her furious lo^^ng fit. 
His goodly conquest of the Golden Fleece, 
His talsed faith, and love too lightly flit. 
The wondered Argo, which, in venturous peace. 
First through the Euxine seas bore all the flower 
of Greece. 

Ye might have seen the frothy billows fry 
Under the ship, as thorough them she went. 
That seem'd the waves were into ivory. 
Or ivory into the waves, were sent ; 
And otherwhere the snowy substance sprent 
With vermeil, like the boy's blood therein shed, 
A piteous spectacle did represent ; 
And otherwhiles, with gold besprinkled, 
ft seem'd th' enchanted flame which did Creusa 
wed. 

All this, and more, might in that goodly gate 
Be read, that ever open stood to all 
Which thither came ; but in the porch there sat 
A comely personage, of stature tall. 
And semblance pleasing, more than natural. 
That travellers to him seemed to entice ; 
His looser garment to the ground did fall. 
And flew about his heels in wanton wise. 
Nor fit for speedy pace or manly exercise. 

They in that place him Genius did call ; 

Not that celestial power to whom the care 

Of life, and generation of all 

That lives, pertains in charge particular. 

Who wond'rous things concerning our welfare, 



And strange phantoms, doth let us oft foresee, 
And oft of secret ills bids us beware. 
That is ourself, whom though we do not see. 
Yet each doth in himself it well perceive to be : 

Therefore a god him sage antiquity 
Did wisely make, and good Agdistes call ; 
But this same was to that quite contrary. 
The foe of life, that good envies to all ; 
That secretly doth us procure to fall 
Through guileful semblance, which he makes us 
He of this garden had the g'overnale, [see. 

And Pleasure's porter was devised to be, 
Holding a staff in hand for more formality. 

With divers flowers he daintily was deck'd 
And strewed round about, and by his side 
A mighty mazer bowl of wine was set. 
As if it had to him been sacrificed. 
Wherewith all new-come guests he gratified ; 
So did he eke Sir Guyon passing by : 
But he his idle courtesy defied. 
And overthrew his bowl disdainfully. 
And broke his staff', with which he charged sem- 
blants sly. 

Thus being enter'd, they behold around 
A large and spacious plain, on every side 
Strewd with pleasances; whosefair grassy ground, 
Mantled with green, and goodly beautified 
With all the ornaments of Flora's pride, 
Wherewith her mother Art, as half in scorn 
Of niggard Nature, like a pompous bride. 
Did deck her, and too lavishly adorn, 
When forth from virgin bow'r she comes in th' 
early morn. 

There with the heavens, always jovial, 
Look'd on them lovely, still in stedfast state, 
Ne suffer'd storm nor fi-ost on them to fall. 
Their tender buds or leaves to violate ; 
Nor scorching heat, nor cold intemperate, 
T' afflict the creatures which therein did dwell; 
But the mild air, with season moderate. 
Gently attemper'd, and disposed so well, 
That still it breathed forth sweet spirit and whole- 
some smell. 

More sweet and wholesome than the pleasant hill 
Of Rhodope, on which the nymph, that bore 
A giant babe, herself for grief did kill ; 
Or the Thessalian Tempe, where of yore 
Fair Daphne Phoebus' heart with love did gore ; 
Or Ida, where the gods lo\ed to repair 
Whenever they their heavenly bowers forlore; 
Or sweet Parnasse, the haunt of muses fair; 
Or Eden self, if aught with Eden mote compare. 

Much wonder'd Guyon at the fair aspect 
Of that sweet place, yet suffer'd no delight 
To sink into his sense, nor mind affect ; 
But passed forth, and look'd still forward right, 
Bridling his will, and mastering his might, 
Till that he came unto another gate ; 
No gate, but like one, being goodly dight 
With boughs and branches, which did broad dilate 
Theh clasping arms,in wanton wreathings intricate. 



EDMUND SPENSER. 



113 



So fashioned a porch with rare device, 
Arch'd over head with an embracing vine. 
Whose bunches hanging down seem'd to entice 
All passers by to taste their luscious wine, 
And did themselves into their hands inchne, 
As freely offering to be gathered ; 
Some deep einpurpled as the hyacine, 
Some as the rubine, laughing sweetly red, 
Some like fair emeraudes not yet well ripened : 

And them amongst some were of burnish'd gold. 
So made by art to beautify the rest, 
Which did themselves amongst the leaves enfold. 
As lurking from the view of covetous guest. 
That the weak boughs, with so rich load oppress'd, 
Did bow adown as overburthened. 
Under that porch a comely dame did rest, 
Clad in fair weeds, but foul disordered. 
And garments loose, that seem'd unmeet for 
womanhead : 

In her left hand a cup of gold she held, 
And with her right the riper fruit did reach. 
Whose sappy liquor, that with fullness swell'd,- 
Into her cup she scruzed with dainty breach 
Of her fine fingers, without foul empeach 
That so fair wine-press made thewine more sweet : 
Thereof she used to give to drink to each, 
Whom passing by she happened to meet : 
It was her guise all strangers goodly so to greet. 

So she to Guyon offer'd it to taste : 
Who, taking it out of her tender hand, 
The cup to ground did violently cast. 
That all in pieces it was broken fond. 
And with the liquor stained all the land : 
Whereat Excess exceedingly was wroth, 
Yet no'te the same amend, ne yet withstand, 
But suffered him to pass, all were she lothe. 
Who, nought regarding her displeasure, forward 
goeth. 

There the most dainty paradise on ground 
Itself doth offer to his sober eye, 
In which all pleasures plenteously abound. 
And none does other's happiness envy ; 
The painted flowers, the trees upshooting high; 
The dales for shade, the hills for breathing space ; 
That trembling groves, the crystal running by ; 
And that which all fair works doth most aggrace. 
The art, which all that wrought, appeared in no 
place. 

One would have thought, (so cunningly the rude 
And scorned parts were mingled with the fine,) 
That Nature had for wantonness ensude 
Art, and that Art at Nature did repine ; 
So striving each th' other to undermine, 
Each did the other's work more beautify, 
So differing both in wills agreed in fine : 
So all agreed, through sweet diversity, 
This garden to adorn with all variety. 

And in the midst of all a fountain stood, 
Of richest substance that on the earth might be. 
So pure and shiny, that the silver flood 
Through every channel running one might see: 
Most goodly it with curious imagei-y 
15 



Was over-wrought, and shapes of naked boys, 
Of which some seem'd, with lively jollity, 
To fly about, playing their wanton toys, 
Whilst others did themselves embay in hquid joys 

And over all of purest gold was spread 
A trayle of ivy in his native hue ; 
For the rich metal was so coloured. 
That wight, wht) did not well advised it view, 
Would surely deem it to be ivy true : 
Low his lascivious arms adown did creep. 
That themselves, dipping in the silver dew 
Their fleecy flowers, they fearfully did steep, 
Which drops of crystal seem'd for wantonness to 
weep. 

Infinite streams continually did well 
Out of this fountain, sweet and fair to see, 
The which into an ample laver fell. 
And shortly grew to so great quantity. 
That like a little lake it seem'd to be. 
Whose depth exceeded not three cubits height, 
That through the waves one might the bottom see, 
All paved beneath with jasper, shining bright, 
That seem'd the fountain in that sea did sail 
upright. 

And all the margent round about was set 
With shady laurel trees, thence to defend 
The sunny beams which on the billows beat. 
And those which therein bathed mote offend. 
As Guyon happen'd by the same to wend. 
Two naked damsels he therein espied. 
Which therein bathing, seemed to contend 
And wrestle wantonly, ne cared to hide 
Their dainty parts fi-om view of any which them 
eyed. . . . 

As that fair star, the messenger of morn, 
His dewy face out of the sea doth rear ; 
Or as the Cyprian goddess, newly born 
Of th' ocean's fruitful froth, did first appear: 
Such seemed they, and so their yellow hears 
Crystalline humour dropped down apace ; 
Whom such when Guyon saw, he drew him near, 
And somewhat 'gan relent his earnest pace ; 
His stubborn breast 'gan secret pleasaunce to 
embrace. . . . 

On which when gazing him the palmer saw. 
He much rebuked those wand'ring eyes of his, 
And, counsell'd well,him forward thence did draw. 
Now are they come nigh to the Bower of Bliss, 
Of her fond favourites so named amiss; 
When thus the palmer : " Now, Sir, well avise, 
For here the end of all our travel is ; 
Here wonnes Acrasia, whom we must surprise, 
Else she will slip away, and all our drift despise." 

Eftsoons they heard a most melodious sound. 
Of all that mote delight a dainty ear, 
Such as at once might not on living ground, 
Save in this paradise, be heard elsewhere : 
Right hard it was for wight which did it hear, 
To rede what manner music that mote be ; 
For all that pleasing is to living ear, 
Was there consorted in one harmony ; 
Birds, voices, instruments, winds, waters, all agree. 
s2 



114 



EDMUND SPENSER. 



The joj'ous birds, shrouded in cheerful shade, 
Their notes unto the voice attemper'd sweet; 
Th' angelical soft trembling voices made 
To th' instruments divine respondence meet ; 
The silver-sounding instruments did meet 
With the base murmur of the water's fall ; 
The water's fall with diflerence discreet, 
Now soft, now loud, unto the. wind did call; 
The gentle warbling wind low answered to all. 



GI.AUCE AND BRITOMART EXPLORING THE CAVE OF MERIIN. 

Full many ways within her troubled mind 
Old Glauce cast to cure this lady's grief; 
Full many ways she sought, but none could find. 
Nor herbs, nor charms, nor counsel, that is chief 
And choicest med'cine for sick heart's relief; 
Forthy great care she took, and greater fear, 
Least that it should her turn to foul reprief, 
And sore reproach, whenso her father dear [hear. 

Should of his dearest daughter's hard misfortune 
At last she her advised, that he which made 
That mirror wherein the sick damosel 
So strangely viewed her strange lover's shade, 
To weet the learned Merlin, well 'could tell 
Under what coast of heaven the man did dwell. 
And by what means his love might best be 

wrought ; 
For though beyond the Afric Ismael, 
Or th' Indian Peru he were, she thought 

Him forth through infinite endeavour to have 
sought. 

Forthwith themselves disguising both in strange 
And base attire, that none might them bewray, 
To Maridunum, that is now by change 
Of name Cayr-Merdin call'd, they took their way ; 
There the wise Merlin whylome wont (they say) 
To make his wonne, low underneath the ground, 
In a deep delve, far from the view of day ; 
That of no living wight he mote be found, 
Whenso he counsell'd, with his sprites encompass'd 
round. 

And if thou ever happen that same way 
To travel, go to see that dreadful place : 
It is an hideous hollow cave (they say) 
Under a rock that lies a little space 
From the swift Barry, tumbling down apace 
Amongst the woody hills of Dynevowre : 
But dare thou not, I charge, in any case, 
To enter into that same baleful bower. 
For fear the cruel fiends should thee unwares 
devour. 

But standing high aloft, low lay thine ear, 
And there such ghastly noise of iron chains. 
And brazen cauldrons thou shalt rumbling hear. 
Which thousand sprites, with long-enduring 

pains, 
Do toss, that it will stun thy feeble brains ; 
And oftentimes great groans and grievous 

stounds. 
When too huge toil and labour them constrains. 
And oftentimes loud strokes and ringing sounds, 
From under that deep rock most horribly rebounds. 



The cause, some say, is this : a little while 
Before that Merlin died, he did intend 
A brazen wall in compass to compile 
About Cairmardin, and did it commend 
Unto these sprites to bring to perfect end ; 
During which work the Lady of the Lake, 
Whom long he loved, for him in haste did send, 
Who thereby forced his workmen to forsake, 
Them bound till his return their labour not to 
slake. 

In the mean time, through that false lady's train, 
He was surprised and buried under bier, 
Ne ever to his work return'd again ; 
Nathless those fiends may not their work forbear, 
So greatly his commandement they fear. 
But there do toil and travail day and night, 
Until that brazen wall they up do rear ; 
For Merlin had in magic more insight 
Than ever him before or after living wight. 

For he by words could call out of the sky 
Both sun and moon, and make them him obey ; 
The land to sea, and sea to mainland dry, 
And darksome night he eke could turn to day ; 
Huge hosts of men he could alone dismay, 
And hosts of men of meanest things could firame, 
Whenso him list his enemies to fray ; 
That to this day, for terror of his fame. 
The fiends do quake when any him to them does 
name. 

And sooth men say, that he was not the son 
Of mortal sire, and other living wight, 
But wond'rously begotten and begone 
By false illusion of a guileful sprite 
On a fair lady nun, that whilom hight 
Matilda, daughter to Pubidius, 
Who was the lord of Mathtraval by right, 
And cousin unto king Ambrosius, 
Whence he endued was with skill so marvel- 
lous. 

They here arriving, stay'd awhile without, 
Ne durst adventure rashly in to wend, 
But of their first intent 'gan make new doubt 
For dread of danger, which it might portend, 
Until the hardy maid (with love to friend) 
First entering, the dreadful mage there found 
Deep busied 'bout work of wond'rous end. 
And writing strange characters in the ground, 
With which the stubborn fiends he to his service 
bound 



BELPHOEBE FINDS TIMIAS WOUNDED AND CON- 
VEYS HIM TO HER DV7ELLING. 



BOOK ra. CANTO T. 



She on a day, as she pursued the chace 
Of some wild beast, which, with her arrows keen, 
She wounded had, the same along did trace 
By tract of blood, which she had freshly seen 
To have besprinkled all the grassy green ; 
By the great pursue which she there perceived, 
Well hoped she the beast engored had been. 
And made more haste the life to have bereaved ; 
But ah ! her expectation greatly was deceived. 



EDMUND SPENSER. 



115 



Shortly she came whereas that woeful squire, 
With blood deformed, lay in deadly swound ; 
In whose fair eyes, like lamps of quenched fire, 
The crystal humour stood congealed round; 
His locks, like faded leaves, fallen to ground, 
Knotted with hlood, in bunches rudely ran, 
And his sweet lips, on which, before that stound, 
The bud of youth to blossom fair began 
Spoil'd of their rosy red, were waxen pale and wan. 

Saw never living eye more heavy sight, 
That could have made a rock of stone to rue 
Or rive in twain ; which when that lady bright 
Besides all hope, with melting eyes did view, 
All suddenly abash'd, she changed hue, 
And with stern horror backward 'gan to start; 
But when she better him beheld, she grew 
Full of soft passion and unwonted smart ; 
The point of pity pierced through her tender 
heart. . 

Meekly she bowed down, to weet if life 
Yet in his frozen members did remain. 
And feeling by his pulse's beating rife 
That the weak soul her seat did yet retain, 
She cast to comfort him with busy pain. 
His double-folded neck she rear'd upright. 
And rubb'd his temples and each trembling vein ; 
His mailed haberjon she did undight. 
And from his head his heavy burganet did light. 

Into the woods thenceforth in haste she went, 
To seek for herbs that mote him remedy, 
For she of herbs had great intendiinent, 
Taught of the nymph which from her infancy 
Her nursed had in true nobility ; •• 
There, whether it divine tobacco were, 
Or panacea, or polygony. 
She found, and brought it to her patient dear, 
Who all this while lay bleeding out his heart-blood 
near. 

The sovereign weed, betwixt two marbles plain, 
She pounded small, and did in pieces bruise, 
And then atween her lily handes twain 
Into his wound the juice thereof did scruze, 
And round about (as she could well it use) 
The flesh therewith she suppled and did steep, 
T' abate all spasm, and soak the swelling bruise ; 
And after having search'd the intuse deep, 
She with her scarf did bind the wound, from cold 
to keep. 

By this he had sweet life recui-'d again. 
And groaning inly deep, at last his eyes. 
His watery eyes, drizzling like dewy rain. 
He up 'gan lift toward the azure skies, 
From whence descend all hopeless remedies : 
Therewith he sigh'd ; and turning him aside. 
The goodly maid, full of divinities, 
And gifts of heavenly grace, he by him spied. 
Her bow and gilden quiver lying him beside. 

" Mercy, dear liOrd !" said he, " what grace is this 
That thou hast shewed to me, sinful wight, 
To send thine angel from her bower of bliss 
To comfort me in my distressed plight ! 
\ngel, or goddess, do I call thee right ? 



What service may I do unto thee meet, 
That hast from darkness me return'd to light. 
And with thy heavenly salves and med'cines sweet 
Hast drest my sinful wounds 1 I kiss thy blessed 
feet." 

Thereat she blushing said, " Ah ! gentle Squire, 
Nor goddess I, nor angel, but the maid 
And daughter of a woody nymph, desire 
No service but thy safety and aid, 
Which if thou gain, I shall be well apaid. 
We mortal wights, whose lives and fortunes be 
To common accidents still open laid. 
Are bound with common bond of frailty. 
To succour wretched wights whom we captived 
see." 

By this her damsels, which the former chace 
Had undertaken alter her, arrived. 
As did Belphoebe, in the bloody place. 
And thereby deem'd the be'ast had been deprived 
Of life whom late their lady's arrow rived ; 
Forthy the bloody tract they follow'd fast. 
And every one to run the swiftest strived ; 
But two of them the rest far overpast, 
And where their lady was arrived at the last. 

Where, when they saw that goodly boy with blood 
Befouled, and their lady dress his wound. 
They wonder'd much, and shortly understood 
How him in deadly case their lady found, 
And rescued out of the heavy stound : 
Eftsoons his warlike courser, which was stray'd 
Far in the woods, whiles that he lay in swownd, 
She made those damsels search ; which being 

stay'd, 
They did him set thereon, and forthwith them 

convey'd. 

Into that forest far they thence him led, 
Where was their dwelling, in a pleasant glade, 
With mountains round about environed. 
And mighty woods which did the valley shade 
And like a stately theatre it made. 
Spreading itself into a spacious plain ; 
And in the midst a little river play'd 
Amongst the pumice stones, which seem'd to plain 
With gentle murmur, that his course they did 
restrain. 

Beside the same a dainty place there lay. 
Planted with myrtle trees and laurels green. 
In which the birds sang many a lovely lay 
Of God's high praise, and of their sweet loves'- teen. 
As it an earthly paradise had been ; 
In whose enclosed shadow there was pight 
A fair pavilion, scarcely to be seen, 
The which was all within most richly dight, 
That greatest princes living it mote well delight. 

Thither they brought that wounded squire, and 

laid 
In easy couch his feeble limbs to rest : 
He rested him a while, and then the maid 
His ready wound with belter salves new drest ; 
Daily she dressed him, and did the best 

* Sorrow. 



116 



POETRY OF UNCERTAIN AUTHORS. 



His grievous hurt to guarish' that she might, 
That shortly he his dolour had redrest, 
And his foul sore reduced to fair plight; 

It she reduced, but himself destroyed quite. 
foolish physic, and unfruitful pain. 
That heals up one, and makes another wound ; 
She his hurt thigh to him recured again. 
But hurt his heart, the which before was sound, 
Through an unwary dart, which did rebound 
From her fair eyes and gracious countenance : 
What boots it him from death to be unbound, 
To be captived in endelcss durance 

Of sorrow and despair without allegiance 1 . . . . 
Thus warred he long time against his will, 
Till that through weakness he was forced at last 
To yield himself unto the mighty ill, 
Which as a victor proud 'gan ransack fast 
His inward parts, and all his entrails waste, 
That neither blood in face, nor life in heart, 
It left, but both did quite dry up and blast, 
As piercing levin, which the inner part 

Of every thing consumes, and calcineth by art. 
Which seeing, fair Belphoebe 'gan to fear 
Least that his wound were inly well not heal'd, 
Or that the wicked steel empoison'd were ; 
Little she ween'd that love he close conceal'd; 
Yet still he wasted as the snow congeal'd, 
When the bright sun his beams thereon doth beat; 
Yet never he his heart to her reveal'd. 
But rather chose to die for sorrow great. 

Than with dishonourable terms her to entreat. . . 



FROM SPENSER'S SONNETS. 

SONNET LXXXVI. 

Since I did leave the presence of my love. 
Many long weary days I have outworn. 
And many nights that slowly secm'd to move 
Their sad protract from evening until morn. 
For, when as day the heaven doth adorn, 
I wish that night the noyous day would end ; 
And when as night hath us of light forlorn, 
I wish that day would shortly reascend. 
Thus I the time with expectation spend, 
And fain my grief with changes to beguile. 
That further seems his term still to extend, 
And maketh every minute seem a mile. 
So sorrow still doth seem too long to last, 
But joyous hours do fly away too fast. 



SONNET IXSXVm. 

Like as the culver, on the bared bough, 

Sits mourning for the absence of her mate. 

And in her songs sends many a wishful vow 

For his return that seems to linger late ; 

So I alone, now left disconsolate. 

Mourn to myself the absence of my Love, 

And, wand'ring here and there, all desolate. 

Seek with my plaints to match that mournful dove ; 

Ne joy of aught that under heaven doth hove. 

Can comfort me but her own joyous sight. 

Whose sweet aspect both God and man can move, 

In her unspotted pleasuns to delight, 

Dark is my day, whiles her fair light I miss. 

And dead my life, that wants such Hvely bliss. 



POETRY OF UNCERTAIN AUTHORS 

OF 

THE END OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY. 



THE SOUL'S ERRAND. 



FROM DAVISON'S "POETICAL RHAPSODY." 



This bold and spirited poem has been ascribed 
to several authors, but to none on satisfactory 
authority. It can be traced to MS. of a date as 
early as 1593, when Francis Davison, who pub- 
lished it in his Poetical Rhapsody, was too young 
to be supposed, with much probability, to have 
written it ; and as Davison's work was a compi- 
lation, his claims to it must be very doubtful. 
Sir Egerton Brydges has published it among Sir 
Walter Raleigh's poems, but without a tittle of 
evidence to show that it was the production of 
that great man. Mr. Ellis gives it to Joshua 
Sylvester, evidently by mistake. Whoever looks 
at the folio vol. of Sylvester's poems, will see that 



Joshua uses the beautiful original merely as a 
text, and has the conscience to print his own stuff 
in a way that shows it to be interpolated. Among 
those additions there occur some such execrable 
stanzas as the following : 



Say, soldiers are the sink 
Of sin to all the realm, 
Giv'n all to whore and drink, 
To quarrel and blaspheme. 

Tell townsmen, that because that 
They prank their brides so proud. 
Too many times it draws that 
Which makes them beetle-brow'd. 

Ohe jam satis! 



POETRY OF UNCERTAIN AUTHORS. 



THB SOUL'S ERRAND. 

Go, Soul, the boclj''s guest, 
Upon a thankless errand. 
Fear not to touch the best, 
The truth shall be thy warrant ; 
Go, since I needs must die, 
And give the world the lie. 
Go, tell the Court it glows, 
And shines like rotten wood ; 
Go, tell the Church it shows 
What's good and doth ho good ; 
If Church and Court reply, 
Then give them both the lie. 

Tell potentates they live, 
Acting by others' actions. 
Not loved, unless they give. 
Not strong but by their factions ; 
If potentates reply, 
Give potentates the lie. 

Tell men of high condition 
That rule aflairs of state. 
Their purpose is ambition, 
Their practice only hate ; 
And if they once reply, 
Then give them all the lie. 

Tell them that brave it most, 
They beg for more by spending, 
Who, in their greatest cost, 
Seek nothing but commending ; 
And if they make reply, 
Then give them all the lie. 

Tell Zeal it lacks devotion, 
Tell Love it is but lust. 
Tell Time it is but motion, 
Tell Flesh it is but dust; 
And wish them not reply, 
For thou must give the "lie. 
Tell Age it daily wasteth. 
Tell Honour how it alters. 
Tell Beauty how she blasteth. 
Tell Favour how she falters ; 
And as they shall reply. 
Give every one the lie. 

Tell Wit how much it wrangles 
In treble points of niceness. 
Tell Wisdom she entangles 
Herself in overwiseness ; 
And when they do reply, 
Straight give them both the lie. 

Tell Physic of her boldness, 
Tell Skill it is pretension, 
Tell Charity of coldness. 
Tell Law it is contention ; 
And as they do reply. 
So give them still the lie. 

Tell Fortune of her blindness, 
Tell Nature of decay. 
Tell Friendship of unkindness, 
Tell Justice of delay ; 



And if they will reply. 
Then give them all the lie. 

Tell Arts they have no soundness. 
But vary by esteeming, 
Tell Schools they want profoundness. 
And stand too much on seeming ; 
If Arts and Schools reply. 
Give Arts and Schools the lie. 
, Tell Faith it's fled the city, 
Tell how the country erreth, 
Tell manhood shakes off pity. 
Tell Virtue least preferreth ; 
And if they do reply. 
Spare not to give the lie. 
And when thou hast, as I 
Commanded thee, done blabbing, 
Although to give the lie 
Deserves no less than stabbing ; 
Yet stab at thee who will, 
No stab the Soul can kill. 



CANZONET. 

FROM DAVISON'S RHAPSODY. EDIT. 1608. 

The golden sun that brings the day. 
And lends men light to see withal, 
In vain doth cast his beams away. 
When they are blind on whom they fall ; 
There is no force in all his light 
To give the mole a perfect sight. 
But thou, my sun, more bright than he 
That shines at noon in summer tide. 
Hast given me light and power to see 
With perfect skill my sight to guide ; 
Till now I lived as blind as mole 
That hides her head in earthly hole. 
I heard the praise of Beauty's grace, 
Yet deem'd it nought but poet's skill, 
I gazed on many a lovely face. 
Yet fond I none to bend my will ; 
Which made me think that beauty bright 
Was nothing else but red and white. 

But now thy beams have clear'd my sight, 
I blush to think I was so blind. 
Thy flaming eyes afford me light, 
That beauty's blaze each where I find ; 
And yet those dames that shine so bright 
Are but the shadows of thy light. 

FROM THE PIICENIX' NEST. EDIT. 1593. 

Onight,0 jealous night,repugnant to my pleasure, 
O night so long desired, yet cross to my content, 
There's none but only thou can guide me to my 

treasure. 
Yet none but only thou that hindereth my intent. 

Sweet night, withhold thy beams, withhold them 

till to-morrow. 
Whose joy, in lack so long, a hell of.torment breeds. 
Sweet night, sweet gentle night, do not prolong 

my sorrow. 
Desire is guide to me, and love no loadstar needs. 



118 



POETRY OF UJ^CERTAIN AUTPIORS. 



IjcI. s.iilors gaze on stars and moon so freshly 
shining, 

liCt them that miss the way be guided by the light, 

[ know my lady's bower, there needs no more di- 
vining, 

Affection sees m dark, and love hath eyes by night. 

Dame Cynthia, couch awhile; hold in thy thorns 

for shining, 
\nd glad not iow'ring night with thy too glorious 

rays ; 
But be she dim and dark, tempestuous and repining, 
That in her spite my sport may work thy endless 

praise. 
And when my will is done, then Cynthia shine, 

good lady, 
All other nights and days in honour of that night. 
That happy, heavenly night, that night so dark 

and shady, 
Wherein my love had eyes that lighted my delight. 



FROM THE SAME. 

The gentle season of the year 

Hath made my blooming branch appear, 

And beautified the land with flowers ; 

The air doth savour with delight, 

The heavens do smile to see the sight, 

And yet mine eyes augment their showers. 

The meads are mantled all with green. 
The trembling leaves have clothed the treen, 
The birds with feathers new do sing ; 
But I, poor soul, whom wrong doth rack, 
Attire myself in mourning black, 
Whose leaf doth fall amidst his spring. 

And as you see the scarlet rose 
In his sweet prime his buds disclose, 
Whose hue is with the sun revived ; 
So, in the April of mine age, 
My lively colours do assuage, 
Because my sunshine is deprived. 

My heart, that wonted was of yore, 

Light as the winds, abroad to soar 

Amongst the buds, when beauty springs, 

Now only hovers over you. 

As doth the bird that's taken new, 

And mourns when all her neighbours sings. 

When every man is bent to sport. 

Then, pensive, 1 alone resort 

Into some solitary walk. 

As doth the doleful turtle-dove. 

Who, having lost her faithful love, 

Sits mourning on some wither'd stalk. 

There to myself I do recount 
How far my woes my joys surmount, 
How love requiteth me with hate, 
How all my pleasures end in pain, 
How hate doth say my hope is vain, 
How fortune firowns upon my state. 
And in this mood, charged with despair, 
With vapour'd sighs I dim the air, 



And to the Gods make this requesf. 
That by the ending of my life, 
J may have truce with this strange strife. 
And bring my soul to better rest. 



SONGS. 

FROM WTLBTE'S MADRIGALS. EDIT. 1598. 

Lady, your words do spite me. 

Yet your sweet lips so soft kiss and delight me ; 

Your deeds my heart surcharged with overjoying 

Your taunts my life destroying ; 

Since both have force to kill me. 

Let kisses sweet, sweet kill me ! 

Knights fight with swords and lances, 

Fight you with smiling glances. 

So, like swans of Meander, 

My ghost from hence shall wander. 

Singing and dying, singing and dying. 

Theke is a jewel which no Indian mine can buy, 
No chemic art can counterfeit ; 
It makes men rich in greatest poverty. 
Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold. 
The homely whistle to sweet music's strain ; 
Seldom it comes, to few from heaven sent, 
That much in little — all in nought — Content. 

Change me, heaven ! into the ruby stone 
That on my love's fair locks doth hang in gold, 
Yet leave me speech to her to make my moan, 
And give me eyes her beauty to behold : 
Or if you will not make my flesh a stone, 
Make her hard heart seem flesh, that now is none 

I SANG sometimes my thoughts and fancy's pleasure, 

Where then I list, or time served best. 

While Daphne did invite me 

To supper once, and drank to me to spite me; 

I smiled, yet still did doubt her. 

And drank where she had drank before, to flout her 

But 0, while I did eye her. 

My eyes drank love, my lips drank burning fire. 

LIGHT is love, in matchless beauty shining, 
When she revisits Cyprus' hallowed bowers. 
Two feeble doves, harness'd in silken twining. 
Can draw her chariot 'mid the Paphian flowejs' 
Lightness in love how ill she fitteth, 
So heavy on my heart she sitteth. 

IjOVE me not for comely grace, 
For my pleasing eye or face ; 
Not for any outward part. 
No, nor for my constant heart , 
For those may fail, or turn to ill, 
And thus we love shall sever : 
Keep, therefore, a true woman's eye, 
And love me still. 
Yet know not why. 
So hast thou the same reason still, 
To dote upon me ever. 



POETRY OF UNCERTAIN AUTHORS. 



119 



FKOM BIRD'S COLLECTION OF SONGS, 4c. 
Your shining eyes and golden hair, 
Your Uly rosed lips most fair, 
Your other beauties that excel, 
Men cannot choose but like them well ; 
But when for them they say they'll die, 
Believe them not, they do but lie. 

Ambitious love hath forced me to aspire 
To beauties rare, which do adorn thy face ; 
Thy modest life yet bridles my desire, 
Whose law severe doth promise me no grace. 

But what ! may love hve under any law 1 
No, no, his power exceedeth man's conceit, 
Of which the gods themselves do stand in awe, 
For on his frown a thousand torments wait. 

Proceed, then, in this desperate enterprise 
With good advice, and follow love, thy guide, 
That leads thee to thy wished paradise : 
Thy climbing thoughts this comfort take withal, 
That if it be thy foul disgrace to slide, 
Thy brave attempt shall yet excuse thy fall. 

Amid the seas a gallant ship set out, 
Wherein nor men nor yet 'munition lacks. 
In greatest winds that spareth not a clout, 
But cuts the waves in spite of weather's wrack. 
Would force a swain that comes of coward kind, 
To change himself, and be of noble mind. 

Who makes his seat a stately stamping steed. 
Whose neighs and plays ai-e princely to behold ; 
Whose courage stout, whose eyes are fiery red, 
Whose joints well knit, whose harness all of gold, 
Doth well deserve to be no meaner thing 
Than Persian knight, whose horse made him a 
king. 

By that bedside where sits a gallant dame. 
Who casteth olf her brave and rich attire. 
Whose petticoat sets forth as fair a frame 
As mortal men or gods can well desire ; 
Who sits and sees her petticoat unlaced, 
I say no more — the rest are all disgraced. 



SONGS FROM WEELKES'S MADRIGALS. 
EDIT. 1604. 

Like two proud armies marching in the field. 
Joining a thund'ring fight, each scorns to yield, 
So in my heart your beauty and my reason. 
To th' other says, it's treason, treason, treason : 
But your fair beauty shineth as the sun. 
And dazzled reason yields as quite undone. 

Hold out my heart, with joy's delights accloy'd ; 

Hold out my heart and show it, 

That all the world may know it. 

What sweet content tliou lately hast enjoy'd. 

She that ''Come, dear!" would say, 

Then laugh, and smile, and run away ; 

And if I stay'd her would cry nay, 

Fy for shame, fy. 



My true love not regarding, 

Hath giv'n me at length his full rewarding, 

So that unless I tell 

The joys that overfill me. 
My joys, kept in full well, 

I know will kill me. 



Give me my heart and I will go. 
Or else forsake your wonted no. 

No, no, no — No, no, no. 
But since my dear doth doubt me. 
With no, no, no, I mean to flout thee ; 

No, no, no. 
Now there is hope we shall agree. 
Since double no imparteth yea ; 
If that be so, my dearest. 
With no, no, no, my heart thou cheerest. 

Cold winter ice is fled and gone, • 
And summer brags on every tree ; 
The red-breast peeps among the throng 
Of wood-brown birds that wanton be : 
Each one forgets what they have been, 
And so doth PhylUs, summer's queen. 

Sat, dear, will you not have me 1 

Then take the kiss you gave me ; 

You elsewhere would, perhaps, bestow it, 

And I would be as loth to owe it; 

Or if you will not take the thing once given, 

Let me kiss you, and then we shall be even. 



FROM BATESON'S MADRIGALS. 
EDIT. 1606. 

Love would discharge the duty of his heart 
In beauty's praise, whose greatness doth deny 
Words to his thoughts, and thoughts to his desert 
Which high conceit, since nothing can supply, 
Love here constrain'd through conquest to confess, 
Bids silence sigh what tongue cannot express. 

Whither so fast 1 Ah, see the kindly flowers 
Perfume the air, and all to make thee stay ; 
The climbing woodbind, clipping all these bowers, 
Clips thee likewise, for fear thou pass away : 
Fortune, our friend, our foe, will not gainsay : 
Stay but a while, Phoebe no tell-tale is. 
She her Endymion — I'll my Phoebe kiss. 

Yet stay, alway be chained to my heart 
With links of love, that we do never part ; 
Then I'll not call thee serpent, tiger, cruel. 
But my sweet Gemma, and my dearest jewel. 



TO HIS LOVE. 

FROM ENGLAND'S HELICON. 



Come away, come, sweet love I 
The golden morning breaks, 
All the earth, all the air, 
Of love and pleasure speaks ; 



120 



JOHN LYLY. 



Teach thine arms then to embrace, 
And sweet rosy lips to kiss, 
And mix our souls in mutual bliss : 
Eyes were made for beauty's grace ; 
Viewing, ruing, love's long pjain. 
Procured by beauty's rude disdain. 
^ Come away, come, sweet love ! 
The golden morning wastes, 
While the sun from his sphere 
His fiery arrows casts, 
Making all the shadows fly. 
Playing, staying, in the grove, 



To entert&in the stealth of love ; 

Thither, sweet love, let us hie. 

Flying, dying, in desire, 

Wing'd with sweet hopes and heavenly fire. 

Come, come, sweet love ! 

Do not in vain adorn 

Beauty's grace, that should rise 

Like to the naked morn. 

Lilies on the river's side, 

And fair Cyprian flow'rs newly blown, 

Ask no beauties but their own. 

Ornament is nurse of pride .... 



[Born, 1554 

Was born in the Weald of Kent. Wood places 
flis birth in 1553. Oldys makes it appear proba- 
ble that he was born much earlier.* He studied 
at both the universities, and for many years 
attended the court of Elizabeth in expectation of 
being made Master of the Revels. In this object 
he was disappointed, and was obliged, in his old 
age, to solicit the Queen for some trifling grant to 
support him,t which it is uncertain whether he 
ever obtained. Very little indeed is known of 
him, though Blount, his editor, tells us that " he 
sate at Apollo's table, and that the god gave him 
a wreath of his own bays without snatching." 
Whether Apollo was ever so complaisant or not, 
it is certain that Lyly's work of" Euphuesand his 
England" preceded by another called " Euphues, 
the Anatomy of Wit," &c., promoted a fantastic 
style of false wit, bombastic metaphor, and pedantic 
allusion, which it was fashionable to speak at court 
under the name of Euphuism, and which the ladies 



JOHN LYLY 

Died, 1600.] 

thought it indispensable to acquire. Lyly, m his 
Euphues, probably did not create the new style, but 
only collected and methodized the floating aflecta- 
tions of phraseology. Drayton ascribes the over- 
throw of Euphuism to Sir P. Sydney, who, he says, 
did first reduce 



Our tongues from Lylie's writing then in use, 
Talking of stones, stars, plants, of fishes, flies, 
Plying with words and idle siuiilies, 
As th' English apes and very zanies be 
Of every thing that they do hear and see. 

Sydney died in 1586, and Euphues had appeared 
but six years earlier. We may well suppose Syd- 
ney to have been hostile to such absurdity, and his 
writings probably promoted abetter taste; but we 
hear of Euphuism being in vogue many years after 
his death ; and it seems to have expired, like all 
other fashions, by growing voilgar. Lyly wrote 
nine plays, in some of which there is considera- 
ble wit and humour, rescued from the jargon of 
his favourite system. 



CUPID AND CAMPASPE. 
Cupid and my Campaspe play'd 
At cards for kisses : Cupid paid. 
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows ; 
His mother's doves and team of sparrows ; 
Loses them too : then down he throws 
The coral of his lip — the rose 
Growing on 's cheek, but none knows how, 
With these the crystal on his brow, 
And then the dimple of his chin ; 
All these did my Campaspe win : 
At last he set her both his eyes ; 
She won, and Cupid blind did rise ; 
Love, hath she done this to thee 1 
What shall, alas ! become of me 1 



SONG. 

FROM ALEXANDER AND CAMPASPE. 

What bird so sings, yet so does wail 1 
O 'tis the ravish'd nightingale — 
Jug, jug, jug, jug — tereu — she cries, 
And still her woes at midnight rise. 

[* Lyly was born in Kent in 1554. and was matriculated at 
Oxford in 1571.wlien it was recorded in the entry that he was 
seventeen years old.— Collier's Annals, vol. iii. p. 174.— C] 



Brave prick-song ! who is't now we hear 1 
None but the lark so shrill and clear ; 
Now at Heaven's gate she claps her wings, 
The morn not waking till she sings. 
Hark ! hark ! but what a pretty note. 
Poor Robin red-breast tunes his throat; 
Hark ! how the jolly cuckoos sing 
Cuckoo — to welcome in the spring. 

FROM MOTHER BOMBIE. 

Ctjpid, monarch over kings, 

W^herefore hast thou feet and wings 1 

Is it to show how swift thou art, 

When thou wound'st a tender heart 1 

Thy wings being dipt and feet held still. 

Thy bow so many could not kill. 

It is all one in Venus' wanton school. 

Who highest sits, the wise man or the fool — 

Fools in Love's college 

Have far more knowledge 

To read a woman over. 

Than a neat-prating lover ; 

Nay, 'tis confest 

That fools please women best. 

t If he was an old man In the reign of Elizabeth, 01 
dys's conjecture as to the date of his birth seems to I* 
verifiedj^as we scarcely call a man old at fifty. 



ALEXANDER HUME 



[Born, 1560? Died, 1609?] 



Was tlie second son of Patrick, fifth Baron of 
Polwarth, from whom the family of Marchmont 
are descended. He was born probably about the 
middle, and died about the end, of the sixteenth 
century. During four years of the earlier part 
of his life, he resided in France, after which he 
returned home and studied law, but abandoned 
the bar to try his fortune at court. There he is 
said to have been disgusted with the preference 
shown to a poetical rival, Montgomery, with whom 
he exchanged Jiytings, (or invectives,) in verse, 
and who boasts of having " driven Polwart from 
the chimney nook." He then went into the 
church, and was appointed rector or minister of 
Logic ; the names of ecclesiastical offices in Scot- 
land then floating between presbytery and pre- 
lacy. In the clerical profession he continued till 
his death. Hume lived at a period when the 
spirit of Calvinism in Scotland was at its gloomi- 
est pitch, and when a reformation, fostered by the 
poetry of Lyndsay, and by the learning of Bu- 



chanan, had begun to grow hostile to elegant lite- 
rature. Though the drama, rude as it was, had 
been no mean engine in the hands of Lyndsay 
against popery, yet the Scottish reformers of this 
latter period even anticipated the zeal of the Eng- 
lish puritans against dramatic and romantic poetry, 
which they regarded as emanations fi-om hell. 
Hume had imbided so far the spirit of his times 
as to publish an exhortation to the youth of Scot- 
land to forego the admiration of all classical he- 
roes, and to read no other books on the subject 
of love than the Song of Solomon. But Calvin- 
ism* itself could not entirely eradicate the beauty 
of Hume's fancy, and left him stdl the high foun- 
tain of Hebrew poetry to refresh it. In the fol- 
lowing specimen of his poetry, describing the 
successive appearances of nature during a sum- 
mer's day, there is a train of images that seem 
peculiarly pleasing and unborrowed — the pictures 
of a poetical mind, humble but genuine in its 
cast. 



THANKS FOR A SUMMER'S DAY. 



O PERFECT light which shaid" away 
The darkness from the light, 
And set a ruler o'er the day, 
Another o'er the night. 

Thy glory, when the day forth flies, 
More vively does appear, 
Nor* at midday unto our eyes 
The shiaing sun is clear. 

The shadow of the earth anon 
Removes and drawis by. 
Sj'ne' in the east, when it is gone, 
Appears a clearer sky. 

Whilk** soon perceive the little larks, 
The lapwing, and the snipe. 
And tune their song like Nature's clerks, 
O'er meadow, muir, and stripe. 

But every bold nocturnal beast 
No longer may abide. 
They hie away both maist and least,' 
Themselves in house to hide 

The golden globe incontinent 
Sets up his shining head. 
And o'er the earth and firmament 
Displays his beams abread./ 



* This once gloomy influence of Calvinism on the lite- 
rary character of the Scottish churchmen, forms a con- 
trast with more recent times, that needs scarcely to be 
suggested to those acquainted with Scotland. In extend- 
ing the classical fame, no less than in establishing the 
moral reputation of their country, the Scottish clergy 
have exerted a primary influence; and whatever Presby- 
16 



For joy the birds with boulden? throats, 
Against his visage sheen,* 
Take up their kindly music notes 
In woods and gardens green. 

Upbraids' the careful husbandman, 
His corn and vines to see. 
And every timeous> artisan 
In booths works busily. 

The pastor qu-its the slothful sleep, 
And passes forth with speed. 
His little camow-nosed* sheep, 
And rowting kye' to feed. 

The passenger, from perils sure, 
Goes gladly forth the way. 
Brief, every living creature 
Takes comfort of the day. . . . 

The misty reek,*" the clouds of rain 
From tops of mountain skails," 
Clear are the highest hills and plain, 
The vapours take the vales. 

Bagaired" is the sapphire pend? 
With spraings'? of scarlet hue ; 
And preciously from end to end, 
Damasked white and blue. 



terian eloquence might once be, the voice of enlightened 
principles and universal charity is nowhere to be heard 
more distinctly than at the present hour from their pulpits, 
a For shaded. — '' Scottice for thati. — o Then. — rf Which. 
— e Largest and smallest.—/ Abroad.—? Emboldened.— 
A Shining— « Uprises.— j Early.—* Flat-nosed.— ' Lowing 
kine.' — mFog. — "Pours off. — oDrest out. — ^pArch. — sStreaks. 
L 121 



122 



ALEXANDER HUME. 



The ample heaven, of fabric sure, 

In clearness does surpass 

The crj'stal and the silver, pure 

As clearest polish'd glass, 

The time so tranquil is and clear, 

That no where shall ye find. 

Save on a high and barren hill, 

The air of passing wind. 

All trees and simples, great and small, 

That balmy leaf do bear. 

Than they were painted on a wall, 

No more they move or steir/ 

The rivers fresh, the callour' streams, 

O'er rocks can swiftly rin,' 

The water clear like crystal beams, 

And makes a pleasant din 

Calm is the deep and purple sea. 

Yea, smoother than the sand ; 

The waves, that woltering" wont to be, 

Are stable like the land. 

So silent is the cessile air. 

That every cry and call. 

The hills and dales, and forest fair, 

Again repeats them all. 

The clogged busy humming bees, ■ 

That never think to drown," 

On flowers and flourishes of trees, 

Collect their liquor brown. 

The sun most like a speedy post 

With ardent course ascends ; 

The beauty of our heavenly host 

Up to our zenith tends .... 

The breathless flocks draw to the shade 

And freshure"' of their fauld ; 

The startling nolt,^ as they were mad, 

Run to the rivers cald. 

The herds beneath some leafy trees, 

Amidst the flow'rs they lie ; 
The stable ships upon the seas 
Tend up their sails to dry. 
The hart, the hind, the fallow deer, 

Are tapish'dv at their rest; 

The fowls and birds that made thee beare,' 

Prepare their pretty nest. 

The rayons dure" descending down. 

All kindle in a gleid ;* 

In city, nor in burrough town, 

May name set forth their head. 

Back from the blue pavemented whun,« 

And from ilk plaster wall. 

The hot reflexing of the sun 

Inflames the air and all. 

The labourers that timely rose, 

All weary, faint, and weak. 

For heat down to their houses goes,"* 

Noon-meite and sleep to take. 



f Stir. — » Cool. — « Run. — u Tumbling. — v To drone, or to 
be idle. — to Freshnf.ss. — r Oxen. — y Carpeted. — » Beare. I 
suppose, means music. — To beare in old Scotch, is to recite. 
W'ynton, in his Chronicle, says, '-As I have heard men 
heave on hand." — a Hard or keen rays.—'' Fire. — c Whin- 
stone. — d In old Scottish poetry little attention is paid to 
giving plural nouns a plural verb. 



The callour<^ wine in cave is sought, 

Men's brothing/ breasts to cool ; 

The water cold and clear is brought, 

And sallads steeped in ule.r 

With gilded eyes and open wings, 

The cock his courage shows ; 

With claps of joy his breast he dings,* 

And twenty times he crows. 

The dove with whistling wings so blue, 

The winds can fast collect. 

Her purple pens turn many a hue 

Against the sun direct. 

Now noon is gone — gone is midday, 

The heat does slake at last. 

The sun descends down west away, 

For three o'clock is past 

The rayons of the sun we see 

Diminish in their strength. 

The shade of every tower and tree 

Extended is in length. 

Great is the calm, for everywhere 

The wind is setting down. 

The reek' throws up right in the air. 

From every tower and town 

The mavis and the philomeen,i 

The sterling whistles loud. 

The cushats* on the branches green, 

Full quietly they crood.' 

The glomin"* comes, the day is spent, 

The sun goes out of sight, 

And painted is the Occident 

With purple sanguine bright. 

The scarlet nor the golden thread. 

Who would their beauty try. 

Are nothing like the colour red 

And beauty of the sky 

What pleasure then to walk and see, 

Endlang" a river clear. 

The perfect form of every tree 

Within the deep appear. 

The salmon out of cruives" and creels,' 

Uphailed into scouts :« 

The bells and circles on the weills,'' 

Through leaping of the trouts. 

O sure it were a seemly thing. 

While all is still and calm. 

The praise of God to play and sing 

With trumpet and with shalm. 

Through all the land great is the gild» 

Of rustic folks that cry ; 

Of bleating sheep, fra they be fill'd, 

Of calves and rowting kye. 

All labourers draw hame at even, . 

And can to others say. 

Thanks to the gracious God of Heaven, 

Quhilk' sent this summer day. 

e Cool.—/ Burning.—* Oil.—* Beats.— < Smoke.— j Thrush 
and nightingale. — * Wood-pigeons.—^ A very expressive 
word for the note of the cushat, or wood-pigeon. — 
m Kvening. — n Along.—:© Places lor confining fish, ge- 
nerally placed in the dam of a river — T Baskets. 
-^1 Small boats or yawls. — r Wells. — « Throng.— 
t Who. 



THOMAS NASH. 



[Born, 1560? Died about 1600-4.] 



Thomas Nash was born at Lowestoft in Suf- 
folk, was bred at Cambridge, and closed a calami- 
tous life of authorship at the age, it is said, of 
forty-two. Dr. Beloe* has given a list of his 
works, and Mr. D'Israelit an account of his shifts 
and miseries. Adversity seems to have whetted 
his genius, as his most tolerable verses are those 
which describe his own despair ; and in the midst 
of his. woes, he exposed to just derision the pro- 
found fooleries of the astrologer Harvey, who, in 
the year 1582, had thrown the whole kingdom 
into consternation by his predictions of the proba- 



ble effects of the junction of Jupiter ano Saturo 
Drayton, in his Epistle of Poets and Potsy, sayb 
of him — 

Sharply satyric was he, and that way 
He went, since that his being to this day, 
Few have attempted, and I surely think. 
These words shall hardly be set down with ink, 
Shall blast and scorch so as his could. 
From the allusion which he makes in the follow- 
ing quotation to Sir P. Sydney's compassion, be- 
fore the introduction of the following lines, it may 
be conjectured that he had experienced the bounty 
of that noble character. 



Why is't damnation to despair and die, 
When life is my true happiness' disease I 
My soul, my soul, thy safety makes me fly 
The faulty means that might my pain appease 
Divines and dying men may talk of hell, 
But in my heart her several torments dwell. 

Ah, worthless wit ! to train me to this woe : 
Deceitful arts ! that nourish discontent : 
111 thrive the folly that bewitch'd me so ! 
Vain thoughts, adieu ! for now I will repent, 
And yet my wants persuade me to proceed, 
For none take pity of a scholar's need. 



* Anecdotes of Scarce Books, f Calamities of Authors 



DESPAIR OF A POOR SCHOLAR. 

FKOM PLERCfi PENNILESS, 

Forgive me, God, although I curse my birth, 
And ban the air wherein I breathe a wretch, 
Since misery hath daunted all my mirth, 
And I am quite undone through promise breach ; 
Ah friends! — no friends that then ungentle 

frown, 
When changing fortune casts us headlong down. 

Without redress complains my careless verse, 
And Midas' ears relent not at my moan ; 
In some far land will I my griefs rehearse, 
'Mongst them that will be moved when I shall 

groan. 
England, adieu ! the soil that brought me forth, 
Adieu ! unkind, where skill is nothing worth. 



EDWARD VERE, EARL OF OXFORD. 



[Born, 1534. Died, 1604.] 



This nobleman sat as Great Chamberlain of 
England upon the trial of Mary Queen of Scots. 
In the year of the Armada, he distinguished his 
public spirit by fitting out some ships at his pri- 
vate cost. He had travelled in Italy in his youth, 
and is said to have returned the most accom- 
plished coxcomb of his age. The story of his 



quarrel with Sir Philip Sydney, as it is related by 
Collins, gives us a most unfavourable idea of his 
manners and temper, and shows to what a height 
the claims of aristocratical privilege were at that 
time carried.^ Some still more discreditable traits 
of his character are to be found in the history of 
his life.§ 



FANCY AND DESIRE. 

FROM THE P.tRADISE OP DAINT? DEVICES. 



When wert thou born. Desire] In pride and 

pomp of May. 
By whom, sweet boy, wert thou begot 1 By fond 

conceit, men say. 

+ The Earl of Oxford being one day in the tennis-court 
with Sir Philip Sydney, on some offence which he had 
tiilii-n. oi'ilcri'il liiin to leave the room, and, on his refusal, 
!i:ivc liini tlji^ epithet of a puppy. Sir I'liilip ri'torted the 
III- (HI his hii-d-hip, and left tli(^" place, expecting to be fol- 
loweil hv the jH-er. Itut Lord Oxford iie;thiT followed him 
nor niitici'ij h;s quarrel, till her nlaje^'ty's council had time 
t'> coniMiaiidl,he peace. The (jueen interfered, reminding 
Sir Pliilip oCtliediffureucu between "earls and gentlemen." 



Tell me who was thy nurse 1 Fresh Youth, in 

sugar'd joy. 
What was thy meat and daily food 1 Sad sighs 

with great annoy. 

and of the respect which inferiors owed their superiors. 
Sydney, boldly but respectfully, stated to her majesty, 
that rank among freemen could claim no other homage 
than precedency, and did not obey her commands to make 
suhmission to Oxford, i'ora fuller statement of this anec- 
dote, vidfl the quotation from Collins, in the British Biblio- 
grapher, vol. i. p. S:i. 

g By Mr. Park, in the Catalogue of Royal and Noblf 
Authors. 

123 



What hadst thou then to drink'? Unsavoury 
lovers' tears. 

What cradle wert thou rock'd in 1 In hope de- 
void of fears. 

What luli'd thee, then, asleep 1 Sweet sleep, which 
likes me best. 

Tell me where is thy dwelling-place 1 In gentle 
hearts I rest. 

What thing doth please thee mostl To gaze on 

beauty still. 
What dost thou think to be thy foe? Disdain of 

my good-will. 
Doth company displease 1 Yes, surely, many one. 
Where doth Desire delight to live ] He loves to 

live alone. 

Doth either Time or Age bring him into decay ? 
No, no. Desire both lives and dies a thousand 

times a day. 
Then, fond Desire, farewell ! thou art no mate 

for me : 
I should, methinks, be loth to dwell with such a 

one as thee. 



LINES ATTRIBUTED TO THE EARL OF OXFORD. 

IX A MS. OF THE BODLEIAN UBBART. 

If women could be fair, and yet not fond. 
Or that their love were firm, not fickle still, 
I would not marvel that they make me bond, 
By service long, to purchase their good-will ; 
But when I see how frail those creatures are, 
I muse that men forget themselves so far. 

To mark the choice they make, and how they 

change. 
How oft from Phoebus they do flee to Pan ; 
Unsettled still, like haggards wild they range, 
These gentle birds that fly from man to man ; 
Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist, 
And let them fly, fair fools, where'er they list 1 

Yet, for disport, we fawn and flatter both. 
To pass the time when nothing else can please, 
And train them to our lure with subtle oath, 
Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we ease ; 
And then we say, when we their fancy try, 
To play with fools, oh, what a fool was I ! 



THOMAS STORER. 



[Died, 1604.] 



The date of this writer's birth can only be 
generally conjectured from his having been 
elected a Student of Christ Church, Oxford, in 
J 587. The slight notice of him by Wood only 
mentions that he was the son of John Storer, a 



Londoner, and that he died in the metropolis. 
Besides the History of Cardinal Wolsey in three 
parts, viz. his aspiring, his triumph, and death, 
he wrote several pastoral pieces in England's 
Helicon. 



FROM THE LIFE AND DEATH OF CARDINAL WOLSEY. 



Perchance the tenor of my mourning verse 
May lead some pilgrim to my tombless grave. 
Where neither marble monument, nor hearse, 
The passenger's attentive view may crave. 
Which honours now the meanest persons have ; 
But well is me, where'er my ashes lie, 
If one tear drop from some religious eye. 



WOLSEY'S AMBITION. 
Yet, as through Tagus' fair transparent streams. 
The wand'ring merchant sees the wealthy gold, 
Or like in Cynthia's half-obscured beams. 
Through misty clouds and vapours manifold; 
So through a mirror of my hoped-for gain, 
I saw the treasure which I should obtain. 



WOLSEY'S VISION. 
From that rich valley where the angels laid him, 
His unknown sepulchre in Moab's land, 
Moses, that Israel led, and they obey'd him, 
In glorious view before my face did stand, 
Bi'ii'-ing the folded tables in his hand. 
Wherein the doom of life, and death's despair 
By God's own finger was engraven there. 



Then passing forth a joyful troop ensued 

Of worthy judges and triumphant kings. . . . 

After si'veral personages of sacred history, some alle- 
gorical ones coniJescend to visit the sleeping Cardinal, 
amoiijj whom Theology naturally has a place, aud is thus 
described : — 

In chariot framed of celestial mould. 
And simple pureness of the purest sky, 
A more than heavenly nymph I did behold, 
Who glancing on me with her gracious eye, 
So gave me leave her beauty to espy ; 
For sure no sense such sight can comprehend, 
Except her beams their fair reflection lend. 
Her beauty with Eternity began, 
And only unto God was ever seen, 
When Eden was possess'd with sinful man, 
She came to him and gladly would have been 
The long succeeding world's eternal Queen ; 
But they refused her, heinous deed ! 
And from that garden banish'd was their seed. 
Since when, at sundry times in sundry ways, 
Atheism and blended Ignorance conspire, 
How to obscure those holy burning rays. 
And quench that zeal of heart-inflaming fire 
That makes our souls to heavenly things aspiri-; 
But all in vain, for, maugre all their might, 
She never lost one sparkle of her light. 



JOSEPH HALL. 



[Born, 1574. Died, I656.J 



Bishop Hall, who for his ethical eloquence 
has been sometimes denominated the Christian 
Seneca, was also the first who gave our language 
an example of epistolary composition in prose. 
He wrote besides a satirical fiction, entitled 3Iu>i- 
dits alter et idem, in which, under pretence of de- 
scribing the Terra Jluslralis Incognita, he reversed 
the plan of Sir Thomas More's Utopia, and cha- 
racterized the vices of existing nations. Of our 
satirical poetry, taking satire in its moral and 
dignified sense, he claims, and may be allowed, 
to be the founder: for the ribaldry of Skelton, 
and the crude essays of the graver Wyat, hardly 
entitle them to that appellation.* Though he 
lived till beyond the middle of the seventeenth 
century, his satires were written before, and his 
Mundus alter et idem about, the year 1600: so 
that his antiquity, no less than his strength, gives 
him an important place in the formation of our 
literature.t 

In his Satires, which were published at the age 
of twenty-three, he discovered not only the early 
vigour of his own genius, but the powers and 
pliability of his native tongue. Unfortunately, 
perhaps unconsciously, he caught, from studying 
Juvenal and Persius as his models, an elliptical 
manner and an antique allusion, which cast ob- 
scurity over his otherwise spirited and amusing 
traits of English manners ; though the satirist 
himself was so far fi-om anticipating this objection, 
that he formally apologizes for " too much stooping 
to the low reach of the vulgar." But in many 
instances he redeems the antiquity of his allusions 
by their ingenious adaptation to modern manners; 
and this is but a small part of his praise ; for in 
the point and volubility, and vigour of Hall's 
numbers, we might frequently imagine ourselves 
perusing Dryden.J This may be exemplified in 
the harmony and picturesqueness of the following 
description of a magnificent rural mansion, which 
the traveller approaches in the hopes of reaching 
the seat of ancient hospitality, but finds it deserted 
by its selfish owner. 

Beat the broad gates, a goodly hollow sound, 
■With double echoes, doth again rebound ; 
But not a dog doth bark to welcome thee. 
Nor churlish porter canst thou chafing see. 

[* Donne appears to have been the first in order of com- 
position — though Hall and Marston made their appearance 
in print before him. — C] 

■f His name is therefore placed in these Specimens with 
a variation from the general order, not according to the 
date of his death, but about the time of his appearance as 
a poet. 

J The satire which T think contains the most vigorous 
and musical couplets of this old poet, is the first of Book 
3d, beginning. 

Time was, and that was term'd the time of gold, 
■yvhen world and time were young, that now are old. 

I preferred, however, the insertion of others as examples 
of his poetry, as they are more descriptive of 



All dumb and silent like the dead of night, 
Or dwelling of some sleepy Sybarite; 
The marble pavement hid with desert weed. 
With house-leek, thistle, dock, and hemlock seed. 

Look to the towered chimneys, which should be 

The wind-pipeg of good hospitality, 

Through which it l)reatheth to the'open air. 

Betokening life and liberal welfare, 

Lo. there th' unthankful swallow takes her rest 

And fills the tunnel with her circled nest. 

His satires are neither cramped by personal 
hostility, nor spun out to vague declamations on 
vice, but give us the form and pressure of the 
times exhibited in the faults of coeval literature, 
and in the foppery or sordid traits of prevailing 
manners. The age was undoubtedly fertile in 
eccentricity. His picture of its literature may at 
first view appear to be overcharged with severity, 
accustomed as we are to associate a general idea 
of excellence with the period of Elizabeth ; but 
when Hall wrote there was not a great poet firmly 
established in the language except Spenser, and 
on him he has bestowed ample applause. With 
regard to Shakspeare, the reader will observe a 
passage in the first satire, where the poet speaks 
of resigning the honours of heroic and tragic 
poetry to more inspired geniuses ; and it is possi- 
ble that the great dramatist may be here alluded 
to, as well as Spenser. But the allusion is in- 
distinct, and not necessarily applicable to the 
bard of Avon. Shakspeare's Romeo and Juliet, 
Richard H. and HI. have been traced in print to 
no earlier date than the year 1597, in which Hall's 
first series of satires appeared ; and we have no 
sufiicient proof of his previous fame as a dramatist 
having been so great as to leave Hall without 
excuse for omitting to pay him homage. But 
the sunrise of the drama with Shakspeare was 
not without abundance of attendant mists in the 
contemporary fustian of inferior playmakers, who 
are severely ridiculed by our satirist. In addition 
to this, our poetry was still haunted by the whining 
ghosts of the Mirror for Magistrates, while ob- 
scenity walked in barbarous nakedness, and the 
very genius of the language was threatened by 
revolutionary prosodists. 

From the literature of the age Hall proceeds to 
its manners and prejudices, and among the latter 
derides the prevalent confidence in alchymy and 
astrology. To us this ridicule appears an ordinary 
eflfort of reason; but it was in him a common 
sense above the level of the times. If any proof 
were required to illustrate the slow departure of 
prejudices, it would be found in the fkct of an 

manners than the fanciful praises of the golden age which 
that satire contains. It is flowing and fanciful, but con 
veys only the insipid moral of men decaying by the pro- 
gress of civilization: a doctrine not unlike that which 
Gulliver found in the book of the old woman of Brobdiirnag, 
whose author lamented the tiny size of the modern BroS 
dignagdiaus compared with that of their ancestors. 
l2 125 



126 



JOSEPH HALL. 



astrologer being patronised, half a century after- 
wards, by the government of England.* 

During his youth and education he had to 
struggle with poverty ; and in his old age he was 
one of those sufferers in the cause of episcopacy 
whose virtues shed a lustre on its fall. He was 
born in the parish of Ashby de la Zouche, in 
Liecestershire, studied and took orders at Cam- 
bridge, and was for some time master of the 
school of Tiverton, in Devonshire. An accidental 
opportunity which he had of preaching before 
Pmice Henry seems to have given the first im- 
pulse to his preferment, till by gradual promotion 
he rose to he bishop of Exeter, having previously 
accompanied King James, as one of his chaplains 
to Scotland, and attended the Synod of Dort at a 
convocation of the protestant divines. As bishop 
of Exeter he was so mild in his conduct towards 
the puritans, that he, who was one of the last 
broken pillars of the church, was nearly perse- 
cuted for favouring them. Had such conduct 
been, at this critical period, pursued by the high 



churchmen in general, the history of a bloody 
age might have been changed into that of peace ; 
but the violence of Laud prevailed over the milder 
counsels of a Hall, an Usher, and a Corbet. When 
the dangers of the church grew more instant, Hall 
became its champion, and was met in the field 
of controversy by Milton, whose respect for the 
bishop's learning is ill concealed under the attempt 
to cover it with derision. 

By the little power that was still left to the 
sovereign in 1641, Hall was created bishop of 
Norwich ; but having joined, almost immediately 
after, in the protest of the twelve prelates against 
the validity of laws that should be passed in their 
compelled absence, he was committed to the 
Tower, and, in the sequel, marked out for seques- 
tration. After suflering extreme hardships, he was 
allowed to retire, on a small pittance, to Higham, 
near Norwich, where he continued, in comparative 
obscurity, but with indefatigable zeal and intre- 
pidity, to exercise the duties of a pastor, till he 
closed his days at the venerable age of eighty-two. 



SATIRE I. BOOK I. 
Nor ladies' wanton love, nor wand'ring knight, 
Legend I out in rhymes all richly dight. 
Nor fright the reader with the Pagan vaunt 
Of mighty Mahound, and great Termagaunt. 
Nor list I sonnet of my mistress' face. 
To paint some Blowesse with a borrowed grace; 
Nor can I bide to pen some hungry scene 
For thick-skin ears, and undiscerning eyne. 
Nor ever could my scornful muse abide 
With tragic shoes her ancles for to hide. 
Nor can I crouch, and writhe my fawning tail 
To some great patron, for my best avail. 
Such hunger starven trencher poetry, 
Or let it never live, or timely die : 
Nor under every bank and every tree, 
Speak rhymes unto my oaten minstrelsy : 
Nor carol out so pleasing lively lays. 
As might the Graces move my mirth to praise.f 
Trumpet, and reeds, and socks, and buskins fine, 
I them bequeath : whose statues wand'ring twine 
Of ivy mix'd with bays, circling around 
Their living temples likewise laurel-bound. 
Rathei had I, albe in careless rhymes, 
Check the mis-order'd world, and lawless times. 
Nor need I crave the muse's midwifery, 
To bring to light so worthless poetry : 

* William Lilly received a pension from the council of 
state, in IWS. lie was, besides, consulted by Charles ; and 
during the siege of Colchester, was sent for by the heads 
of the parliamentary army, to encourage the soldiers, by 
assuring them that the town would be taken. Fairfax 
told the seer, that he did not understand his art, but 
hoped it was lawful, and agreeable to (iod's word. Butler 
Rlludes to this when he says, 

Do not our great Reformers use 

This Sidrophel to forebode news; 

To write of victories next year, 

And castles taken yet i' th' air? . . . 

And has not he point-blank foretold 
What's'er the Close Committee would; 
Made Mars and Saturn for the Cause, 
The moon for fundamental laws? . . . 



Or if we list, what baser muse can bide, 
To sit and sing by Granta's naked side 1 
They haunt the tided Thames and salt Medway, 
E'er since the fame of their late bridal day. 
Nought have we here but willow-shaded shore, 
To tell our Grant his banks are left forlore. 



SATIRE IILJ BOOK I. 
With some pot fury, ravish'd from their wit. 
They sit and muse on some no-vulgar writ : 
As frozen dunghills in a winter's morn. 
That void of vapours seemed all beforn. 
Soon as the sun sends out his piercing beams, 
Exhale out filthy smoke and stinking steams. 
So doth the base, and the sore-barren brain. 
Soon as the raging wine begins to reign. 
One higher pitch'd doth set his soaring thought 
On crowned kings, that fortune hath low brought ; 
Or some upreaied, high-aspiring swain. 
As it might be the Turkish Tamberlain : 
Then weeneth he his base drink-drowned spright, 
Rapt to the threefold loft of heaven height, 
When he conceives upon his feigned stage 
The stalking steps of his great personage. 
Graced with huff-cap terms and thund'ring threats, 
That his poor hearer's hair quite upright sets. 



Made all the Royal stars recant, 
Compound and take the Covenant? 

Hadihras, Canto in 

■f- In this satire, which is not perfectly intelligible at the 
first glance, the author, after deriding the romantic and 
pastoral vein of affected or mercenary poetasters, proceeds 
to declare, that lor his own part he resigns the highir 
walks of genuine poetry to others; that he need not crave 
the "Muse's midwifery." since not even a ba«er muse 
would now haunt the shore of Granta (the Cam), which 
they have left deserted, and crowned with willows, the 
types of d(!Sertion ever since Spenser celebrated the mar- 
riage of the Medway and the Thames. — E. 

X This satire is levelled at the intemperance and bom- 
bastic fury of his contemporary dramatists, witli an evi- 
dent allusion to Marlowe; and in the conclusion he attacks 
the buffoonery that disgraced the stage. — E. 



JOSEPH HALL. 



127 



Suet soon as some Vrave-minded hungry youth 

Sees fitly frame to his wide-strained mouth, 

He vaunts his voice upon an hired stage, 

With higli-set steps, and princely carriage ; 

IS'ovv sweeping in side robes of royalty. 

That erst did scrub in lousy brokery, 

There if he can with terms Italianate 

Big sounding sentences, and words of state, 

Fair patch me up his pure iambic verse. 

He ravishes the gazing scaflblders : 

Then certes was the famous Corduban, 

Never but half so high tragedian. 

Now, lest such frightful shows of fortune's fall. 

And bloody tyrant's rage, should chance appal 

The dead-struck audience, 'midst the silent rout, 

Comes leaping in a self-misformed lout, 

And laughs, and grins, and frames his mimic face, 

And justles straight into the prince's place ; 

Then doth the theatre echo all aloud. 

With gladsome noise of that applauding crowd. 

A goodly hotch-potch ! when vile russetings 

Are match'd with monarchs, and with mighty kings 

A goodly grace to sober tragic muse. 

When each base clown his clumsy list doth bruise, ' 

And show his teeth in double rotten row, 

For hiughter at his self-resembled show. 

Meanwhile our poets in high parliament 

Sit watching every word and gesturement. 

Like curious censors of some doughty gear, 

Whispering their verdict in their fellow's ear. 

Woe to the word whose margent in their scroll 

Is noted with a black condemning coal. 

But if each period might the synod please, 

Ho : — bring the ivy boughs, and bands of bays. 

Now when they part and leave the naked stage, 

'Gins the bare hearer, in a guilty rage, 

To curse and ban, and blame his hkerous eye. 

That thus hath lavish'd his late halfpenny. 

Shame that the muses should be bought and sold 

For every peasant's brass, on each scaffold. 



SATIRE V. BOOK III. 
FiE on all courtesy and unruly winds. 
Two only foes that fair disguisement finds. 
Strange curse! but fit for such a fickle age, 
When scalps are subject to such vassalage. 
Late travelling along in London way, 
Me met, as seem'd by his disguise<l array, 
A lusty courtier, whose curled head 
With auburn locks was fairly furnished. 
I him aluted in our lavish wise : 
He answers my untimely courtesies. 
His bonnet vail'd, ere ever I should think, 
Th' unruly wind blows off his periwink. 
He lights and runs, and quickly hath him sped 
To overtake his over-running head. 
The sportful wind, to mock the headless man, 
Tosses apace his pitch'd Rogerian, 

* In this description of a famished gallant. Hall has 
rivalled the succeeding humour of Ben Jonsou in similar 
romic portraits. Among the traits of alTeetation in his 
finished character, is that of dining with Duke Humphry, 
while he pretends to keep open house. The phrase of 
dining with Duke Humphry arose from St. Paul's being 



And straight it to a deeper ditch hath blown : 
There must my yonker fetch his waxen crown. 
I look'd and laugh'd, whiles, in his raging mind, 
He crust all courtesy and unruly wind. 
I look'd and laugh'd, and much I marvelled, 
To see so large a causeway in his head ; 
And me bethought that when it first begon, 
'Twas some shroad autumn that so bared the bone. 
Is't not sweet pride then, when the crowns must 

shade 
With that which jerks the hams of every jade. 
Or floor-strew'd locks from off the barber's shears 1 
But waxen crowns well 'gree with borrow'd hairs. 



SATIRE YII* BOOK III. 
Seest thou how gayly my young master goes. 
Vaunting himself upon his rising toes ; 
And pranks his hand upon his dagger's side ; 
And picks his glutted teeth since late noon-tide 1 
'Tis Rutfio : Trow'st thou where he dined to-day 
In sooth I saw him sit with Duke Humftay. 
Many good welcomes, and much gratis cheer 
Keeps he for every straggling cavalier. 
And open house, haunted with great resort • 
Long service mix'd with musical disport. 
Many fair yonker with a feather'd crest. 
Chooses much rather be his shot-free gues'^ 
To fare so freely with so little cost. 
Than stake his twelvepcnce to a meaner host 
Hadst thou not told me, I should surely say 
He touch'd no meat of all this live-long day. 
For sure methought, yet that was but a guess, 
His eyes seem'd sunk fiom very hollowness. 
But could he have (as I did it mistake) 
So little in his purse, so much upon his back 1 
So nothing in his ma\v ] yet seemeth by his belt, 
That his gaunt gut no too much stutfing felt. 
Seest thou how side it hangs beneath his hip 1 
Hunger and heavy iron makes girdles slip. 
Yet for all that, how stiffly struts he by. 
All trapped in the new-found bravery. 
The nuns of new-won Calais his bonnet lent, 
In lieu of their so kind a conquerment. 
What needed he fetch that from farthest Spain, 
His grandame could have lent with lesser pain 1 
Though he perhaps ne'er pass'd the English shore, 
Yet fain would counted be a conqueror. 
His hair, French-like, stares on his frighted head. 
One lock amazon-like dishevelled. 
As if he meant to wear a native cord. 
If chance his fates should him that bane afford. 
All British bare upon the bristled skin. 
Close notched is his beard both lip and chin ; 
His linen collar labyrinthian set. 
Whose thousand double turnings never met: 
His sleeves half hid with elbow pinionings. 
As if he meant to fly with linen wings. 
But when I look, and cast mine eyes below. 
What monster meets mine eyes in human show 1 

the general resort of the loungers of those days, many 
of whom, like Hall's gallant, were glad to beguile the 
thoughts of dinner with a walk in the middle aisle, where 
there was a tomb, by mistake -supposed to be that of 
Humphry, Duke of Gloucester. — E. 



128 



JOSEPH HALL. 



So slender waist with such an abbot's loin, 

Did never sober nature sure conjoin. 

Lik'st a straw scare-crow in the new-sown field, 

licar'd ou some stick, the tender corn to shield ; 

Or if that semblance suit not every deal, 

Like a broad shake-fork with a slender steel. . . . 



SATIRE VI * BOOK IV. 
Quid placet ergo f 
I WOT not how the world's degenerate, 
That men or know or like not their estate : 
Out from the Gades up to th' eastern morn, 
Not one but holds his native state forlorn. 
When comely striplings wish it were their chance 
For Csenis' distaff to exchange their lance. 
And wear curl'd periwigs, and chalk their face. 
And still are poring on their pocket-glass. 
Tired with pinn'd ruffs and fans, and partlet strips 
And busks and verdingales about their hips; 
And tread on corked stilts a prisoner's pace, 
And make their napkin for their spitting-place, 
And gripe their waist within a narrow span : 
Fond Cffinis, that wouldst wish to be a man ! 
Whose mannish housewives like their refuse state, 
And make a drudge of their uxorious mate, 
Who like a cot-queen freezeth at the rock, 
Whiles his breech'd dame doth man the foreign 

stock. 
Is't not a shame to see each homely groom 
Sit perched in an idle chariot room, 
That were not meet some pannel to bestride. 
Surcingled to a galled hackney's hide? 
Ench muck-worm will be rich with lawless gain, 
Although he smother up mows of seven years' 

grain, 
And hang'd himself when corn grows cheap again; 
Although he buy whole harvests in the spring. 
And foist in false strikes to the measuring, 
Although his shop be muffled from the light, 
liike a day dungeon, or Cimmerian night; 
Nor full nor fasting can the carle take rest, 
MMiile his george-nohles rusten in his chest; 
He sleeps but once, and dreams of burglary 
And wakes, and casts about his frighted eye. 
And gropes for thieves in every darker shade ; 
And if a mouse but stir, he calls for aid. 
The sturdy ploughman doth the soldier see. 
All scarf 'd with pied colours to the knee. 
Whom Indian pillage hath made fortunate. 



* Tlie general scope of this satire, as its motto denotes, 
is directed against the disconteut of human beings with 
their respective conditions. It paints the ambition of the 
youth to become a man, of the muckworm to be rich, of 



And now he 'gins to loath his former state ; 

Now doth he inly scorn his Kendal-green, 

And his patch'd cockers now despised been, 

Nor list he now go whistling to the car. 

But sells his team, and fetleth to the war. 

O war ! to them that never tried thee, sweet ! 

When his dead mate falls grovelling at his feet, 

And angry bullets whistlen at his ear. 

And his dim eyes see nought but death and drear. 

O happy ploughman ! were thy weal well known : 

O happy all estates, except his own ! 

Some drunken rhymer thinks his time well spent, 

If he can live to see his name in print. 

Who, when he is once fleshed to the press. 

And sees his hansell have such fair success, 

Sung to the wheel, and sung unto the pail. 

He sends forth thraves of ballads to the sail, 

Nor then can rest, but volumes up bodged rhymes, 

To have his name talked of in future times. 

The brain-sick youth, that feeds his tickled ear 

With sweet-sauced lies of some false traveller. 

Which hath the Spanish Decades read awhile. 

Or whetstone leasings of old Mandeville, 

Now with discourses breaks his midnight sleep 

Of his adventures through the Indian deep. 

Of all their massy heaps of golden mine. 

Or of the antique tombs of Palestine, 

Or of Damascus' magic wall of glass. 

Of Solomon his sweating piles of brass. 

Of the bird rue that bears an elephant, 

Of mermaids that the southern seas do haunt. 

Of headless men, of savage cannibals. 

The fashions of their lives and governals ; 

What monstrous cities there erected be, 

Cairo, or the city of the Trinity ; 

Now are they dunghill cocks that have not seen 

The bordering Alps, or else the neighbour Rhine : 

And now he plies the news-full Grasshopper, 

Of voyages and ventures to inquire. 

His land mortgaged, he sea-beat in the way. 

Wishes for home a thousand sighs a day ; 

And now he deems his home-bred fare as leaf 

As his parch'd biscuit, or his barrell'd beef. 

'Mongst all these stirs of discontented strife, 

let me lead an academic life; 

To know much, and to think for nothing, know 

Nothing to have, yet think we have enow ; 

In skill to want, and wanting seek for more ; 

In weal nor want, nor wish for greater store. 

Envy, ye monarchs, with your proud excess. 

At our low sail, and our high happiness. 

the rustic to become a soldier, of the rhymer to appear in 
print, and of the brain-sick reader of foreign wonders to 
become a traveller.— E. 



WILLIAM WARNER 



Was a native of Oxfordshire, and was born, as 
Mr. Ellis conjectures, in 1558. He left the uni- 
versity of Oxford without a degree, and came to 
London, where he pursued the business of an 
attorney of the common pleas. Scott, the poet 
of Am well, discovered that he had been buried in 
the church of that parish in 1609, having died 
suddenly in the night-time.* 

His "Albion's England" was once exceedingly 
popular. Its publication was at one time inter- 
dicted by the Star-chamber, for no other reason 
that can now be assigned, but that it contains 
some love-stories more simply than delicately 
related. His contemporaries compared him to 
Virgil, whom he certainly did not make his 



model. Dr. Percy thinks he rather resemblea 
Ovid, to whom he is, if possible, still more unlike. 
His poem is, in fact, an enormous ballad on the 
history, or rather on the fables appendant to the 
history of England ; heterogeneous, indeed, like 
the Metamorphoses, but written with an almost 
doggrel simplicity. Headley has rashly preferred 
his works to our ancient ballads ; but with the 
best of these they will bear no comparison. Ar- 
gentile and Curan has indeed some beautiful 
touches, yet that episode requires to be weeded 
of many Unes to be read with unqualified plea- 
sure ; and through the rest of his stories we shall 
search in vain for the familiar magic of such 
ballads as Chevy Chase or Gill Morrice. 



. ARGENTILE AND CURAN. 

TROM ALBION'S ENGLAND. 

Argipntile, the dausjhtfr and heiress of the deceased King, 
Adelbright, has been left to the protection of her uncle 
Edel, who discharj;i'S his trust unfaithfully, and seeks 
to force his niece to marry a suitor whom he believes to 
be ignoble, that he may have a pretext for seizing on 
her kingdom. 
Yet well he fosters for a time the damsel, that 

was grown 
The fairest lady under heav'n, whose beauty being 

known, 
A many princes seek her love, but none might 

her obtain, 
For gripel Edel to himself her kingdom sought 

to gain. 
And for that cause, from sight of such he did his 

ward restrain. 
By chance one Curan, son unto a Prince of 

Danske, did see 
The maid with whom he fell in love, as much as 

one might be : 
Unhappy youth, what should he do 1 his saint 

was kept in mew ; 
Nor he nor any nobleman admitted to her view : 
One while in melancholy fits he pines himself away. 
Anon he thought by force of arms to win her if 

he may. 
And still against the king's restraint did secretly 

inveigh. 
At length the high controller, Love, whom none 

may disobey, 
Imbased him from lordliness into a kitchen drudge, 
That so at least of life or death she might become 

his judge ; 
Access so had, to see and speak, he did his love 

bewray, 
And tells his birth — ^her answer was, she husband- 
less would stay : 
Meanwhile the king did beat his brain, his booty 

to achieve, 

* On the 9th March, 1608-9. 
17 



Not caring what became of her, so he by her 

might thrive ; 
At last his resolution was some peasant should 

her wive : 
And (which was working to his wish) he did ob- 
serve with joy. 
How Curan, whom he thought a drudge, scap'd 

many an am'rous toy : 
The king, perceiving such his vein, promotes hi? 

vassal still, 
Lest that the baseness of the mau should let 

perhaps his will; 
Assured, therefore, of his love, but not suspecting 

who 
The lover was, the king himself in his behalf did woo : 
The lady, resolute from love, unkindly takes that he 
Should bar the noble and unto so base a match agree ; 
And therefore, shifting out of doors, departed 

hence by stealth. 
Preferring poverty before a dangerous life in 

wealth. 
When Curan heard of her escape, the anguish 

of his heart 
Was more than much, and after her he did from 

court depart ; 
Forgetful of himself, his birth, his country, friends, 

and all. 
And only minding whom he miss'd, the foundress 

of his thrall: 
Nor means he after to frequent the court, or 

stately towns. 
But solitarily to live among the country growns. 
A brace of years he lived thus, well pleased so to live. 
And, shepherd-like, to feed a flock himself did 

wholly give ; 
So wasting love, by work and want, grew almost 

to the wane. 
And then began a second love the worser of the 

twain ; 
A country wench, a neat-herd's maid, where 

Curan kept his sheep. 



130 



SIR JOHN HARRINGTON. 



the 



Did feed her drove ; and now on her was 

shepherd's keep. 
He borrow "d on the working days his holie russets oft, 
And of the bacon's fat to make his startups black 

and soft, 
And lest his tar-box should offend, he left it at 

the fold : 
Sweet grout or whig his bottle had as much as it 

might hold ; 
A shave of bread as brown as nut, and cheese as 

white as snow, 
And wildings, or the season's fruit, he did in scrip 

bestow ; 
And whilst his pyebald cur did sleep, and sheep- 
hook lay him by, 
On hollow quills of oaten straw he piped melody; 
But when he spied her his saint . . . 

Thus the shepherd woo'd . . . 
Thou art too elvish, faith, thou art ; too elvish 

and too coy ; 
Am I, I pray thee, beggarly, that such a flock 

enjoy ? . . . 
Believe me, lass, a king is but a man, and so am I ; 
Content is worth a monarchy, and mischiefs hit 

the high. 
As late it did a king, and his, not dwelling far 

from hence. 
Who left a daughter, save thyself, for fair a 

matchless wench; 
Here did he pause, as if his tongue had done his 

heart offence : 
The neatress, longing for the rest, did egg him 

on to toll 
How fair ehe was, and who she was. She bore, 

quoth he, the belle ; 
For beauty, though I clownish am, I know what 

beauty is. 
Or did I not, yet seeing thee, I senseless were to miss : 
Suppose her beauty Helen's like, or Helen's some- 
thing less. 
And every star consorting to a pure complexion 

guess ; 
Her stature comely tall, her gait well graced, and 

her wit 
To marvel at, not meddle with, as matchless I omit; 
A globe-like head, a gold-like hair, a forehead 

smooth and high. 
An even nose ; on either side did shine a greyish 

eye. ... 



Her smiles were sober, and her looks were cheer- 
ful unto all. 

And such as neither wanton seem, nor wayward, 
mell nor gall : 

A nymph no tongue, no heart, no eye, might 
praise, might wish, might see. 

For life, for love, for form, more good, more 
worth, more fair than she ; 

Yea, such a one as such was none, save only she 
was such ; 

Of Argentile, to say the most, were to be silent 
much. — 

I knew the lady very well, but worthless of such 
praise, 

The neatress said, and muse I do a shepherd thus 
should blaze 

The coat of beauty ; credit me, thy latter speech 
bewrays 

Thy clownish shape a colour'd show ; but where- 
fore dost thou weep 1 — 

The shepherd wept, and she was woe, and both 
did silence keep : — 

In troth, quoth he, 1 am not such as seeming I 
profess. 

But then for her, and now for thee, I from my- 
self digress ; 

Her loved I, wretch that I am, a recreant to be, 

I loved her that hated love, but now I die for thee 

At Kirkland is my father's court, and Curan is 
my name. 

In Edel's court sometime in pomp, till love con- 
. troH'd the same ; 

But now — what now 1 dear heart, how now, what 
aileth thou to weep] — 

The damsel wept, and he was woe, and both did 

silence keep. 
I grant, quoth she, it was too much, that you did 
love so much, 

But whom your former could not move, your 
second love doth touch ; 

Thy twice-beloved Argentile submitteth her to thee, 

And, for thy double love, presents herself a sin- 
gle fee ; 

In passion, not in person, changed; and I, my 
lord, am she ; — 

Thus sweetly surfeiting in joy, and silent for a 
space. 

When as the ecstasy had end, did tenderly em- 
brace 



SIR JOHN HARRINGTON. 



[Born, IS6I? Died, 1612?] 



A SPECIMEN of the poetry of Sir John Har- 
rington's father has been already given in this 
volume, which is so polished and refined, as 
almost to warrant a suspicion that the editor of 
♦,he Nugae Antiquae got it from a more modern 
quarter. The elder Harrington was imprisoned 
in the Tower, under Queen Mary, for holding a 
correspondence with Elizabeth ; on whose acces- 
sion his fidelity was rewarded by her favour. 



His son, the translator of Ariosto, was knighter 
on the field by the Earl of Essex, not much to 
the satisfaction of Elizabeth, who was sparing 
of such honours, and chose to confer them her- 
self. He was created a knight of the Bath in the 
reign of James, and distinguished himself, to the 
violent offence of the high-church party, by his 
zeal against the marriage of bishops. 



HENRY PERROT.— SIR THOMAS OVERBURY. 



131 



OF A PRECISE TAILOR. 

FROM SIR JOHN HARRINGTON'S EPIGRAMS. 

A TAILOR, thought a man of upright dealing — 
True, but for lying — honest, but for stealing, 
Did fall one day extremely sick by chance, 
And on the sudden was in wond'rous trance ; 
The fiends of hell, mustering in fearful manner, 
Of sundry colour'd silks display'd a banner 
Which he had stolen, and wish'd, as they did tell, 
That he might find it all one day in hell. 
The man, affrighted with this apparition. 
Upon recovery grew a great precisian : 
He bought a Bible of the best translation. 
And in his life he show'd great reformation ; 
He walked mannerly, he talked meekly. 
He heard three lectures and two sermons weekly ; 
He vow'd to shun all company unruly, 
And in his speech he used no oath»; but truly 



And zealously to keep the sabbath's rest, 

His meat for that day on the eve was drest ; 

And lest the custom which he had to steal 

Might cause him sometimes to forget his zeal, 

He gives his journeymen a special charge, 

That if the stuff, allowance being large, 

He found his fingers were to filch inclined, 

Bid him to have the banner in his mind. 

This done (I scant can tell the rest for laughter) 

A captain of a ship came three days after, 

And brought three yards of velvet and three 

quarters. 
To make Venetians down below the garters. 
He, that precisely knew what was enough. 
Soon slipt aside three quarters of the stulf ; 
His man, espying it, said, in derision, 
Master, remember how you saw the vision ! 
Peace, knave ! quoth he, I did not see one rag 
Of such a colour'd silk in all the flag. 



HENRY PERROT'S BOOK OF EPIGRAMS, 



ENTITLED "SPRINGES FOR WOODCOCKS. 
(EDIT. Ibl3.} 

Perrot, I suspect, was not the author, but 
only the collector of these trifles, some of which 
are claimed by other epigrammatists, probably 
with no better right. It is indeed very difficult 



to ascertain the real authors of a vast number of 
little pieces of the sixteenth and seventeenth cen- 
turies, as the minor poets pilfer from each other 
with the utmost coolness and apparent impunity. 



AMBITIO FEMININI GENERIS. 
Mistress Matrossa hopes to be a lady, 
Not as a dignity of late expected ; 
But from the time almost she was a baby. 
That hath your richest gentlemen rejected ; 
But yet not dubb'd at present as she should be, 
Lives in expectance still — my lady Would-be. 



NEC SUTOR ULTRA. 

FROM THE SAME. 

A COBBLER and a curate once disputed. 
Before a judge, about the king's injunctions. 
Wherein the curate being still confuted. 
One said 'twere good if they two changed functions : 
Nay, quoth the judge, I thereto would be loth. 
But, an you like, we'll make them cobblers both. 



SIR THOMAS 

(Born, 1581. 

Was born in 1581, and perished in the Tower 
of London, 1613. by a fete that is too well known. 
The compassion of the public for a man of worth, 
" whose spirit st.ll walked unrevenged amongst 
them," together with the contrast of his ideal 
Wife with the Countess of Essex, who was his 
murderess, attached an interest and popularity to 
his poem, and made it pass through sixteen edi- 
tions before the year 1653. His C'hanir.'ers, or 
Wilty Descriptions of the Properties of simdry Per- 
sons, is a work of considerable merit ; but unfor- 
tunately his prose, as well as his verse, has a dry- 



OVERBURY 



ness and quaintness that seem to oppress the 
natural movement of his thoughts. As a poet, 
he has few imposing attractions: his beauties 
must be fetched by repeated perusal. They are 
those of solid reflection, predominating over, but 
not extinguishing, sensibiLty ; and there is danger 
of the reader neglecting, under the coldness and 
ruggedness of his manner, the manly but unosten- 
tatious moral feeling that is conveyed in his max- 
ims, which are sterling and liberal, if we can only 
pardon a few obsolete ideas on female educa- 
tion. 



THE WIFE. 

FROM SIR THOMAS OVEUBURT'S P0F,M. 

Then may I trust her body with her mind, 
And, thereupon secure, need never know 
The pangs of jealousy : and love doth find 
More pain to doubt her false than find her s 



For patience is, of evils that are known, 
The certain remedy ; but doubt hath none. 

And be that thought once stirr'd, 'twill never die, 
Nor will the grief more mild by custom prove, 
Nor yet amendment can it satisfy ; 
The anguish more or less is as our love : 



132 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 



This misery doth from jealousy ensue, 

That we may prove her false, but cannot true. . 

Give me, next good, an understanding wife. 

By nature wise, not learned by much art ; 

Some knowledge on her part will, all her life. 

More scope of conversation impart; 

Besides her inborn virtue fortify ; 

They are most firmly good that best know why. 

A passive understanding to conceive, 

And judgment to discern. I wish to find ; 

Beyond that all as hazardous I leave; 

Learning and pregnant wit, in womankind. 

What it finds malleable (it) makes frail, 

And doth not add more ballast, but more sail. 

Books are a part of man's prerogative ; 

In formal ink they thoughts and voices hold, 

That we to them our solitude may give. 

And make time present travel that of old; 

Our life fame pieceth longer at the end, 

And books it farther backward do extend 

So fair at least let me imagine her ; 
That thought to me is truth. Opinion 



Cannot in matters of opinion err ; 
And as my fancy her conceives to be, 

Ev'n such my senses both do feel and see 

Beauty in decent shape and colour lies ; 
Colours the matter are, and shape the soul ; 
The soul — 'Which from no_ single part doth rise, 
But from the just proportion of the whole: — ■ 
And is a mere spiritual harmony 
Of every part united in the eye. 

No circumstance doth beauty fortify 

Like graceful fashion, native comeliness ; . . . . 

But let that fashion more to modesty 
Tend than assurance — Modesty doth set 
The face in her just place, from passion free; 
'Tis both the mind's and body's beauty met. 

All these good parts a perfect woman make ; 
Add love to me, they make a perfect wife ; 
Without her love, her beauty I should take 
As that of pictures dead — that gives it life ; 
Till then her beauty, like the sun, doth shine 
Alike to all ; — ihal only makes it mine. 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 



[Born, 1564. Died, 1616.] 



[Mr. Campisell gave us no history or opinion 
of ShakspsHre, in his specimens of the British 
Poets, but he prefixed to Moxon's edition of the 
works of the great dramatist an elaborate biogra- 
phy and criticism, of which the present editor 
makes the following abridgment.] 

Shakspeare's father, John Shakspeare, was a 
glover in Stratford ; that this was his main trade 
has been completely ascertained by Mr. Malone. 
He seems, however, to have been a speculative 
tradesman ; he farmed meadow-land, and may 
possibly have traded in wool and cattle, as has 
been alleged ; but the tradition of his having been 
a butcher is entitled to no credit, for, if he sold 
gloves, it is not very likely that he had either an- 
other shop, or the same shop with shambles be- 
fore it. 

Our great poet, the eldest son and the third 
child of his parents, was born at Stratford in the 
month of April, 1564, probably on the twenty- 
third of the month, says Mr. Malone, bemuse he 
was baptized on the twenty-fifth. When he was 
but nine weeks old the plague visited Stratford, 
and carried off more than a seventh part of the 
population, but the door-posts of our sacred infant, 
like those of the Israelites in Egypt, were sprinkled 
so as to be passed by by the destroying angel, and 
he was spared. 

No anecdotes of his earliest years have been 
preserved. All the education he ever received was 
probably at the firee school of Stratford ; but at 
what age he was placed there, or how long he 
remained, are points that can be only conjectured. 
That Shakspeare was not a classical scholar, may 
be taken for granted ; but that he learned some 



Latin at the free school of Stratford, is conceded 
even by those who estimate his classic acquire- 
ments at the lowest rate ; even allowing, as seems 
to be ascertained, that he derived his plots, in the 
main, from translations of books. 

Shakspeare's learning, whatever it was, gave 
him hints as to sources from which classical in- 
formation was to be drawn. The age abounded 
in classical translations ; it also teemed with pub- 
lic pageants, and Allegory itself might be said to 
have walked the streets. He may have laughed 
at the absurdity of many of those pageants, but 
still they would refresh his fancy. Whether he 
read assiduously or carelessly, it should be remem- 
bered that reading was to him not of the vulgar 
benefit that it is to ordinary minds. Was there 
a spark of sense or sensibility in any author, on 
whose works he glanced, that spark assimilated 
to his soul, and it belonged to it as rightfully as 
the light of heaven to the eye of the eagle. 

Malone calls in question Rowe's assertion that 
our poet was recalled from school merely on ac- 
count of his father's circumstances, and in order 
to assist him in his own trade ; and says, it is 
more likely that he was taken away with a view 
to his learning some business, in which he might 
afterwards maintain himself. My own suspicions 
however is, that his father recalled him in order 
to assist him in his own business. 

Whatever his occupation was, between the 
time of his leaving school and his going to Lon- 
don, it is certain that he married in the interim. 
His choice was Anne Hathaway, who was then 
in her twenty-sixth year, he, the boy poet, being 
only eighteen years and soirf months, and conse- 




JB 1-ippm.cott & Co Phil ad' 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 



13:j 



quently nearly eight years younger than his 
»5pouse. 

Shakspeare's mai liage bond is dated, according 
to Maloiie, the 28tL of November, 1582. In May, 
1583, his wife brought liim a daughter, who was 
named Susanna, and was baptized the 26th of 
May of the same year. If this was the case, the 
poet's first child would appear to have been born 
only six months and eleven days after the bond was 
entered into. If Mr. Malone be correct, as to the 
date of her birth in the Stratford register, Miss Su- 
sanna Shakspeare came into the world a hlile 
prematurely. 

One of the first misfortunes that is alleged to 
have befallen our poet in his married life, has cer- 
tainly no appearance of having originated in his 
marriage. " Shakspeare," says his biographer, 
Eowe, " had, b}' a misfortune common enough 
to young fellows, fallen into ill company, and 
amongst the:n some that made a practice of deer- 
stealing engaged him more than once in robbing 
a park that belonged to Sir 'i'homas Lucy of 
Charlecote near Stratford. For this," continues 
Rowe, "he was prosecuted by that gentleman, 
and in revenge he made a ballad upon him. The 
ballad itself is lost; but it was so very bitter that 
it redoubled the prosecution against him, insomuch 
that he was obliged to leave his business and 
family in Warwickshire, and to shelter himself in 
London." 

Of this lampoon, only one passage that is ex- 
tant is believed to be genuine, and that one would 
do no great honour to the muse even of a poacher. 
Mr. Malone discredits the whole story of the deer- 
stealing, and he is probably right in scouting Da- 
vies's exaggeration of it, nan)ely, that our poet 
was whipped for the offence. But, false as the 
alleged punish.aent may be, it by no means fol- 
lows that the anecdote of the theft, and of a 
threatened prosecution, must needs be incredible. 
The story is not one that we should exactly wish 
to be true, but stil it was only a youthful frolic, and 
a prank very co;nnion among young men of those 
days. 

Most probably for that reason he removed from 
Warwickshire to London, unaccompanied by wife 
or child, a few years after his marriage : it is ge- 
nerally thought in 1586 or 1587. 

He now embraced the profession of a player. 
Plays he must have seen acted at Stratford, and 
some of the best of the then living actors, such 
as the elder Burbage, Heminge, and Thomas 
preen, who were in all probability personally 
known to him. The first of these Thespian heroes 
were the countrymen of Shakspeare, the last was 
certainly his townsman, and perhaps his relation. 

Rowe says that Shakspeare was received into 
the company in a very mean rank. It has also 
been said, probably on the faith of Rowe's asser- 
tion, that he was employed as the rail-hoy, whose 
business is to give notice to the performers when 
their different entries on the stage are required. 
Another tradition is, that he used to hold the 
horses of those who -ode to the theatre without 
attendants. 



But the probability of Shakspeare's ever having 
been either a call-boy or a horse-holder, has never 
in latter years, received much belief; and it has 
been completely put to discredit by Mr. Collier, 
who has proved by documents of his own disco- 
i very, that Shakspeare, in 1589, a very few years 
after the earliest date that can be assigned to his 
1 arrival in London, was among the proprietors of 
! the very theatre in which he is alleged to have 
been once a call-boy ; and from this fact it must 
be at least concluded, that if he was at first re- 
ceived in a mean rank, he made a rapid acquisi- 
tion of theatrical consequence. 

My own suspicion is quite adverse to his hav- 
ing been a novice, and meanly received on the 
London stage. The inhabitants of Strattbrd 
were great lovers of theatrical amusements ; com- 
panies of the best comedians visited them during 
the youth of our poet, at least, on an average, 
once a year. From childhood to manhood, his 
attention must have been drawn to the stage, and 
there is every probabihty that he knew the best 
actors. He was probably a handsome man, and 
certainly an exquisite judge of acting ; he was 
past the age at which we can conceive him to 
have been either a call-boy, or a horse-holder. Upon 
the whole it may be presumed that he was a good 
actor, though not of the very highest excellence ; 
a circumstance perhaps not to be regretted, for if 
he had performed as well as he wrote, h.s actor- 
ship might have interfered with his authorship. 

An interesting subject of inquiry in Shakspeare's 
literary history, is the state of English dramatic 
poetry when he began his career. Before his 
time mere mysteries and miracle plays, in which 
Adam and Eve appeared naked, in which the devil 
displayed his horns and tad, and in which Noah's 
wife boxed the patriarch's ears before entering the 
ark, had fallen comparatively into disuse, atter a 
popularity of four centuries ; and, in the course 
of the sixteenth century, the clergy were forbid- 
den by orders from Rome to perform them. Mean- 
while " Moralities," which had made their appear- 
ance about the middle of the fifteenth century, 
were also hastening their retreat, as well as those 
pageants and masques in honour of royalty which, 
nevertheless, aided the introduction of the drama. 
We owe our first regular dramas to the universi- 
ties, the inns of court, and public seminaries. 
The scholars of these establishments engaged in 
iree translations of classic dramatists, though with 
so little taste that Seneca was one of their favour- 
ites. They caught the coldness of that model, 
however, without the. feeblest trace of his slender 
graces ; they looked at the ancients without un- 
derstanding them, and they brought to their plots 
neither unity, design, nor affecting interest. There 
is a general similarity among all the plays that 
preceded Shakspeare, in their ill-conceived plots, 
in the bombast and dullness of tragedy, and hi 
the vulgar buffoonery of comedy. 

Of our great poet's immediate predecessors. 

the most distinguished were Lyly, Peele. rtreene. 

Kyd, Nash, Lodge, and Marlowe. Marlowe wajt 

the only great man among Shakspeare's precur- 

M. 



VdA 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 



I sors ; his conceptions were strong and original ; 
I nis intellect grasped his subject as a whole: no 
j doubt he dislocated the thews of his language by 
i overstrained eflbrts at the show of strength, but 
j he delineated character with a degree of truth un- 
I known to his predecessors ; his " Edward the Se- 
j cond" is pathetic, and his " Faustus" has real 
i grandeur. If Marlowe had lived, Shakspeare 
I might have had something like a competitor. 
j Shakspeare commenced his career twenty years 

I after our drama had acquired a local habitation, 
I as well as a name : after scholars and singing- 
I Vioys had ceased to be exclusive performers, and 
when school-rooms, university-halls, the inns of 
vourt, the mansions of nobility, and the palaces 
if royalty were no longer the only theatres of 
exhibition. Plays, it is true, were still acted, 
even at a late period of Elizabeth's reign, in 
churches, chapels, and noble houses, and even re- 
gularly licensed comedians exhibited their theatri- 
cal glories in the court-yards of inns. But when 
Shakspeare came to London, our metropolis had 
regular licensed theatres and theatrical compa- 
nies. 

There is every reason to believe that Shak- 
speare commenced his career as a dramatic author, 
by adapting the works of preceding writers to the 
stage. Before the end of 1592, he had certainly 
been thus employed ; in that year Greene died, 
and left for pubhcation his " Groat's-worth of 
Wit," in which, alluding evidently to Shakspeare, 
he says, " There is an upstart crow, beautified with 
our feathers ; in his own conceit, the only Shake- 
scene in a country." 

It is probable, however, that Shakspeare had 
already made some, though few, attempts as an 
original dramatist; in the meantime, there is rea- 
son to suspect that he may have written some of 
those undramatic poems which apparently raised 
liis reputation very high, whilst his dramatic re- 
nown was yet in the dawn. He himself calls his 
" Venus and Adonis" the first fieir of his hiveu- 
iioii : that poem appeared in 1593, and the " Rape 
of Lucrece" in the following year. The luxuri- 
ance of the former poem is prurient — the mora- 
lity of the latter is somewhat dull ; yet they ac- 
quired him reputation, not only before some of 
his better dramas had appeared, but even after- 
wards. 

His " Sonnets," and « A Lover's Complaint," 
were published together in 1609. Several of his 
sonnets had certainly been composed many years 
before that date, for Meres, in 1598, alludes to 
" Shakspeare's sugared sonnets among his friends." 
They appear to have been thrown off at different 
periods of his life. 

Some of those effusions, though not all, seem 
to me worthy of Shakspeare. Among the most 
iidmirable are the eighth, the thirtieth, and, above 
all, the hundred and twenty-third — 

Lot me not to tliB marriage of true minds 

AiJmit impediments. &c. 

This, of a truth, is Shakspeare's own : it is Love 

joking at his own image in the stream of poetry. 

\v a whole, however, these sonnets are no more 



to our poet's fame, than a snow-ball on the top 
of Olympus. 

Another of Shakspeare's undramatic poems is 
a " Lover's Complaint." It has many beauties 
mixed with as many conceits. "The Forsaken 
Maiden," in describing her lover, conjures up a 
being that seems to be Shakspeare himself: — 
For, on the tip of his subduinj; tonptue, 
All kinds of argumi-nt-i and quigtious deep; 
Ail replioatii)ns prompt, and n-a.-'ons strong. 
For his advantage still did wake anil sleep. 
To make the weeper laugh— the laugher weep. 
In the miscellany of the " Passionate Pilgrim," 
some portion of the poetry is said to have been 
written by our bard ; but this miscellany seems 
to have gone to the press without Shakspeare's 
consent, or even his knowledge, and how much 
of it proceeded from his pen cannot now be dis- 
covered. 

We have indications of his ha^^ng become, at 
no tardy period, pretty prosperous in London. 
Within a very few years he had a small share in 
the theatre which he joined, and in 1596 he was 
a very considerable shareholder. There are proofs 
also of his having been at the latter period a po- 
pular dramatic writer, universally admired, and 
already patronized by some of the first noblemen 
of the land, among whom were the liOrds South- 
ampton and Pembroke. There is no evidence, to 
be sure, that he ever received any solid patronage 
from Queen Elizabeth., but there is every reason 
to suppose that she highly appreciated his genius. 
It is little doubted that James I. wrote to him with 
his own hand a friendly letter, perhaps, as Dr. 
Farmer suggests, in consequence of the compli- 
ment to the Stuart family, which Shakspeare paid 
in the tragedy of Macbeth. The crown of Eng- 
land had scarcely fallen on James's head, when 
he granted his royal patent to our poet and his 
company of the Globe ; thus raising them from 
being the lord chamberlain's servants to be the 
servants of the king. The patent is dated on the 
29th of May, 1603, and the name of Shakspeare 
stands second on the list of patentees. 

In the midst of his London prosperity, we should 
not forget the tradition of his wit and hilarity at 
the Mermaid, a celebrated tavern in Friday-street. 
Here there was a club of genial spirits, to which 
regularly repaired Shakspeare, Beaumont, Flet- 
cher, Selden, Cotton, Donne, and many others 
whose names, even at this distant period, call up 
a mingled feeling of reverence and respect. 

It is pretty certain, as I have already stated, 
that Shakspeare began his career in dramatic poe- 
try by altering, and adapting for the stage, plays 
that had been previously written. In the opinion 
of the best judges there is more than one drama, 
published in the popular editions of his works, in 
which he could have had httle or no share. One 
of these is " Titus Andronicus," a tragedy not with- 
out some traits of merit, but too revolting in its 
general conception to be the credible fruit of 
Shakspeare's genius. Even independently of its 
horrors, it has an air in its poetry, and a tone in 
its versification, which is not Shaksporian. Indi- 
vidual passages have smooth rhythm and pointed 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 



]::•• 



expression ; but nnt the broad freedom and effect 
in harmonious language that characterize Shak- 
speare. 

Six other plays, viz., The Arraignment of Paris, 
The Birth of Merlin, Edward III., The Fair Em- 
ma, The Merry Devil of Edmonton, and Muce- 
dorus,^ — are found entered on the books of the 
London stationers, as written by William Shak- 
spearc ; but these, and some others which have 
been fathered on our poet, are regarded as spuri- 
ous, in spite of Schlegel's credulity on the subject. 

A difterent opinion attends tiie play of Pericles, 
of which Dryden says, that " Shakspeare's own 
muse his Pericles first bore ;" and tlie credibility 
of this tradition is not weakened by the fact that 
Heminge and Condell, the first editors of the 
poet's works, omitted " Pericles" in their edition ; 
for it happens that they omitted " Troilus and 
Cressida," a play which nobody doubts to have 
been Shakspeare's. 

I am glad that we may safely reject the " First 
Part of Henr}' VI." from the list of Shakspeare's 
genuine plays, when I think of that infernal scene 
in the fifth act, the condemnation of Joan of Arc 
to be burnt alive. 

Malone assigns both the " Second and Third 
Parts of Henry VI." to the year 1591. In both 
parts there are such obvious traces of Shakspeare's 
genius, particularly in the Second Part, that we 
must suppose them to have been written princi- 
pally by him. They are both, to be sure, altera- 
tions of older plays ; but it has been well observed 
that the antecedent pieces received from our poet's 
hand " a thorough repair." 

To the same date, 1591, Mr. Malone ascribes 
the "Two Gentlemen of Verona." It is plain 
from this piece that Shakspeare was yet very far 
from having arrived at the maturity of his art; 
but it shows us the young poet in bounding high 
spirits, getting through his subject, sometimes with 
graceful and sometimes with farcical glee. He 
unravels the plot, we are told, precipitately, and 
his characters are reconciled as friends too impro- 
bably. 

When we come to his next comedy, " Love's 
Labour's Lost," (1592,) we are still far from find- 
ing him at the zenith of his inspiration^ though 
this play is interspersed with Shakspearian bursts 
of poetry, and though it breathes, if possible, a 
still more reveling spirit than the " Two Gentle- 
men of Verona." 

" Richard II." as well as « Richard III.," accord- 
ing to Malone's dates, appeared in 1593. The 
former tragedy is estimable for its pathos and 
skilful delineation of character. 

In " Richard III.," (1593,) Shakspeare put forth 
a power of terrific delineation which, with the ex- 
ception of the death-scene of Cardinal Beaufort, 
in the Second Part of Henry VI., he had never 
before displayed. This tragedy forms an epoch 
in the history of our poet and in that of dramatic 
poetry. In his preceding dramas he showed 
rather the suppleness than the knotted strength 
of his genius ; but in the subtle cunning, the com- 
manding courage, the lofty pride and ambition, 



the remorsclessness of the third Richard, and in 
the whole sublime depravity of his character, he 
reminds us of the eulogium passed by Fuseli on 
Michael Angelo, who says, that Michael could 
stamp sublimity on the hump of a dwarf. So 
complete was this picture of human guilt, that 
Milton, in seeking for a guilty hero, w as obliged 
to descend to the nether regions. 

The "Merchant of Venice," (in 15^4,) was a 
long and forward stride of Shakspeare's progress 
in the drama. Here, as in " Richard III.," we see 
the giant in his seven-league boots, and he is now 
grown to a maturity of art and strength, from 
which still greater miracles are yet to be expected. 

Of all his works, the " Midsummer Night's 
Dream" (1594) leaves the strongest impression 
on my mind, that this miserable wbrld must have, 
for once at least, contained a happy man. This 
play is so purely delicious, so little intermixed with 
the painful passions from which poetry distils her 
sterner sweets, so fragrant with hilarity, so bland 
and yet so bold, that I cannot imagine Shak- 
speare's mind to have been in any other frame 
than that of healthful ecstasy when the sparks of 
inspiration thrilled through his brain in compos- 
ing it. 

In the "Taming of the Shrew," (1596,) we 
have no new triumph of Shakspeare's absolute 
invention; for in 1594, a play called "the Tam- 
ing of u Shrew," was entered on the books of the 
Stationers' Company, and the plot of that elder 
piece is in the main a rude fore-image of Shak- 
speare's play. 

In " Romeo and Juliet," (1596,) there is a 
much larger pretension to originality. It is true 
that the mere story of the play can be traced to 
much earlier narrators. Yet, what does his pos- 
session of those undramatized materials derogate 
from his merit as a dramatist? The structure of 
the play is one of the most regular in his theatre, 
and its luxury of language and imagery were all 
his own. The general, the vaguely general con- 
ception of two young persons having been des- 
perately in love, had undoubtedly been imparted 
to our poet by his informants ; but who among 
them had conceived the finely-depicted progress of 
Juliet's impassioned character, in her transition 
from girlish confidence in the sympathy of others 
— to the assertion of her own superiority over 
their vulgar minds in the majesty of her despair 1 
To eulogize this luxuriant drama, however, would 
be like gilding refined gold. 

" Henry IV. Part 1st," (1597,) may challenge 
the world to produce another more original and rich 
in characters ; the whole zodiac of theatrical ge- 
nius has no constellation with so many bright and 
fixed stars of the first magnitude as are here 
grouped together. 

" King John" (1596 according to Malone, 1598 
according to Dyce) was founded on a former 
drama, entitled " 2 he troublesome Raigne of King 
John of England, with the D'^coverie of King 
Richard Cmu-de-tionh base son, vulgarly named the 
Bastard Fuulconbridgr ; also the death of King 
John at Stvinslead Abbey as it tvas {sundrie times) 



136 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 



f)ub(icUy acted by the Queen's Majeslie's players, in 
the Honourable city of London." It is curious to 
find that the former was almost an exact forerun- 
ner of the latter^in point of incidents and per- 
sonages. I say personages and not characters, 
for Shakspeare has thrown more vivacity into the 
part of Faulconbridge than can be found in the 
prototype ; more dignity into that of Constance, 
and more pathos into that of Arthur. In the 
old piece there was no anticipation of Shak- 
speare's high painting, 

"All's Well that Ends Well" (1598) was de- 
rived originally from Boccacio, but was immedi- 
ately borrowed by Shakspeare from a novel in 
Painter's "Palace of Pleasure," entitled Giletta of 
Narbona. It is far from being in the front rank 
of his plays. 

The play of « Henry V." had a forerunner in 
an older drama which bore the same title, and con- 
tained many of the incidents which Shakspeare 
has employed. 

In Shakspeare's " Henry V." there is no want of 
spirited action and striking personages ; but I cannot 
agree with Schlegel as to the nice discrimination 
which he discovers in the portraiture of Irish, Scotch, 
and Welsh character among the brave captains 
of Henry's camp. The play has noble passages. 
And amongst these, the description of the night 
before the battle of Agincourt will be repeated by 
the youth of England when our children's chil- 
dren shall be gray with age. It was said of 
^5]schylus, that he composed his " Seven Chiefs 
against Thebes," under the inspiration of Mars 
himself. If Shakspeare's " Henry V." had been 
written for the Greeks, they would have paid him 
the same compliment. 

The delicious comedy of " As You Like It" 
was taken from Lodge's " Rosalynd, or Euphues' 
Golden Legacye," but never was the prolixity and 
pedantry of a prosaic narrative transmuted by ge- 
nius into such magical poetry. The events of 
the play are not numerous, and its interest is pre- 
served by characters more than incidents. But 
what a tablet of characters ! the witty and impas- 
sioned Rosalind, the love-devoted Orlando, the 
friendship-devoted Celia, the duty-devoted old 
Adam, the humourous Clown, and the melan- 
choly Jaques ; all these, together witb the digni- 
fied and banished Duke, make the forest of Arden 
an Elysium to our imagination ; and our hearts 
are so stricken by those benevolent beings, that 
we easily forgive the other once culpable but at 
last repentant characters. • 

The principal incident in the comedy of " Much 
Ado about JNothing," ((. e. the crimination of an 
innocent woman, in consequence of a villain pro- 
curing the lady's maid-servant to appear dressed 
like her mistress, and receive a lover at the win- 
dow,) is found in the " Orlando Furioso" of Ariosto, 
as well as in one of the novels of Bandello, who 
borrowed it from his compatriot poet. The story 
is probably still older than Ariosto. It is likely 
to have reached Shakspeare through Belleforest's 
" Cent Histoires Tragiques," published in 1583, 
i-id translated into English shortly afterwards. 



[ The story which mainly forms the plot oJ 
"Hamlet," (1600,) can be traced back to the 
History of Denmark by Saxo Grammaticus. 
Amidst our universal admiration of this tragedy, 
the precise character of its hero has nevertheless 
remained a problem in the hands of its admirers. 
Hamlet is strong in imagination, beautiful in ab- 
stracted thoughts, and gieat and good in his ge- 
neral intentions; yet he is weak, wayward, and 
inconsistent ; fond, but barbarous towards Ophelia ; 
proudly and justly conscious of his superiority 
to ordinary men, and yet, not always unjustly, a 
despiser of himself. The theorists respecting his 
character reconcile its contrarieties to their own 
satisfaction, but no two of them in the same man- 
ner. My solution of the question about Ham- 
let's inconsistencies is, that his morbid mind is 
indued both with the reality and the aflectation of 
madness. Such cases are not unknown in the 
history of mental aberration. Surpassingly ex- 
cellent as Shakspeare's " Hamlet" is, it has a fault, 
as a piece of dramatic structure, in the unneces- 
sarj- perplexity of events towards its close, when 
the prince sails for England and returns, whilst 
all this while ne might as well have been in Den- 
mark. 

In "The Merry Wives of Windsor," (1600,) 
which displays a rich variety of incidents and a 
throng of well-supported characters, we are pre- 
sented with an unrivaled instance of pure, domestic 
English comedy, heightened in zest by the frolic- 
some adjunction of mock fairy mythology. 

" Twelfth Night" is shown by Mr. Collier to 
have been written in 1601. The delicacy with 
which a modest maiden makes love to her lord in 
male disguise, and the pathos with which she de- 
scribes her imaginary, but too real selt^ — 'when 
" concealment, like a worm i' the bud, preyed on 
her damask cheek," and the sudden growth of 
Orsino's attachment to her on the discovery of her 
sex, and on the recalling of her words from his 
memory to his understanding, form beauties in 
this comedy which no touch of human revision 
could improve. 

" Troilus and Cressida" was probably wiitten 
in 1602. It is not one of Shakspeare's master- 
pieces. The language is too often tortuously and 
tumultuously figurative, and is so cramped with 
Shakspeare's frequent fault of trying to be over- 
muscular in expression, that there are almost 
whole scenes which, if they had been written by 
a satiric imitator of his style, I should say were a 
cruel caricature of Shakspeare. 

It seems to me that " Henry VIII." was writ- 
ten, at the latest, in 1602. Poetical art perhaps 
never flattered a monster with such palpable like- 
ness, and yet with such impalpable and cunning 
mitigation. He suborns his guilty love itself to 
seduce our sympathy by the beauty of its object. 

" Measure for Measure" was written in 1603. 
In the drama, as in the merry conversation of 
common life, we forgive a man for telling white- 
lie anecdotes ; but they must be lily-white lies, 
and must be fragrant with merriment. At the 
same time, we must own that Shakspeare, in 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 



137 



" Measure for Measure," presumes a little too far 
on his right to improbability, and, to use a vulgar 
phrase, " draws a long bow." 

The tragedy of "Othello" (1604) has evident 
marks of its plot and incidents having been largely 
borrowed from the seventh novel of the third de- 
cade of Cinthio's Hecatommithi. 

This drama, by itself, would h:ive immortalized 
any poet ; then what are we to think of Shak- 
speare, when we may hesitate to pronounce it to be 
the best of his plays ! Certainly, however, it has 
no superior in his own theatre, and no rival in 
any other. The Moor is at once one of the most 
complex and astonishing, and yet most intelligible 
pictures, that fiction ever portrayed of human 
character. His grandeur of soul is natural, and 
we admire it; his gentleness is equally natural, 
and we love him. for it ; his appearance we can- 
not but conceive to be majestic, and his physiog- 
nomy benevolent. Othello had been bred a 
barbarian, and though his bland nature and in- 
tercourse with the more civilized world had long 
warred against and conquered the half-natural 
habits of barbarism, yet those habits, at last, broke 
out, and prevailed in the moments of his jealousy. 
He is not a jealous man by nature, but, being 
once made jealous, he reverts to savage ness, and 
becomes as terrible as he had before been tender. 
This contrast in his conduct, however,- is not an 
Ovidian metamorphosis, but a transition so proba- 
bly managed as to seem unavoidable ; yet, the na- 
turalness of the change prevents neither our ter- 
ror nor pity : on the contrary, the sweetness of 
his character before its fall is the smoothness of 
the stream before its cataract ; and his bland dis- 
positions, heretofore displayed, appear, like a rich 
autumnal day, contrasted with the thunder-storm 
of its evening. The terrors of the storm are 
also made more striking to our imagination by 
the gentleness of the victim on which they fall — 
Desdemona. Had one symptom of an angry 
spirit appeared in that lovely martyr, our sympa- 
thy with her would have been endangered; but 
Shakspeare knew better. 

"King Lear" (1605) was based upon a play 
entitled "The True Chronicle Historie of King 
Leare and his Three Daughters," by an unknown 
author. Independently of Shakspeare's having 
created a new Lear, he has sublimated the old 
tragedy into a new one, by an entire orignality in 
the spiritual protraiture of its personages. Wher- 
ever Shakspeare works on old materials, you will 
find him not wiping dusted gold, but extracting 
gold from dust where none but himself could have 
made the golden extraction. 

Enlightened criticism and universal opinion 
have so completely set the seal of celebrity on the 
tragedy of "Macbeth," (1606,) that it will stand 
whilst our language exists, as a monument of Eng- 
lish genius. Nay, it will outlast the present form 
of our language, and speak to generations unborn 
in parts of the earth that are yet uninhabited. 
No drama in any national theatre, taking even 
that of Greece into the account, has more wonder- 
fully amalgamated the natural and the superna- 



tural — or made the substances of truth more awful 
by their superstitious shadows — 'than has the tra- 
gedy of " Macbeth." The progress of Macbeth 
in crime is an unparalleled lecture in ethical ana 
tomy. The heart of man, naturally prone to 
goodness, is exposed so as to teach us clearly 
through what avenues of that heart the black 
drop of guilt found its way to expel the more 
innocent blood. A semblance of superstitious ne- 
cessity is no doubt preserved in the actions of Mac- 
beth ; and a superficial reader might say that the 
witches not only tempted, but necessitated Mac- 
beth to murder Duncan. But this is not the case, 
for Shakspeare has contrived to give at once the 
awful appearance of preternatural impulse on 
Macbeth's mind, and yet visibly to leave him a 
free agent, and a voluntary sinner. 

"Julius Cajsar" was written in 1607. Three 
out of four of Shakspeare's classical dramas, 
" Julius Cffisar," " Antony and Cleopatra," and 
" Coriolanus," are so consummate, that he must 
be pronounced as much at home in Roman as in 
romantic history. Already he had shown, in his 
allusions to Pagan mythology, that he had inhaled 
its sweetest aroma, distilled, not by toiling scholar- 
ship, but by the fire of his genius. But, now that 
he was in the fullest manhood of his mind, he 
could borrow more from the ancients than the 
bloom and breath of their mythology. He cast 
his eyes both in their quiet and in their kindled 
inspiration, both as a philosopher and as a poet, 
on the page of classic history ; he discriminated 
its characters with the light of philosophy ; and 
he irradiated Irulh without encroaching on its solid 
shapes with the hues of fancy. 

"Timon of Athens" is referred to 1610. It is 
far from displaying Shakspeare improved either 
in his philosophy or his philanthropy at the time 
he wrote it. It is the production of his spleen 
more than of his heart. The interwoven episode 
of Alcibiades is uninteresting, for it is a moot point 
whether he or the Athenians were in the wrong. 
Altogether "Timon" is a pillar in his theatric 
fame that might be removed without endanger- 
ing the edifice. 

" Cymbeline" is dated in 1609. In order tc 
enjoy the romantic drama, we must accept of the 
terms on which the romantic poet offers us enjoy- 
ment. The outline of his piece in such a poem 
as " Cymbeline" will at once show that the scene 
is placed remotely as to time, in order to soften 
its improbabilities to the imagination by the etfect 
of distance. We all know that in landscapes 
and landscape-painting the undefined appearance 
of objects resulting from distance has a charm 
diflerent fi-om that of their distinctness in the 
foreground ; and the same principle holds true in 
the romantic drama, when the poet avowedly 
leaves his scenes open to the objection of impro- 
bability, owing to the very nature of romantic 
fiction. Of all plays in the world, I think these re- 
marks are particularly applicable to Shakspeare's 
" Cymbeline." With my heart open to romantic 
belief, I conscientiously suppose all the boldly im- 
agined events of the drama — I am rewarded with 
u2 



138 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 



the delightful conceptions of Imogen, of her arri- 
val at the cave of her banished brothers, with its in- 
numerable beauties, and with its happy conclusion. 
This play is perhaps the fittest in Shakspeare's 
whole theatre to illustrate the principle, that great 
dramatic genius can occasionally venture on bold 
improbabilities, and yet not only shrive the oflence, 
but leave us enchanted with the offender. I think 
I exaggerate not, in saying that Shakspeare has no- 
where breathed more pleasurable feelings over the 
mind, as an antidote to tragic pain, than in " Cym- 
beline." 

If I were to select any historical play of 
Shakspeare, in which he has combined an almost 
literal fidelity to history with an equally faithful 
adherence to the truth of nature, and m which 
he superinduces the merit of skdful dramatic 
management, it would be " Antony and Cleo- 
patra," (1608.) In his portraiture of Antony 
there is, perhaps, a flattered likeness of the origi- 
nal by Plutarch ; but the similitude loses little of 
its strength by Shakspeare's softening and keeping 
in the shade his traits of cruelty. In Cleopatra, 
we can discern nothing materially different from 
the vouched historical sorceress ; she nevertheless 
has a more vivid meteoric and versatile play of en- 
chantment in Shakspeare's likeness of her, than 
in a dozen of other poetical copies in which the 
artists took much greater liberties with historical 
truth : — he paints her as if the gipsy herself had 
cast her spell over him, and given her own witch- 
craft to his pencil. 

" Coriolanus" was written in 1610; " Winter's 
Tale" in 1611; and "The Tempest" — believed 
to be the last of Shakspeare's plays — in the same 
ytar. This drama is comparatively a grave coun- 
terpart to "A Midsummer Night's Dream." I 
say comparatively, for its gayety is only less aban- 
doned and frolicsome. To be condemned to give 
the preference to either would give me a distress 
similar to that of being obliged to choose between 
the loss of two very dear friends. 

" The Tempest," however, has a sort of sacred- 
ness, as the last work of the mighty workman. 
Shakspeare, as if conscious that it would be his 
last, and, as if inspired to typify himself, has made 



its hero a natural, a dignified, and benevolent ma- 
gician, who could conjure up spirits fiom the vasty 
deep, and command supernatural agency by the 
most seemingly natural and simple means. — And 
this final play of our poet has magic indeed ; for 
what can be simpler in language than the court- 
ship of Ferdinand and Miranda, and yet what can 
be more magical than the sympathy with which 
it subdues usj Here Shakspeare himself is Pros- 
pero, or rather the superior genius who commands 
both Prospero and Ariel. But the time was ap- 
proaching when the potent sorcerer was to break 
his staff', and to bury it fathoms in the ocean — 
Deeper than did ever plummet sound. 

That staff has never been, and never will be, re- 
covered. 

The exact period at which Shakspeare quitted 
the metropolis, and settled in his native place, has 
not been ascertained, but as it was certainly some 
years before his death, it cannot be well put later 
than 1611 or 1612. His fame, his engaging man- 
ners, and his easy fortune — for he retired with an 
income of three hundred pounds a-year — equal 
to fifteen hundred pounds in the present day — 
must have made him associate with the best so- 
ciety in and around Stratford ; and we cannot 
conceive his settlement to have been less than a 
joyous era to his townsmen and neighbourhood. 

His wife had brought him three children : Su- 
sanna, who was born in May, 1583 ; about eigh- 
teen months afterwards, she was delivered of 
twins, a son and daughter, who were baptized by 
the names Hamnet and Judith. In the year 
1596, he lost his only son, who died at the age 
of twelve. Susanna was married, June 5, 1607, 
to Dr. John Hall, a respectable physician ; and in 
1615-16 his youngest daughter Judith, then in 
her thirty-first year, was married to Thomas 
Quiney, a vintner, in Stratford. On the 25th of 
the succeeding month he executed his will, as if 
warned of impending fate, for, on the 23d of April, 
1616, on his birthday, and when he had exactly 
completed his fifty-second year, the best of poets 
expired. — G.] 



SONNETS. 
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, 
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, 
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, 
Will be a tatter'd weed of small worth held ; 
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies, — 
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days — 
To say " within thine own deep sunken eyes," 
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise ; 
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use, 
If thou couldst answer " This fair child of mine 
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse," 
Proving his beauty by succession thine : 
This were to be new-made when thou art old, 
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it 
cold. 



Oh! how much more doth Beauty beauteous 

seem. 
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give ! 
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem 
For that sweet odour which doth in it live ; 
The canker'd blooms have full as deep a dye, 
As the perfumed tincture of the roses. 
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly, 
When summer's breath their masked buds dis- 
closes ; 
But, for their virtue only is their show, 
They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade. 
Die to themselves — Sweet roses do not so, 
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made ; 
As so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, 
When that shall fade my verse distils your truth. 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 



139 



Let me not to the marriage of true minds 
Adinit impediments. liOve is not love 
Which alters when it alteration finds, 
Or bends with the remover to remove ; 

no, it is an ever-fixed mark 

That loolis on tempests and is never shaken ; 

It is the star to every wandering bark, 

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be 

taken. 
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 
Within his bending sickle's compass come ; 
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks. 
But bears it out even to the edge of doom: 
If this be error, and upon me proved, 

1 never writ, nor no man ever loved. 



Those lips, that Love's own hand did make. 
Breathed forth the sound that said " I hate," 
To me that languish for her sake. 
But when she saw my woeful state, 
Straight in her heart did mercy come, 
Chiding that tongue that, ever sweet. 
Was used in giving gentle doom ; 
And taught it thus anew to greet : 
" I hate" she alter'd with an end 
That foUow'd it as gentle day 
Doth follow night, who, like a fiend, 
From heav'n to hell is flown away. 
" I hate" — from hate away she threw. 
And saved my life, saying — " not you." 



When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, 
I all alone beweep my outcast state. 
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries. 
And look upon myself, and curse my fate. 
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, 
Featured like him, like him with friends possest. 
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope. 
With what I most enjoy contented least: 
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising. 
Haply I think on thee, and then my state, 
(Like to the lark, at break of day arising 
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate ; 
For thy sweet love remember'd,such wealth brings 
That then I scorn to change my state with kings. 



Let me confess that we two must be twain, 

Although our undivided loves are one : 

So shall those blots that do with me remain, 

Without th> help, by me be borne alone. 

In our two loves there is but one respect. 

Though in our lives a separable spight, 

WHiich though it alter not love's sole effect. 

Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight. 

I may not evermore acknowledge thee. 

Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame; 

Nor thou with public kindness honour me, 

Unless thou take that honour from thy name: 

But do not so ; I love thee in such sort, 

As ihou being mine, mine is thy good report. 



As a decrepit father takes delight 

To see his active child do deeds of youth. 

So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spight, 

Take, all my comfort of thy worth and truth; 

For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit, 

Or any of these all, or all, or more, 

Entitled in their parts do crowned sit, 

I make my love engrafted to this store: 

So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised, 

Whilst that this shadow doth such substance 

give, 
That I in thy abundance am sufficed. 
And by a part of all thy glory live. 
Look what is best, that best I wish in thee ; 
This wish I have ; then ten times happy me ! 



No longer mourn for me when I am dead, 
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell 
G.ve warning to the world that I am fled 
From this vde world, with vilest worms to dwell ; 
Nay, if you read this line, remember not 
The hand that writ it ; for I love you so, 
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, 
If thinking on me then should make you woe. 
if (I say) you look upon this verse, 
When I, perhaps, compounded am with clay. 
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse ; 
But let your love even with my life decay ; 
Lest the wise world should look into your moan, 
And mock you with me alter I am gone. 



Sat that thou didst forsake me for some fault. 

And I will comment upon that offence ; 

Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt ; 

Against thy reasons making no defence. 

Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill. 

To set a form upon desired change, 

As I'll myself disgrace : knowing thy will, 

I wUl acquaintance strangle, and look strange ; 

Be absent fi-oin thy walks ; and on my tongue 

Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell; 

Lest I (too much profane) should do it wrong. 

And haply of our old acquaintance tell. 

For thee, against myself I'll vow debate, 

For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate. 



Alas, 'tis true, I have gone here and there, 
And made myself a motley td the view, [dear 
Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most 
Made old offences of affections new. 
Most true it is, that I have look'd on truth 
Askance and strangely ; but, by all above. 
These blenches gave my heart another youth, 
And worst assaies proved thee my best of love. 
Now all is done, have what shall have no end : 
Mine appetite I never more will grind 
On newer proof, to try an older friend, 
A god in love, to whom I am confined. 
Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best 
Even to thy pure and most, most loving breast. 



SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 



[Born, 1532. Died, 1618.] 



Ir is difficult exactly to estimate the poetical 
character of this great man, as many of the pie,ces 
that are ascribed to hini have not been authenti- 
cated. Among these is the " Soul's Farewell," 
which possesses a fire of imagination that we 
would willingly ascribe to him ; but his claim to 
it, as has been already mentioned,- is exceedingly 
doubtful. The tradition of his having written it 
on the night before his execution, is highly in- 
teresting to the fancy, but, like many fine stories, 
it has the little defect of being untrue, as the poem 
was in existence more than twenty years before 
his death. It has accordingly been placed in this 
collection, with several other pieces to which his 
name has been conjecturally affixed, among the 
anonymous poetry of that period. 

Sir Waller was born at Hayes Farm, in Devon- 
shire, and studied at Oxford. Leaving the uni- 
versity at seventeen, he fought for six years under 
the Protestant banners in France, and afterwards 
served a campaign in the Netherlands. He next 
distinguished himself in Ireland during the rebel- 
lion of 1580, under the lord deputy Lord Grey de 
Wilton, with whom his personal disputes eventu- 
ally promoted his tbrtunes ; for being heard in his 
own cause on returning to England, he won the 
favour of Elizabeth, who knighted him, and raised 
him to such honours as alarmed the jealousy of 
her favourite Leicester. 

In the mean time, as early as 1 579, he had com- 
menced his adventures with a view to colonize 
America — surveyed the territory now called Vir- 
ginia, in 1584, and fitted out successive fleets in 
support of the infant colony. In the destruction 
of the Spanish armada, as well as in the expedi- 
tion to Portugal in behalf of Don Antonio, he had 
his full share of action and glory; and though re- 
called, in 1592, from the appointment of general 
of the expedition against Panama, he must have 
made a princely fortune by the success of his fleet, 
which sailed upon that occasion, and returned 
with the richest prize that had ever been brought 
to England. The queen was about this period so 
indignant with him for an amour which he had 
with one of her maids of honour, that, though he 
married the lady, (she was the daughter of Sir 
Nicholas Throgmorton,) her majesty committed 



him, with his fair partner, to the Tower. The 
queen forgave Inm, however, at last, and rewarded 
his services with a grant of the manor of Sher- 
borne, in Dorsetshire, where he built a magnificent 
seat. Raleigh's mind was not one that was des- 
tined to travel in the wheel-ruts of common pre- 
judice. It was rumoured that he had carried the 
freedom of his philosophical speculation to an he- 
retical height on many subjects ; and his accept- 
ance of the church lands of Sherborne, already 
mentioned, probably supplied additional motives 
to the clergy to swell the outcry against his prin- 
ciples. He was accused (by the Jesuits) of athe- 
ism — a charge which his own writings sufficiently 
refute. Whatever were his opinions, the public 
saved him the trouble of explaining them ; and 
the queen, taking it for granted that they must 
be bad, gave him an open, and, no doubt, edifying 
reprimand. To console himself under these cir- 
cumstances, he projected the conquest of Guiana, 
sailed thither in 1595, and having captured the 
city of San Joseph, returned and published an 
account of his voyage. In the following year he 
acted gallantly under the Earl of Essex at Cadiz, 
as well as in what was called the "Island Voy- 
age."* On the latter occasion he failed of com- 
plete success only through the jealousy of the 
favourite. 

His letter to Cecil, in which he exhorted that 
statesman to the destruction of Essex, forms but 
too sad and notorious a blot in our hero's memory , 
yet even that oflence will not reconcile us to be- 
hold the successor of Elizabeth robbing Raleigh 
of his estate to bestow it on the minion Carr ; and 
on the grounds of a plot in which his participa- 
tion was never proved, condemning to fifteen years 
of imprisonment the man who had enlargeil the 
empire of his country, and the boundaries of hu- 
man knowledge. James could estimate the wise, 
but shrunk from cordiality with the brave. He 
released Raleigh, from avaricious hopes about the 
mine of Guiana; and when disappomted in that 
object, sacrificed him to motives still baser than 
avarice. On the 29th of October, 1618, Raleigh 
perished on a scaflbld, in Old Palace-yard, by a 
sentence originally iniquitous, and which his com- 
mission to Guiana had virtually revoked. 



TFIE SILENT LOVER. 
P.\ssiONS are liken'd best to floods and streams, 
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb ; 
So when aftection yields discourse, it seems 
The bottom is but shallow whence they come ; 
They that are rich in words must needs discover 
They are but poor in that which makes a lover. 

Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart, 
The merit of true passion. 
With thinking that he feels no sniart 
That sues for no compassion. 
1« 



Since if my plaints were not t' approve 
The conquest of thy beauty. 
It comes not from defect of love, 
But fear t' exceed my duty. 

For not knowing that I sue to serve 
A saint of such perfection 
As all desire, but none deserve 
A place in her afl'ection, 



* A Tovage that was aimed principally at the Spanish 
Plate fleets. 



SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 



141 



I rather choose to want rehef 
Than, venture the reveahng ; 
Where glory recommends the grief, 
Despair disdains the healing. 

Silence in love betrays more woe 
Than words, though ne'er so witty ; 
A beggar that is dumb, you know, 
May challenge double pity. 

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart. 
My love for secret passion ; 
He smarteth most who hides his smart. 
And sues for no compassion.* 



A NYMPH'S DISDAIN OF LOVE. 
Hey down a down, did Dian sing, 
Amongst her virgins sitting, 
Than love there is no vainer thing 
For maidens most unfitting: 
And so thhik I, with a down down derry. 

When women knew no woe, 

But lived themselves to please, 

Men's feigning guiles they did not know. 

The ground of their disease. 

Unborn was false Suspect ; 

No thought of Jealousy; 

From wanton toys and fond affect 

The virgin's life was free ; 

Hey down a down, did Dian sing, &c. 

At length men used charms. 
To which what maids gave ear. 
Embracing gladly endless harms. 
Anon enthralled were. 

Thus women welcomed woe, 
Disguised in name of love ; 
A jealous hell, a painted show, 
So shall they find that prove. 

Hey down a down, did Dian sing, 
Amongst her virgins sitting, 
Than love there is no vainer thing, 
For maidens most unfitting. 



THE SHEPHERD'S DESCRIPTION OF LOVE. 
Ascribed to Sir Walter Raleigh in "England's Helicon." 
Melib. Shepherd, what's love 1 I pray thee tell. 
Faust. It is that fountain and that well 

Where pleasure and repentance dwell ; 
It is, perhaps, that sauncing bell 
That tolls all into heav'ri or hell, 
And this is love as I heard tell. 

31. Yet, what is love ? I prithee say. 

F. It is a work on holiday ; 

It is December match'd with May, 
When lusty blood 's in fresh array. 
And this is love as I hear say. 



* [This poem is attributed to Lord Pembroke, — but it 
has been ascribed with great probability to Sir Robert Ay- 
ton in a MS. and contemporay' volume of Ayton's poems 
once in Mr. lleber's hands. — C.] 



M. Yet, what is love 7 good shepherd, sain. 
F. It is a sunshine mixt with rain ; 

It is a toothache, or like pain ; 

It is a game where none doth gain ; 

The lass saith no, and would full fain. 

And this is love as I hear sain. 

31. Yet, shepherd, what is love, I pray 1 
F. It is a yea, it is a nay, 

A pretty kind of sporting fray. 

It is a thing will soon away ; 

Then nymphs take vantage while you may, 

And this is love as I hear say. 

31. And what is love, good shepherd, show ,? 
F. A thing that creeps, it cannot go ; 

A prize that passeth to and fro ; 

A thing for one, a thing for moe, 

And he that proves shall find it so; 

Arvd, shepherd, this is love, I trow. 

DULCINA. 
As at noon Dulcina rested 

In her sweet and shady bower, 
Came a shepherd, and requested 
In her lap to sleep an hour. 
But from her look 
A wound he took 
So deep, that for a farther boon 
The nymph he prays ; 
Whereto she says, 
" Forego me now, come to me soon !" 

But in vain she did conjure him 

To depart her presence so. 
Having a thousand tongues t' allure him, 
And but one to bid him go. 

When lips invite, 

And eyes delight, 
And cheeks, as fresh as rose in June, 

Persuade delay, 

What boots to say, 
"Forego me now, come to me soon !" 

He demands, what time for pleasure 
Can there be more fit than now 1 
She says, night gives love that leisure 
Which the day doth not allow. 

He says, the sight 

Improves delight ; 
Which she denies ; " Night's murky noon 

In Venus' plays 

Makes bold," she says, 
" Forego me now, come to me soon !" 

But what promise or profession. 

From his hands could purchase scope ? 
Who would sell the sweet possession 
Of such beauty for a hope ? 

Or for the sight 

Of lingering night. 
Forego the present joys of noon 1 

Though ne'er so fair 

Her speeches were, 
" Forego me now, come to me soon ' 



112 



JOSHUA SYLVESTER. 



How at last agreed these lovers ? 

She was fair and he was young : 
The tongue may tell what th' eye discovers ; 
Joys unseen are never sung. 

Did she consent, 

Or he relent] 
Accepts he night, or grants she noon ] 

Left he her maid. 

Or not 1 she said, 
" Forego me now, come to me soon !" 



HIS LOVE ADMITS NO RIVAL. 
Shall I, like a hermit, dwell, 
On a rock, or in a cell. 
Calling home the smallest part 
That is missing of my heart, 
To bestow it where I may 
Meet a rival every day ] 
If she undervalue me, 
What care I how fair she be ! 
Were her tresses angel gold, 
If a stranger may be bold, 
Unrebuked, unafraid. 
To convert them to a braid, 
And with little more ado 
Work them into bracelets, tool 
If the mine be grown so free. 
What care I how rich it be ! 
Were her band as rich a prize 
As her hairs, or precious eyes, 



If she lay them out to take 
Kisses, for good manners' sake : 
And let every lover skip 
From her hand unto her lip ; 
If she seem not chaste to me. 
What care I how chaste she be ! 

No ; she must be perfect snow, 
In eft'ect as well as show ; 
Warming but as snow-balls do, 
Not like fire, by burning too ; 
But when she by change hath got 
To her heart a second lot. 
Then, if others share with me, 
Farewell her, whate'er she be ! 



A VISION UPON "TIIE FAIRY QUEEN." 
Methocght I saw the grave where Laura lay, 
Within that temple where the vestal flame 
Was wont to burn : and passing by that way 
To see that buried dust of living fame, 
Whose tomb fair Love and fairer Virtue kept, 
All suddenly I saw the Fairy Queen, 
At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept ; 
And from thenceforth those Graces were not seen, 
For they this Queen attended ; in whose stead 
Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse. 
Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed, 
And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce, 
Where Homer's spright did tremble all for grief, 
And cursed th' access of that celestial thief. 



JOSHUA SYLVESTER, 



[Born, 1563. Died, 1618.] 



Who in his day obtained the epithet of the Silver- 
tongued, was a merchant adventurer, and died 
abroad, at Middleburgh, in 1618. He was a can- 
didate, in the year 1597, for the office of secre- 
tary to a trading company at Stade; on which 
occasion the Earl of Essex seems to have taken 
a friendly interest in his fortunes. Though es- 
teemed by the court of England, (on one occasion 
he signs himself the pensioner of Prince Henry,)* 
he is said to have been driven from home by the 
enmity which his satires excited. This seems 
very extraordinary, as there is nothing in his vague 
and dull declamations against vice that needed to 
ha\c ruffled the most thin-skinned enemies — so 



that his travels were probably made more from 
the hope of gain than the fear of persecution. 
He was an eminent linguist, and writes his dedi- 
cations in several languages, but in his own he 
often fathoms the bathos, and brings up such lines 
as these to King James. 

So much. king, thy sacred worth presume I on, 
James, the just heir of Englaua's lawful uuion. 

His works are chiefly translations, including that 
of the " Divine Weeks and Works of Du Bartas." 
His claim to the poem of the " Soul's Errand," 
as has been already mentioned, is to be entirely se^ 
aside. 



TO RELIGION. 

STANZAS FROM "ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GUTTERS." 

Religion, O thou life of life, 
How worldlings, that profane thee rife, 
Can wrest thee to their appetites ! 
How princes, who thy power deny. 
Pretend thee for their tyranny. 
And people for their false delights ! 



* [He had a yearly pension of twenty pounds from 
I'rinoe Henry. Owen the Epigrammatist had the same 
3um : anl Drayton had ten.— C ^ 



Under thy sacred name, all ovei. 

The vicious all their vices cover ; 

The insolent their insolence. 

The proud their pride, the false their fraud, 

The thief his theft, her filth the bawd. 

The impudent their impudence. 

Ambition under thee aspires. 
And Avarice under thee desires; 
Sloth under thee her ease assumes, 
Lux under thee all overflows, 
Wrath under thee outrageous grows. 
All evil under thee presumes. 



SAMUEL DANIEL. 



Religion, erst so venerable, 
What art thou now but made a fable, 
A holy mask on Folly's brow, 
Where under lies Dissimulation, 
Lined with all abomination. 
Sacred Religion, where art thou ] 



Not in the church with Simony, 

Not on the bench with Bribery, 

Nor in the court with Machiavel, 

Nor in the city with deceits. 

Nor in the country with debates ; 

For what hath Heaven to do with Hell ? 



SAMUEL DANIEL. 



(BorD, 1362. Died, Oct. 1619.] 



Samijel Daniel was the son of a music-master, 
and was born at Taunton, in Somersetshire. He 
was patronized and probably maintained at Ox- 
ford, by the noble family of Pembroke. At the 
age of twenty-three he translated Paulus Jo- 
vius's " Discourse of Rare Invent, ons." He was 
afterwards tutor to the accomplished and spirited 
Lady Anne Clifford, daughter to the Earl of Cum- 
berland, who raised a monument to his memory, 
on which she recorded that she had been his pu- 
pil. At the death of Spenser he furnished, as a 



voluntary laureat, several masks and pageants 
for the court, but retired, with apparent mor- 
tification, before the ascendant favour of Jon- 
son.* 

While composing his dramas he lived in Old- 
street, St. Luke's, which was at that time thought 
retirement from London ; but at times he fre- 
quented the city, and had the honour of ranking 
Shakspeare and Selden among his friends. In 
his old age ho turned husbandman, and closed his 
days at a farm in Somersetshire. 



RICHARD THE SECOND, THE MORNING BEFORE 
HIS MUltDER IN POMFKET CASTLE. 

DANIEL'S CIVIL WARS, ST. 62, tJ9. 

Whethee the soul receives intelligence, 
By her near genius, of the body's end. 
And so imparts a sadness to the sense, 
Foregoing ruin, whereto it doth tend; 
Or whether nature else hath conJierence 
With profound sleep, and so doth warning send, 
By prophetizing dreams, what hurt is near, 
And gives the heavy careful heart to fear: — 

However, so it is, the now sad king, 
'I'oss'd here and there his quiet to confound. 
Feels a strange weight of sorrows gathering 
Upon his trembling heart, and sees no ground ; 
Feels sudden terror bring cold shivering ; 
Lists not to eat, still muses, sleeps unsound; 
His senses droop, his steady eyes unquick. 
And much he ails, and yet he is not sick. 

The morning of that day which was his last, 
After a weary rest, rising to pain. 
Out at a little grate his' eyes he cast 
Upon those bordering hills and open plain, 
W here others' liberty makes him complain 
The more his own, and grieves his soul the more, 
Conferring captive crowns with fieedom poor. 

O happy man, saith he, that lo I see. 
Grazing his cattle in those pleasant fields. 
If he but knew his good. How blessed he 
That feels not what affliction greatness yields ! 
Other than what he is he would not be, 
Nor change his state with him that sceptre wields. 
Thine, thine is that true life : that is to live, 
To rest secure, and not rise up to grieve. 



* The latest editor of Jonson afiBrms the whole conduct 
of that great poet towards Daniel to liavf l>een perfectly 
honourable. Some small exception to this inu-tbe luaile, 
when we turn lo the derision of Ijauii-l's verses, which is 
pointed out by the editor himselt; ia Cyulbia'a Kevels. 



Thou sitt'st at home safe by thy quiet fire. 
And hcar'st of others' harms, but fearest none: 
And there thou tell'st of kings, and who aspire, 
Who fall, who rise, who triumph, who do moan. 
Perhaps thou talk'st jf me, and dost inquire 
Of my restraint, why here I live alone. 
And pitiest this my miserable fall ; 
For pity must have part — envy not all. 

Thrice hajjpy you that look as from the shore, 
And iiave no venture' in the wreck you see; 
No interest, no occasion to deplore 
Other men's travels, while yourselves sit free. 
How much doth your sweet rest make us the more 
To see our misery and what we be : 
Whose blinded greatness, ever in turmoil. 
Still seeking happy life, makes life a toil. 



LOVE IN INFANCY. 
Ah ! I remember well (and how can I 
But evermore remember well) when first 
Our flame began, when scarce we knew what was 
The fiame we felt; whenas we sat and sigh'd 
And look'd upon each other, and conceived 
Not what we ail'd, yet something we did ail ; 
And yet were well, and yet we were not well, 
And what was our disease we could not tell. 
Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look : And thus 
In that first garden of our simplcness 
We spent our childhood: But when years began 
To reap the fruit of knowledge ; ah, how then 
Would she with graver looks, and sweetstern brow, 
Check my presumption and my forwardness; 
Yet still would give nie flowers, still would me show 
What slie would have me, yet not have me know. 



This wa.s unworthy of Jonson, as the Tcrsi\s of Daniel at 
wbieh he sneers are not cont'mptible, and as Daniel was 
coiifi'ssedly an amiable man, who died " beloved, boiioured, 
and lame u ted." — E. 



GILES AND PHINEAS FLETCHER. 



[Giles Fktcher died, 623 ] 



The affinity and genius of these two poets na- 
turally associate their names. They were the 
cousins of Fletcher the dramatist, and the sons of 
a Doctor Giles Fletcher, who, among several im- 
portant missions in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, 
negotiated a commercial treaty with Russia, greatly 
to the advantage of England, in spite of many 
obstacles that were presented by a capricious czar 
and a barbarous court. His remarks on Russia 
were suppressed on their first appearance, but 
were afterwards republished in 1643, and incor- 
porated with Hakluyt's Voyages. 

Mr. A. Chalmers, in his British Poets, men- 
tions Giles as the elder son of this Dr. Fletcher, 
evidently by mistake, as Giles, in his poetry, speaks 
of his own " green muse hiding her younger head," 
witli reference to his senior brother. Giles was 
bred at Cambridge, and died at his living of Al- 
derston, in Suffolk, in 1623. Phineas was edu- 
cated at the same university, and wrote an account 
of its founders and learned men. He was also a 
clergyman, and held the living of Hilgay in Nor- 
folk, for twenty-nine years. They were both the 
disciples of Spenser, and, with his diction gently 
modernized, retained much of his melody and 
luxuriant expression. Giles, inferior as he is to 
Spenser and Milton, might be figured, in his hap- 
piest moments, as a link of connection in our poetry 
between those congenial spirits, for he reminds us 
of both, and evidently gave hints to the latter in a 
poem on the same subject with Paradise Regained. 

Giles's " Temptation and Victory of Christ" 
has a tone of enthusiasm peculiarly solemn. 
Phineas, with a livelier fancy, had a worse taste. 
He lavished on a bad subject the graces and in- 
genuity that would have made a fine poem on a 
good design. Through five cantos of his " Purple 
Island," he tries to sweeten the language of 
anatomy by the flowers of poetry, and to support 
the wings of allegory by bodily instead of spiritual 
phenomena. Unfortunately in the remaining 
cantos he only quits the dissecting-table to launch 
into the subtlety of the schools, and describes 
Intellect, the Prince of the Isle of Man, with his 
eight counsellors. Fancy, Memory, the Common 
Sense, and the five external Senses, as holding out 
in the Human Fortress against the Evil Powers 



that besiege it. Here he strongly resembles the 
old Scottish poet Gawain Douglas, in his poem 
of King Heart. But he outstrips all allcgorists 
in conceit, when he exhibits Voletta, or the Will, 
the wife of Intellect, propped in her fainting-fits 
by Repentance, who administers restorative waters 
to the Queen, made with lip's confession and with 
" pickled sighs," stilled in the alembic of a broken 
spirit. At the approach of the combat between 
the good and evil powers, the interest of the nar- 
ration is somewhat quickened, and the parting of 
the sovereign and the queen, with their cham- 
pions, is not unfeelingly portrayed. 

Long at the gate the thoughtful Intellect 
Stay'd with his fearful queen and daughter fair; 
But when the knights were past their dim aspect^ 
They follow them with vows and many a prayer. 
At last they climb up to the castle's height. 
From which they view'd the deeds of every knight. 
And mark'd the doubtful end of this intestiue fight. 

As when a youth hound for the Belgic war, 
Takes leave of friends upon the Kentish shore, 
Now are they parted ; and he saird so far. 
They see not now, and now are seen no more ; 
Yet, far otf, viewing the white trembling sails, 
The tender mother soon plucks off her vails. 
And, shaking them aloft, unto her son she hails. 

But the conclusion of the Purple Island sinks 
into such absurdity and adulation, that we could 
gladly wish the poet back again to allegorizing 
the bladder and kidneys. In a contest about the 
eternal salvation of the human soul, the event is 
decided by King James the First (at that time a 
sinner upon earth) descending from heaven with 
his treatise on the Revelation under his arm, in 
the form of an angel, and preceding the Gmni- 
potent, who puts the forces of the dragon to the rout. 

These incongruous conceptions are clothed in 
harmony, and interspersed with beautiful thoughts : 
but natural sentiments and agreeable imagery will 
not incorporate with the shapeless features of such 
a design ; they stand apart from it like things of 
a dirterent element, and, when they occur, only 
expose its deformity. On the contrary, in the 
brother's poem of Christ's Triumph, its main 
eflect, though somewhat sombrous, is not marred 
by such repulsive contrasts ; its beauties, there- 
fore, all tell in relieving tedium, and reconciling 
us to defects. 



MERCY DWELLING IN HEAVEN ANI) PLEADING 
FOR THE GUILTY, WITH JUSTICE DESCRIBED BY 
HER QUALITIES. 

FROM GILES FLETCHER'S "CHRIST'S VICTORY IN HEAVEN." 

But Justice had no sooner Mercy seen 
Smoothing the wrinkles of her father's brow. 
But up she starts, and throws herself between : 
As when a vapour from a moory slough, 
Meeting with fresh Eous, that but now 
Ijpen'd the world, which all in darkness lay, 
144 



Doth heaven's bright face of his rays disarray. 
And sads the smiling orient of the springing day. 

She was a virgin of austere regard : 

Not as the world esteems her, deaf and blind ; 

But as the eagle, that hath oft compared 

Her eye with heaven's, so, and more brightly shined 

Her lamping siglit: for she the same could wind 

Into the solid heart, and, with her ears. 

The silence of the thought loud speaking hears, 

And in one hand a pair of even scales she wears. 



GILES AND PHINEAS FLETCHER. 



145 



No riot of affection revel kept 
Within her breast, but a still apathy 
Possessed ail her soul, which softly slept 
Securely without tempest ; no sad cry 
Awakes her pity, but wrong'd Poverty, 
Sending his eyes to heaven swimming in tears, 
With hideous clamours ever struck her ears. 
Whetting the blazing sword that in her hand she 

bears. 
The winged lightning is her Mercury, 
And round about her mighty thunders sound : 
Impatient of himself lies pining by 
Pale Sickness, with his kercher'd head upwound. 
And thousand noisome plagues attend her round. 
But if her cloudy brow but once grow foul, 
The flints do melt, and rocks to water roll, 
And airy mountains shake, and frighted shadows 

howl. 
Famine, and bloodless Care, and bloody War : 
Want, and the want of knowledge how to use 
Abundance ; Age, and Fear, that runs afar 
Before his fellow Grief, that aye pursues 
His winged steps ; for who would not refuse 
Grief's company, a dull and raw-boned spright. 
That lanks the cheeks, and pales the freshest sight, 
Unbosoming the cheerful breast of all delight 1 



JUSTICE ADDRESSING THE CREATOR. 
Upon two stony tables, spread before her. 
She leant her bosom, more than stony hard ; 
There slept th' impartial judge and strict restorer 
Of wrong or right, with pain or with reward ; 
There hung the score of all our debts — the card 
Where good, and bad, and life, and death, were 

painted ; 
Was never heart of mortal so untainted, 
But, when that scroll was read, with thousand 

terrors fainted. 
Witness the thunder that Mount Sinai heard, 
When all the hill with fiery clouds did flame. 
And wand'ring Israel, with the sight afear'd. 
Blinded with seeing, durst not touch the same, 
But like a wood of shaking leaves liecame. 
On this dead Justice, she, the living law. 
Bowing herself with a majestic awe, 
Ail heaven, to hear her speech, did into silence 

draw. 



MERCY BRIGHTENING THE RAINBOW. 
High in the airy element there hung 
Another cloudy sea, that did disdain. 
As though his purer waves from heaven sprung. 
To crawl on earth, as doth the sluggish main ! 
But it the earth would water with his rain. 
That ebb'd and flow'd as wind and season would ; 
And oft the sun would cleave the limber mould 
To alabaster rocks, that in the Hquid roll'd. 

Beneath those sunny banks a darker cloud, 
Dropping with thicker dew, did melt apace. 
And bent itself into a hollow shroud, 
On which, if Mercy did but cast her face, 
19 



A thousand colours did the bow enchase, 
That wonder was to see the silk distain'd 
With the resplendence from her beauty gain'd. 
And Iris paint her locks with beams so lively feign'd. 

About her head a cypress heav'n she wore, 
Spread like a veil upheld with silver wire, 
In which the stars so burnt in golden ore, 
As seem'd the azure web was all on fire : 
But hastily, to quench their sparkling ire, 
A flood of milk came rolling up the shore. 
That on his curded wave swift Argus wore. 
And the immortal swan, that did her life deplore. 

Yet strange it was so many stars to see. 
Without a sun to give their tapers light : 
Yet strange it was not that it so should be ; 
For, where the sun centres himself by right. 
Her face and locks did flame, that at the sight 
The heavenly veil, that else should nimbly move, 
Forget his flight, and all incensed with love, 
With wonder,and amazement, did her beauty prove. 

Over her hung a canopy of state. 

Not of rich tissue, nor of spangled gold, 

But of a substance, though not animate, 

Yet of a heavenly and spiritual mould. 

That only eyes of spirits might behold : 

Such light as from main rocks of diamond. 

Shooting their sparks at Phoebus, would rebound, 

And little angels, holding hands, danced all around. 

THE PALACE OF PRESUMPTION. 
Here did Presumption her pavilion spread 
Over the temple, the bright stars among, 
(Ah that her foot should trample on the head 
Of that most reverend place !) and a lewd throng 
Of wanton boys sung her a pleasant song 
Of love, long life, of mercy, and of grace, 
And every one her dearly did embrace, 
And she herself enamour'd was of her own face. 
A painted face, belied with vermeil store. 
Which light Euelpis every day did trim. 
That in one hand a gilded anchor wore, 
Not fixed on the rock, but on the brim 
Of the wide air, she let it loosely swim ! 
Her other hand a sprinkle carried. 
And ever when her lady wavered. 
Court-holy water all upon her sprinkled. 
Her tent with sunny clouds was ciel'd aloft, 
And so exceeding shone with a false light, 
That Heav'n itself to her it seemed oft. 
Heaven without clouds to her deluded sight ; 
But clouds withouten Heaven it was aright : 
And as her house was built so did her brain 
Build castles in the air, with idle pain, 
But heart she never had in all her body vain. 
Like as a ship, in which no balance lies. 
Without a pilot on the sleeping waves. 
Fairly along with wind and water flies. 
And painted masts with silken sails embraves, 
That Neptune's self the bragging vessel saves, 
To laugh awhile at her so proud array ; 
Her waving streamers loosely she lets play. 
And flagging colours shine as bright as smiling day 
N 



146 



GILES AND PHINEAS FLETCHER. 



But all so soon as Heav'n his brows doth bend, 
She veils her banners, and pulls in her beams. 
The empty bark the raging billows send 
Up to the Olympic waves, and Argus seems 
Again to ride upon our lower streams : 
Right so Presumption did herself behave, 
Tossed about with every stormy wave, [brave. 
And in white lawn she went, most like an angel 

All suddenly the hill his snow devours. 

In lieu whereof a goodly garden grew. 

As if the snow had m'i'.ted into flow'rs. 

Which their sweei breath in subtle vapours threw. 

That all about perfumed spirits flew. 

For whatsoever might aggrate the sense, 

In all the world, or please the appetence, 

Here it was poured out in lavish affluence. 

The garden like a lady fair was cut. 
That lay as if she slumber'd in delight, 
And to the open skies her eyes did shut ; 
The azure fields of Heav'n were 'sembled right 
In a large round, set with the flow'rs of light: 
The flowers-de-luce, and the round sparks of dew 
That hung upon their azure leaves, did shew 
Like twinkling stars, that sparkle in the evening 

blue. 
Upon a hilly bank her head she cast, 
On which the bower of Vain-delight was built. 
White and red roses for her face were placed, 
And for her tresses marigolds were spilt ; 
Them broadly she display'd, like flaming gilt. 
Till in the ocean the glad day were drown'd : 
Then up again her yellow locks she wound, 
And with green fillets in their pretty cauls them 

bound. 

Over the edge depends the graping elm, 
Whose greener head empurpuled in wine. 
Seemed to wonder at his bloody helm, 
And half suspect the bunches of the vine, 
Lest they, perhaps, his wit should undermine, 
For well he knew such fruit he never bore : 
But her weak arms embraced him the more. 
And her with ruby grapes laugh'd at her para- 
mour 

Under the shadow of these drunken elms 
A fountain rose, .... 

The font of silver was, and so his showers 

In silver fell, only the gilded bowls, 

(] ike to a furnace, that the min'ral powers) 

Seem'd to have molt it in their shining holes : 

And on the water, like to burning coals. 

On liquid silver leaves of roses lay : 

But when Panglory here did list to play. 

Rose-water then it ran, and milk it rain'd they say. 

The roof thick clouds did paint, from which three 

boys 
Three gaping mermaids with their ewers did feed. 
Whose breasts let fall the streams, with sleepy noise. 
To lions' mouths, from whence it leapt with speed. 
And in the rosy laver seem'd to bleed ; 
The naked boys unto the waters fall. 
Their stony nightingales had taught to call, 
When zej)h yrs breathed into their wat'rv interail. 



And all about, embayed in soft sleep, 

A herd of charmed beasts aground were spread, 

Which the fair witch in golden chains did keep, 

And them in willing bondage fettered : 

Once men they lived, but now the men were dead, 

And turn'd to beasts, so fabled Homer old. 

That Circe with her potion, charm'd in gold, 

Used manly souls in beastly bodies to immould. 



INSTABILITY OF HUMAN GREATNESS. 

FROM PHINEAS FLKTCHER'S "PUKPLE ISLAND." CANTO VH. 

Fond man, that looks on earth for happiness. 
And here long seeks what here is never found! 
For all our good we hold from Heav'n by lease, 
With many forfeits and conditions bound ; 
Nor can we pay the fine an-d rentage due : 
Though now but writ and seal'd, and giv'n anew. 
Yet daily we it break, then daily must renew. 

Why should'st thou here look for perpetual good, 
At every loss against Heav'n's face repining 1 
Do but behold where glorious cities stood. 
With gilded tops, and silver turrets shining; 
Where now the hart fearless of greyhound feeds, 
And loving pelican in safety breeds ; 
Where screeching satyrs fill the people's empty 
steads. 

Where is the Assyrian lion's golden hide, 
That all the east once grasp'd in lordly paw 1 
Where that great Persian bear, whose swelling 

pride 
The lion's self tore out with ravenous jawl 
Or he which, 'twixt a lion and a pard. 
Through all the world with nimble pinions fared, 
And to his greedy whelps his conquer'd kingdoms 

shared 1 

Hardly the place of such antiquity. 

Or note of these great monarchies we find 

Only a fading verbal memory. 

An empty name in writ is left behind : 

But when this second life an<l glory fades. 

And sinks at length in time's obscurer shades, 

A second fall succeeds, and double death invades. 

That monstrous Beast, which nursed in Tiber's fen, 
Did all the world with hideous shape affray ; 
That fiU'd with costly spoil his gaping den. 
And trode down all the rest to dust and clay : 
His battering horns pull'd out by civil hands. 
And iron teeth lie scatter'd on the sands; 
Back'd, bridled by a monk, with seven heads yoked 
stands. 

And that black Vulture," which with deathful wing 
O'ershadows half the earth, whose dismal sight 
Frighten'd the Muses from their native spring, 
Already stoops, and flags with weary flight: 
Who then shall look for happiness beneath ? 
Where each new day proclaims chance, change, 

and death. 
And life itself 's as flit as is the air we breathe. 



• The Turk. 



HENRY CONSTABLE.— NICHOLAS BRETON. 



147 



HAPPINESS OF THE SHEPHERD'S LIFE. 

FROM THE SAME. CANTO XII. 

Thrice, oh, thrice happy, shepherd's life and state ! 
When courts are happiness, unhappy pawns ! 
His cottage low and safely humble gate 
Shuts out proud Fortune,with her scorns and fawns: 
No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep : 
Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep ; 
Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep. 
No Serian worms he knows, that with their threaa 
Draw out their silken lives : nor silken pride : 
His lambs' warm fleece well fits his httie need, 
Not in that proud Sidonian tincture dyed: 
No empty hopes, no courtly tears him fright; 
Nor begging wants his middle fortune bite : 
But sweet content exiles both misery and spite. 
Instead of music, and base flattering tongues, 
Which wait to first salute my lord's uprise ; 
The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs, 
And birds' sweet whistUng notes unlock his eyes : 



In country plays is all the strife he uses ; 

Or sing, or dance unto the rural Muses : 

And but in music's sports all difference refuses. 

His certain life, that never can deceive him. 

Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content : 

The smooth-leaved beeches in the field receivr 

him 
With coolest shades, till noon-tide rage is spent • 
His life is neither toss'd in boist'rous seas 
Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease ; 
Pleased, and full blest he lives, when he his God 

can please. 
His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps, 
While by his side his faithful spouse hath place ; 
His little son into his bosom creeps, 
The lively picture of his father's face : 
Never his humble house nor state torment him ; 
Less he could Uke, if less his God had sent him ; 
And when he dies, green turfs, with grassy tomb, 

content him. 



HENRY CONSTABLE, 

[Born, 1568? Died 1604 ?] 

Born, according to Mr. Ellis's conjecture, about 
1568, was a noted sonneteer of his time. Dr. Birch, 
in his Memoirs of Queen Elizabeth, supposes that 
he was the same Henry Constable, who, for his 



zeal in the Catholic religion, was long obliged to 
live in a state of banishment. He returned to 
England, however, about the beginning of James's 
reign. The time of his death is unknown. 



SONNET. 
Let others sing of knights and paladins. 
In aged accents and untimely words. 
Paint shadows in imaginary lines, 
Which well the reach of their high wits records; 
But I must sing of thee and those fair eyes, 
.\uthentic shall my verse in time to come. 
When yet th' unborn shall say, Lo, here she lies ! 



Whose beauty made him speak what else was 

dumb. 
These are the arks, the trophies I erect. 
That fortify thy name against old age. 
And these thy sacred virtues must protect 
Against the dark and Time's consuming age ; 
Though th' error of my youth they shall discover, 
Sufliice to show I lived, and was thy lover. 



NICHOLAS BRETON. 

[Born, 1555. Died, 1624.] 



Mr. Ellis conjectures that this writer was 
born in 1555, and died in 1624. He is supposed 
by Mr. Ritson to be the same Captain Nicholas 
Breton whose monument is still in the church 
of Norton, in which parish his family were 
lords of the manor till within these few years. 
His happiest vein is in little pastoral pieces. 



In addition to the long roll of his indiflferent 
works which are enumerated in the Biographia 
Poetica, the Censura Literaria imputes to him 
a novel of singular absurdity, in which the mise- 
ries of the heroine of the story are consummated 
by having her nose bit off by an aged imd angry 
rival of her husband. 



A SWEET PASTORAL. 

FROM "ENQLAXD'S HELICON." 

Good Muse, rock me asleep 
With some sweet harmony ; 
The weary eye is not to keep 
Thy wary company. 



Sweet love, begone awhile, 
Thou know'st my heaviness ; 
Beauty is born but to beguile 
My heart of happiness. 



See how my little flock 

That loved to feed on high. 

Do headlong tumble down the rock, 

And in the valley die. 

The bushes and the trees. 

That were so fresh and green, 

Do all their dainty colour leese. 

And not a leaf is seen. 

Sweet Philomel, the bird 
That hath the heavenly throat. 



148 DR. THOMAS LODGE. 




Djth now, al.as ! not once aflord 


In that bower there is a chair, 




Recording ot a note. 


Fringed all about with gold, 




The flowers have had a frost, 


Where doth sit the fairest fair 




Each herb hath lost her savour, 


That ever eye did yet behold. 




And PhilHda the fair hath lost 
The comfort of her favour. 


It is Phillis fair and bright. 
She that is the shepherd's joy, 




Now all these careful sights 


She that Venus did despite, 




So kill me in conceit, 


And did bhnd her Uttle boy. 




That how to hope upon delights, 






Is but a mere deceit. 


This is she, the wise, the rich, 
That the world desires to see ; 




And, therefore, my sweet Muse, 


This is ipso qua, the which 




Thou know'st what help is best. 


There is none but only she. 




Do now thy heavenly cunning use, 




To set my heart at rest. 


Who would not this face admire 1 




And in a dream bewray 
What fate shall be my friend. 
Whether my life shall still decay, * 


Who would not this saint adore T 
Who would not this sight desire. 
Though he thought to see no more ''■ 




Or when my sorrow end. 


fair eyes, yet let me see 
One good look, and I am gone ; 
Look on me, for I am he. 




A PASTORAL OF PHILLIS AND CORIDON. 




FROM THE SAME. 


Thy poor silly Condon. 




On a hill there grows a flower. 


Thou that art the shepherd's queen, 




Fair befall the dainty sweet ; 


Look upon thy silly swain ; 




By that flower there is a bower. 


By thy comfort have been seen 




Where the heavenly Muses meet. 


Dead men brought to life again. 





DR. THOMAS LODGE 



1556. Died, 1625.] 



Was of a family in Lincolnshire, and was edu- 
cated at Oxford. He practised as a physician in 
London, and is supposed to have fallen a martyr 
to the memorable plague of 1625, He wrote 



several plays and other poetical works of con- 
siderable merit, and translated the works of Jo- 
sephus into English. 



ROSADER'S SONETTO 

FROM lodge's romance, CALLED " EOPHUES'S GOLDEN LEOAC 

Turn I my looks unto the skies. 

Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes ; 

If so I look upon the ground. 

Love then in every flower is found ; 

Search I the shade to flee my pain, 

Love meets me in the shades again ; 

Want I to walk in secret grove, 

E'en there I meet with sacred love; 

If so I bathe me in the spring. 

E'en on the brink I hear him sing 

If so I meditate alone, 

He will be partner of my moan ; 

If so I mourn, he weeps with me. 

And where I am there will he be ; 

When as I talk of Rosalind, 

The god from coyness waxeth kind. 

And seems in self-same frame to fly. 

Because he loves as well as I. 

Sweet Rosalind, for pity rue, 

For why, than love I am more true : 

He, if he speed, will quickly fly. 

But in thy love I live and die. 



ANOTHER. 

FROM THE SAME. 

First shall the heavens want stary light. 
The seas be robbed of their waves, 
The day want sun, and sun want bright. 
The night want shade, the dead men graves, 
The April flowers, and leaves, and tree, 
Before I false my faith to thee. 

First shall the top of highest hill 
By humble plains be overpry'd. 
And poets scorn the Muses' quill. 
And fish forsake the water glide. 
And Iris lose her colour'd weed. 
Before I false thee at thy need. 

First direful Hate shall turn to peace, 
And Love relent in deep disdain. 
And Death his fatal stroke shall cease, 
And Envy pity every pain. 
And Pleasure mourn, and Sorrow smile. 
Before I talk of any guile. 

First Time shall stay his stayless race. 
And Winter bless his brows with corn, 



BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 



149 



And Snow bemoisten July's face, 
And Winter spring, and Summer mourn, 
Before my pen, by help of Fame, 
Cease to recite thy sacred name. 



EOSALIND'S MADRIGAL. 

FROM THE SAMB. 

Love in my bosom, like a bee, 
Doth suck his sweet : 
Now with his wings he plays with me, 
Now with his feet: 
Within mine eyes he makes his nest. 
His bed amidst my tender breast ; 
My kisses are his daily feast. 
And yet he robs me of my rest : 
Ah, wanton, will ye ! 

And if I sleep, then pierceth he 

With pretty slight ; 

And makes his pillow of my knee 

The live-long night. 

Strike I my lute, he tunes the string, 



He music plays if I but sing ; 
He lends me every lovely thing. 
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting ; 
Ah, wanton, will ye ! 

Else I with roses every day 
Will whip ye hence, 
And bind ye, when ye long to play, 
For your offence ; 
I'll shut my eyes to keep ye in, 
I'll make you fast it for your sin, 
I'll count your power not worth a pin, 
Alas ! what hereby shall I win ■* 
If he gainsay me. 

What, if I beat the wanton boy 
With many a rod 1 
He will repay me v ith annoy. 
Because a god. 

Then sit thou safely on my knee, 
And let thy bower my bosom be ; 
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee, 
Cupid, so thou pity me ! 
Spare not, but play thee. 



BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 

[Born, 1686. Died, 1616 Born, 1576. Died, 1625.] 



Those names, united by friendship and con- 
federate genius, ought not to be disjoined. Francis 
Beaumont was the son of Judge Beaumont of 
the Common Pleas, and was born at Grace-Dieu, 
in Leicestershire, in 1586. He studied at Oxford, 
and passed from thence to the Inner Temple ; 
but his application to the law cannot be supposed 
to have been intense, as his first play, in conjunc- 
tion with Fletcher, was acted in his twenty-first 
year, and the short remainder of his life was de- 
voted to the drama. He married Ursula, daugh- 
ter and co-heiress of Sir Henry Isley of Kent, by 
whom he had two daughters, one of whom was 
alive, at a great age, in the year 1700. He died 
in 1616, and was buried at the entrance of St. 
Benedict's chapel, near the Earl of Middlesex's 
monument, in the collegiate church of St. Peter, 
Westminster. As a lyrical poet, F. Beaumont 
would be entitled to some remembrance inde- 
pendent of his niche in the drama. 

John Fletcher was the son of Dr. Richard Flet- 
cher, bishop of London : he was born probably in 
the metropolis, in 1576, and was admitted a pen- 
sioner of Bennet college about the age of fifteen. 
His time and progress at the university have not 
been traced, and only a few anecdotes have been 
gleaned about the manner of his life and death. 
Before the marriage of Beaumont, we are told by 
Aubrey, that Fletcher and he lived together in 
London, near the Bankside, not far from tlie thea- 
je, had one * * * in the same hou.se between 
(hem, the same clothes, cloak, &c. Fletcher d;e.l 
in the great plague of 1625. A friend had in- 
vited him to the countiy, and he uatbrtunatcly 



stayed in town to get a suit of clothes for the visit, 
during which time he caught the fatal infection. 
He was interred in St. Saviour's, Southwark, 
where his grave, like that of Beaumont's in West- 
minster, is without an inscription. 

Fletcher survived his dramatic associate ten 
years — so that their share in the drama that passes 
by their joint names was far from equal in quan- 
tity, Fletcher having written between thirty and 
forty after the death of his companion.* Respect- 
ing those which appeared in their common life- 
time, the general account is, that Fletcher chiefiy 
supplied the fancy and invention of their pieces, 
and that Beaumont, though he was the youngci-, 
dictated the cooler touches of taste and accuracy. 
This tradition is supported, or rather exaggerated, 
in the verses of Cartwright to Fletcher, in which 
he says, 

" Beaumont was fain 
To bid tlipu be more dull; that's writu again. 
And bati' some of thy fire wli ch from Ibee came 
iu a clear, brij^lit, fuil, but too large a tiame." 

Many verses to the same etlect might be quoted, 
but this tradition, so derogatory to Beaumont's 
genius, is contradicted by other testimonies of 
rather an earlier date, and coming from writers 
who must have known the great dramatists them- 
selves much better than Cartwright. Ben Jonson 
sp wks of Beaumont's originality with the cm- 
phasis peculiar to the expression of all his opinions ; 
and Earle, the intimate firiend of Beaumont, as 

* Ifl.'tcher was assisted by Massin^er in one instaiicw, 
probably iu several; and it is likely that after lieaumonts 
death he had other auxiliaries. |Kowley, .Middleton, and 
Shirley, weie his other assisiauts. — (J.J 



IfiO 



BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 



cribed to him, while Fletcher was still alive, the 
exdus've claim to those three distinguished plays, 
the Maid's Tragedy, Philaster, and King and 
No King ; a statement which Fletcher's friends 
were likely to have contradicted, if it had been 
untrue . If Beaumont had the sole or chief merit 
of those pieces, he could not have been what Cart- 
wright would have us believe, the mere pruner of 
Fletcher's luxuriancies, an assessor, who made 
him write again and more dully. Indeed, with 
reverence to their memories, nothing that they 
have left us has much the appearance of being 
twice written : and whatever their amiable editor, 
M"-. Sewa;rd, may say about the correctness of 
heir plots, the management of their stories would 
iead us to suspect, that neither of the duumvi- 
tate troubled themselves much about correctness. 
Their charm is vigour and variety, their defects 
a coarseness and grotesqueness that betray no 
circumspection. There is so much more hardihood 
than discretion in the arrangement of their scenes, 
that if Beaumont's taste and judgment had the 
disposal of them, he fully proved himself the junior 
partner. But it is not probable that their depart- 
ments were so divided. 

Still, however, the scanty lights that enable us 
to guess at what they respectively wrote, seem to 
warrant that distinction in the cast of their genius 
which is made in the poet's allusion to 

" Fletcher's keen treble, and deep Beaumont's base." 

Beaumont was a deeper scholar. Fletcher is said 



to have been more a man of the world. Beau 
mont's vein was more pathetic and solemn, but 
he was not without humour ; for the mock-heroic 
scenes, that are excellent in some of their plays, 
are universally ascribed to him. Fletcher's muse, 
except where she sleeps in pastorals, seems to 
have been a nymph of boundless unblushing plea- 
santry. Fletcher's admirers warmly complimented 
his originality at the expense of Beaumont,* on 
the strength of his superior gaycty, as if gay 
thoughts must necessarily be more original than 
serious ones, or depth of sensibility be allied to 
shallowness of invention. We are told also that 
Beaumont's taste leant to the hard and abstract 
school, of Jonson, while his coadjutor followed 
the wilder graces of Shakspeare. But if Earle 
can be credited for Beaumont's having written 
Philaster, we shall discoveV him in that tragedy 
to be the very opposite of an abstract painter of 
character; it has the spirit of individual life. 
The piece owes much less to art than it loses by 
negligence. Its forms and passions are those of 
romance, and its graces, evidently imitated from 
Shakspeare, want only the fillet and zone of art 
to consummate their beauty. 

On the whole, while it is generally allowed that 
Fletcher was the gayer, and Beaumont the graver 
genius of their amusing theatre, it is unnecessary 
to depreciate either, for they were both original 
and creative; or to draw invidious comparisons 
between men who themselves disdained to be 
rivals. 



FROM "THE MAID'S TRAGEDY." 
Afipatia. forsaken by her lover, finds her maid Antiphila 
working a picture of Ariadne. The expression of her 
sorrow to Aiitipliila and the other attendant thus con. 
eludes: — 
Then, my good girls, be more than wo.men wise, 
At least be more than I was : and be sure 
You credit any thing the light gives light to, 
Before a man. Rather believe the sea 
Weeps for the ruin'd merchant when he roars ; 
Rather the wind courts but the pregnant sails. 
When the strong cordage cracks ; rather the sun 
Comes but to kiss the fruit in wealthy autumn, 
When all falls blasted. If you needs must love, 
Forced by ill fate, take to your maiden bosoms 
Two dead cold aspicks, and of them make lovers ; 
They cannot flatter nor forswear ; one kiss 
Makes a long peace for all. But man, — 
Oh that beast man ! Come, let's be sad, my girls. 
That downcast eye of thine, Olympias, 
Shows a fine sorrow. Mark, Antiphila ; 
Just such another was the nymph Oenone, 
When Paris brought home Helen. Now a tear, 
And then thou art a piece expressing fully 
The Carthage queen, when from a cold sea-rock. 
Full with her .sorrow, she tied fast her eyes 
Ti" the fair Trojan ships, and having lost them, 



* [At the expense of all genius, for in thi' panegyrical 
poems in which Fletcher is so warmly complinietiteii. and 
to wliich Mr. Campbell Hllude.«, the wnti-rs wroie to say 
(;''0d thiugs that looked like true, and were sati-sfied when 



Just as thine eyes do, down stole a tear. Antiphila! 
What would this wench do if she were Aspatia? 
Here she would stand till some more pitying god 
Turn'd her to marble ! 'Tis enough, my w ench : 
Show me the piece of needlework you wrought. 

Antiph. Of Ariadne, madam 1 

Asp. Yes, that piece 

Fie you have miss'd it here, Antiphila. 

You're much mistaken, wench ; 

These colours are not dull and pale enough 

To show a soul so full of misery 

As this sad lady's was ; — do it by me ; 

Do it again by me, the lost Aspatia, 

And you shall find all true but the wild island. 

Suppose I stand upon the sea-beach now. 

Mine arms thus, and mine hair blown with the 

wind, 
Wild as that desert ; and let all about me 
Tell that I am forsaken. Do my face, 
If thou hadst ever feeling of a sorrow. 
Thus, thus, Antiphila : strive to make me look 
Like sorrow's monument ; and the trees about me. 
Let them be dry and leafless ; let the rocks 
Groan with continual surges, and behind me 
Make all a desolation. Look, look, wenches, 
A miserable life of this poor picture. 



the arrow of adulation was drawn to the head. Com- 
mendatory poems at the best reflect very little of real 
opinion and when brougUt into biography are mure apt to 
mislead than inform. — C.J 



BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 



151 



FROM "THE TRAGEDY OF PHILASTER." 
Philaster's description of his page to his mistress Arethusa. 

^lefliusa. How shall we devise 
To hold intelligence, that our true loves, 
On any new occasion, may agree 
What path is best to tread 1 

Phdus.er. I have a boy, 
Sent by the gods, I hope, to this intent. 
Not yet seen in the court. Hunting the buck, 
I found him sitting by a fountain side. 
Of which he borrow'd some to quench his thirst. 
And paid the nymph again as much in tears: 
A garland lay him by, made by himself 
Of many several flowers, bred in the bay, 
Stuck, in that mystic order that the rareness 
Delighted me. But ever when he turn'd 
His tender eyes upon 'em, he would weep 
As if he meant to make them grow again. 
Seeing such pretty helpless innocence 
Dwell in his face, I ask'd him all his story. 
He told me that his parents gentle died, 
Leaving him to the mercy of the fields. 
Which gave him roots, and of the crystal springs, 
"U'hich did not stop their courses, and the sun. 
Which still, he thank'd him, yielded him his light. 
Then took he, up his garland, and did show 
What every flower, as country people hold, 
Did signify, and how all order'd ; thus 
Express'd his grief, and to my thoughts did read 
The prettiest lecture of his country art 
That could be wish'd, so that methought I could 
Have studied it. I gladly entertain'd him 
Who was as glad to follow, and have got 
The trustiest, loving'st, and the gentlest boy 
That ever master kept. Him will I send 
To wait on you, and bear our hidden love. 

FROM THE SAME. 

Philaster parting with Bellario, who is to enter the service 
of Arethusa. — Act II. Scene I. 

Philaster. And thou shalt find her, honourable 
Full of regard unto thy tender youth. [boy. 

For thine own modesty, and for my sake, 
Apter to give than thou wilt be to ask, — 
Ay, or deserve. [nothing, 

Bellario. Sir, you did take me up when I was 
And only yet am something by being yours. 
You trusted me unknown, and that which you 

were apt 
To construe a simple innocence in me, [a boy 
Perhaps might have been craft — the cunning of 
Harden'd in lies and theft ; yet ventured you 
To part my miseries and me, for which 
I never can expect to serve a lady 
That bears more honour in her breast than you. 

Fhil. But, boy, it will prefer thee: thou art 
young. 
And bear'st a childish overflowing love [yet. 

To them that clap thy cheeks and speak thee fair 
But when thy judgment comes to rule those pas- 
sions, 
Thou wilt remember best those careful friends 
That placed thee in the noblest way of life : 
She is a princess I prefer thee to. 



Bell. In that small time that I have seen the 
I never knew a man hasty to part [world, 

With a servant he thought trusty. I remember 
My father would prefer the boys he kept 
To greater men than he ; but did it not 
Till they were grown too saucy for himself. 

Phil. Why, gentle boy, I find no fault at all 
In thy behaviour. 

Bell. Sir, if I have made 
A fault of ignorance, instruct my youth ; 
I shall be willing, if not apt to learn. 
Age and experience will adorn my mind 
With larger knowledge ; and if I have done 
A wilful fault, think me not past all hope 
For once. What master holds so strict a hanO 
Over his boy, that he will part with him 
Without one warning ? Let me be corrected 
To break my stubbornness, if it be so, 
Rather than turn me off, and I shall mend. 

Phil. Thy love doth plead so prettily to stay. 
That, trust me, I could weep to part with thee. 
Alas, I do not turn thee oft": thou know'st 
It is my business that doth call me hence : 
And when thou art with her thou dwell'st with me . 
Think so, and 'tis so. And when time is full 
That thou hast well discharged this heavy trust 
Laid on so weak a one, I will again 
With joy receive thee : as I live, I will. 
Nay, weep not, gentle boy — 'tis more than time 
Thou didst attend the princess. 

Bell. I am gone. 
And since I am to part with you, my lord. 
And none knows whether I shall live to do 
More service foryou,take this little prayer: [signs ' 
Heav'n bless your loves, your fights, all your de- 
May sick men, if they have your wish, be well ; 
And Heav'n hate those you curse, though I be one ' 

Philaster's mind being poisoned with jealousy that his 

Mistress is perfidiously attached to the I'age, he tries to 

extort the supjfosed secret from Bellario. 

Phil. See — see, you gods ! 

Enter Bellario. 
He walks still, and the face you let him wear 
When he was innocent is still the same — 
Not blasted. Is this justice ] Do you mean 
T' entrap mortality, that you allow 
Treason so smooth a brow ] I cannot now 
Think he is guilty. 

Bell. Health to you, my lord : 
The princess doth commend to you her love, her 
And this, unto you. [life, 

Phil. Oh, Bellario, 
Now I perceive she loves me ; she docs show it 
In loving thee, my boy : she's made thee brave. 

Bell. My lord, she has attired me past my wish. 
Past my desert, more fit for her attendant — 
Though far unfit for me who do attend, [women 

Phtl. Thou art grown courtly, boy. Oh, let all 
That love black deeds learn to dissemble here • 
Here by this paper, she does write to me. 
As if her heart were mines of adamant 
To all the world besides, but unto me 
A maiden snow that melted with my looks. 
Tell me, my boy, how doth the princess use thee ' 
For I shall guess her love to me by that. 



152 



BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 



Bell. Scarce like her servant, but as if I were 
Something allied to her, or had preserved 
Her life three times by my fidelity ; 
As mothers fond do use their only sons ; 
As I'd use one that's left unto my trust, 
For whom my life should pay if he met harm — 
i>o she does use me. 

Phil. Why, this is wond'rous well ; 
But what kind language does she feed thee withi 

Bell. Why, she does tell me she will trust my 
youth 
With all her loving secrets, and does call me 
Her pretty servant; bids me weep no more 
For leaving you — she'll see my services 
Regarded; and such words of that soft strain, 
That I am nearer weeping when she ends 
Than ere she spake. 

Phil. This is much better still. 

L'ell. Are you not ill, my lord 1 

Phil. Ill— no, Bellario. 

Bell. Methinks your words 
Eall not from off your tongue so evenly, 
Nor is there in your looks that quietness 
That I was wont to see. 

Phil. Thou art deceived, boy. 
And she strokes thy head ] 

Bell. Yes. 

Phil. And does she clap thy cheeks 1 

Bell. She does, my lord. 

Phil. And does she kiss thee, boy 1 — ha ! 

Bell. Not so, my lord. 

Phil. Come, come", I know she does. 

Bell. No, by my life 

Phil. Oh. my heart ! 
This is a salve worse than the main disease. 
Tell me thy thoughts, for I will know the least 
That dwells within thee, or will rip thy heart 
To know it : I will see thy thoughts as plain 
As I do now thy face. 

Bell. Why, so you do. 
She is (for aught I know), by all the gods. 
As chaste as ice ; but were she foul as hell. 
And I did know it thus — the breath of kings 
The points of swords, tortures, nor bulls of brass, 
Should draw it from me. 

Phtl. Then it is no time 
To dally with thee : — I will take thy life. 
For I do hate thee. I could curse thee now. 

Bell. If you do hate, you could not curse me 
The gods have not a punishment in store [worse. 
Greater for me than is your hate. 

Phil. Fie, fie ! so young and so dissembling 

Tell me when and where 

Or plagues fall on me if I destroy thee not ! 

Lett. Heav'n knows I never did ; and when I lie 
To save my life, may I live long and loathed ! 
Hew me asunder ; and, whilst I can think, 
I'll love those pieces you have cut away 
Better than those that grow, and kiss those limbs 
Because you made them so. 

Phil. Fear'st thou not death] Can boys contemn 

Lell. Oh, what boy is he [that! 

(!an be content to live to be a man, 
That sees the best of men thus passionate, 
Thus without reason ] 



Phil. Oh, but thou dost not know 
What 'tis to die ! 

Bell. Yes, I do know, my lord : 
'Tis less than to be born — a lasting sleep, 
A quiet resting from all jealousy, 
A thing we all pursue. I know, besides, 
It is but giving o'er a game that must be lost. 

Phil. But there are pains, false boy. 
For perjured souls. Think but on these, and then 
Thy heart will melt, and thou wilt utter all. 

Bell. May they fall all upon me whilst I live, 
If I be perjured, or have ever thought 
Of that you charge me with ! If I be false, 
Send me to sutler in those punishments 
You speak of — kill me ! 

Phil. Oh ! what should I do 1 
Why who can but believe him 1 he does swear 
So earnestly, that if it were not true 
The gods would not endure him. Rise, Bellario ; 
Thy protestations are so deep, and thou 
Dost look so truly when thou utter'st them, 
That though I know 'em false as were my hopes, 
I cannot urge thee farther ; but thou wert 
To blame to injure me, for I must lo%e 
Thy honest looks, and take no revenge upon 
Thy tender youth. A. love from me to thoe 
So firm, whate'er thou dost, it troubles me 
That I have call'd the blood out of thy cheeks, 
That did so well become thee ; but, good boy, 
Let me not see thee more. Something is done 
That will distract me, that will make me mad. 
If I behold thee. If thou tender'st me, 
Let me not see thee. 

Bell. I will fly as far 
As there is morning, ere I give distaste 
To that most honour'd mind ; but through these 
Shed at my hopeless parting, I can see [tears, 
A world of treason practised upon you, 
And her, and me. Farewell for evermore ! 
If you shall hear that sorrow struck me dead, 
And after find me loyal, let there be 
A tear shed from you in my memory, 
And I shall rest at peace. 

Phil. Blessings be with thee, 
Whatever thou deservest ! 



In the last scene of Philaster, the supposed youth, ]{e11ario, 
is obliged to confess her sex, and accounts thus for her 
assumed disguise. 

Phil. But, Bellario, 
(For I must call thee still so) tell me why 
Thou didst conceal thy sex 1 It was a fault — 
A fault, Bellario, though thy other deeds 
Of truth outweigh'd it. All these jealousies 
Had flown to nothing, if thou hadst discover'd 
What now we know. 

Bell. My father oft would speak 
Your worth and virtue ; and as I did grow 
More and more apprehensive, I did thirst 
To see the man so praised ; but yet all tliis 
Was but a maiden longing, to be lost 
As soon as found, till, sitting at my window, 
Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god, 
I thought, but it was you, enter our gates • 
My blood flew out and back again as fast 



BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 



153 



As I had puff'd it forth, and suck'd it in 

Like breath ; then was I call'd away in haste 

To entertain you : never was a man, 

'Heaved from a sheep-cote to a sceptre, raised 

So high in thoUo'hts as L You lelt a kiss 

Upon these hps then, which I mean t" keep 

From you for ever. I did hear you talk 

Far above singing ! Alter you were gone, 

I grew acquainted with my heart, and search'd 

Wiiat stirr'd it so. Ahis ! I found it fove. 

Yet far from lust ; for, could I but have lived 

In presence of you, I had had my end. 

For this I did delude my noble father 

With a feign'd pilgrimage, and dress'd myself 

In habit of a boy ; and, for I knew 

My birth no match for you, I was past hope 

Of having you ; and understanding well, 

That when I made discovery of my sex 

I could not stay with you, I made a vow, 

By all the most religious things a maid 

Could call together, never to be known 

While there was hope to hide me from men's eyes 

For other than I seem'd, that I might ever 

Abide with you ; then sat I by the fount 

Where first you took me up. 

King. Search out a match 
Within our kingdom where and when thou wilt, 
And 1 will pay thy dowry ; and thyself 
Wilt well deserve him. 

Eell. Never, sir, will I 
Marry : it is a thing within my vow : 
But if I may have leave to serve the princess, 
To see the virtues of her lord and her, 
I shall have hope to live. 

Jliciluisa. I, Philaster, 
Cannot be jealous, though you had a lady, 
Dress'd like a page, to serve you ; nor will I 
Suspect her living here. Come, live with me, 
Live free as I do : she that loves my lord. 
Curst be the wife that hates her ! 



THE RECONCILEMENT OP MR. ROGER, THE 
CURATE, AND ABIGAIL. 

FROM "THE SCORNFUL LADY," SCENE I. ACT IV. 

Mig. See how scornfully he passes by me. 
With what an equipage canonical. 
As though he had broken the heart of Bellarmine, 
Or added something to the singing brethren ; 
'Tis scorn, I know it, and deserve it. Master Roger. 

Rog. Fair gentlewoman, my name is Roger. 

Abig. Then, gentle Roger 

Rog. Ungentle Abigail 

Abig. Why. Master Roger, will you set your wit 
To a weak woman's 1 

Rog. You are weak, indeed ; 
Foi io tiie poet sings. 

Abig. I do confess 
My weakness, sweet Sir Roger. 

Rog. Good, my lady's 
Gcmtlewoman, or my good lady's gentlewoman, 
(This trope is lost to you now) leave your prating. 
You have a season of your first mother in you. 
And, surely, had the devil been in love. 
He had been abused too. Go, Dalilah, 
You make men fools, and wear fig-breeches. 



Aliig. Well, well, hard-hearted man, you may 
Upon the weak infirmities of woman, [dilate 
These are fit texts : but once there was a tune — 
Would I had never seen those eyes, those eyes,. 
Those orient eyes ! 

Rog. Ay, they were pearls once with you. 

Abia. Saving your presence, sir, so they are still. 

Rog. Nay, nay, I do beseech you, leave your 
What they are, they are — [cogging ; 

They serve me without spectacles — I thank 'em. 

Abig. Oh, will you kdl me 1 

Rog. I do not think I can : 
You're like a copyhold with nine lives in't. 

Abig. You were wont to wear a Christian fear 
For your own worship's sake. [about you, 

Rog. I was a Christian fool, then. 
Do you remember what a dance you led me. 
How I grew qualm'd in love, and was a dunce ; 
Could not expound but once a quarter, and then 

was out too — 
And then, out of the stir you put me in, 
I pray'd for my own royal issue. You do 
Remember all this. 

Abig. Oh, be as then you were. 

Rog. I thank you for it. 
Surely I will be wiser, Abigail, 
And, as the Ethnic poet sings, 
I will not lose my oil and labour too. 
You're for the worshipful, I take it, Abigail. 

Abig. Oh, take it so, and then I am for thee. 

Rog. I like these symptoms well, and this 
humbling also, 
They are symptoms of contrition, as a father saith. 
If I should fall into my fit again. 
Would you not shake me into a quotidian coxcomb. 
Would you not use me scurvily again. 
And give me possets with purging comfits in them ] 
I tell thee, gentlewoman, thou has been harder to me 
Than a long chapter with a pedigree. 

Abig. Oh, curate, cure me ; 
I will love thee better, dearer, longer ! 
I will do any thing — betray the secrets 
Of the main household to thy reformation ; 
My lady shall look lovingly on thy learning ; 
And when due time shall point thee for a parson, 
I will convert thy eggs to penny custards, 
And thy tithe goose shall graze and multiply 

Rog. I am mollified, 
As well shall testify this faithful kiss. 
But have a great care, Mistress Abigail, 
How you depress the spirit any more, 
With your rebukes and mocks, for certainly 
The edge of such a folly cuts itself. 

Abi^. Oh, Sir, you've pierced me thorough ! Here 
A recantation to those malicious faults [I vow 
I ever did against you. Never more 
Will I despise your learning ; never more 
Pin cards and cony tads upon your cassock ; 
Never again reproach your reverend nightcap. 
And call it by the mangy name of murrion ; 
Never your reverend person more, and say 
You look like one of Baal's priests i' the hangui^ 
Never again, when you say grace, laugh at vou. 
Nor put you out at pray'rs ; never cramp you more 
With the great book of Marty rs ; nor, when you ride. 



154 



BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 



Get soap and thistles for you — No, my Roger, 
These faults shall be corrected and amended, 
<\.s by the tenor of my tears appears. 

JULIO TANTALIZED BY BUSTOPHA ABOUT THE 
FATE Oi' HIS NEPHEW ANTONIO. 

"THE MAID OF THE MILL," ACT IT. SCEXE II. 

Jul. My mind's unquiet ; while Antonio 
My nephew's abroad, my heart's not at home ; 
Only my fears stay with me — bad company, 
But I cannot shift 'em off. This hatred 
Betwixt the house of Bellides and us 
Is not fair war — 'tis civil, but uncivil ; 
We are near neighbours, were of love as near, 
Till a cross misconstruction ('twas no more 
In conscience) put us so far asunder. 
I would 'twere reconciled ; it has lasted 
Too many sunsets : if grace might moderate, 
Man should not lose so many days of peace 
To satisfy the anger of one minute. 
I could repent it heartily. I sent 
The knave to attend my Antonio too. 
Yet he returns no comfort to me neither. 
Enter Busiopha. 

Bus'. No, I must not. 

Jul. Ha ! he is come. 

Bust. I must not : 
'Twill break his heart to hear it. 

Jul. How ! there's bad tidings. 
I must obscure and hear it : he'll not tell it 
For breaking of my heart. It's half split already. 

Bust. I have spied him. Now to knock down a 
With a lie — a silly, harmless lie : 'twill be [don 
Valiantly done, and nobly, perhaps. 

Jul. I cannot hear him now. 

Bust. Oh, the bloody days that we live in ! 
The envious, malicious, deadly days 
That we draw breath in. 

Jul. Now I hear too loud. [rue. 

Bust, The children that never shall be born may 
For men that are slain now, might have hved 
To have got children that might have cursed 
Their fathers. 

Jul. Oh, my posterity is ruin d. 

Bust. Oh, sweet Antonio ! 

Jul. O dear Antonio ! 

Bust. Yet it was nobly done of both parts, 
When he and Lisauro met. 

J\d. Oh, death has parted them ! 

Bust. Welcome, my mortal foe ! says one ; 
Welcome, [doublets. 

My deadly enemy! says t' other. Off goes their 
They in their shirts, and their swords stark naked. 
Here lies Antonio — here lies Lisauro. 
He comes upon him with an embroccado. 
Then he puts by with a puncta reversa. Lisauro 
Recoils me two paces, and some six inches back 
Takes his career, and then — Oh! 

Jul. Oh ! 

Evs'. Runs Antonio 
\4uite through. 

Jul. Oh, villain ! 

Bust. Quite through, between the arm 
And the body, so that he had no hurt at that bout. 



Jul. Goodness be praised ! 

Bust. But then, at next encounter, 
He fetches me up Lisauro ; Lisauro 
Makes out a lunge at him, which he thinking 
To be a passado. Antonio's foot 
Slipping down — oh ! down 

Jul. Oh, now thou art lost ! [gentlemen, 

Bust. Oh, but the quality of the thing ; both 
Both Spanish Christians — ^yet one man to shed — 

Jul. Say his enemy's blood. 

Bust. His hair may come 
By divers casualties, though he never go 
Into the field w.th his foe ; but a man 
To lose nine ounces and two drams of blood 
At one wound, thirteen and a scruple at another, 
And to live till he die in cold blood ; yet the surgeon 
That cured him said, that if piu mater had not 
Been perish'd, he had been a hves man 
Till this day. 

/(//. There he concludes — he is gone, [point. 

Bust. But all this is nothing. — now I come to the 

Jul. Ay, the point — that's deadly ; the ancient 
blow 
Over the buckler ne'er went half so deep. 

Bust. Yet pity bids me keep in my charity ; 
For me to pull an old man's ears from his head 
With telling of a tale. Oh, foul tale ! no, be silent, 
Furthermore, there is the charge of burial, [tale. 
Every one will cry blacks, blacks, that had 
But the least finger dipt in his blood, though ten 
Degrees removed when 'twas done. Moreover, 
The surgeons that made an end of him will he paid 
Sugar-plums and sweet-breads ; yet, say I, 
The man may recover again, and die in his bed. 

Jul, What motley stuff is this 1 Sirrah, speak 
What hath befallen my dear Antonio ! [truth. 
Restrain your pity in concealing it ; 
Tell me the danger full. Take off your care 
Of my receiving it ; kill me that way, [truth, 
I'll forgive my death ! What thou keep'st back from 
Thou shalt speak in pain : do not look to find 
A limb in his right place, a bone unbroke, 
Nor so much flesh unbroil'd of all that mountain. 
As aworm mightsup on — despatch or be despatch'd. 

Bust. Alas, Sir, I know nothing but that Antonio 
Is a man of God's making to this hour ; 
'Tis not two since I left him so. 

Jul. Where didst thou leave him 1 

Bust. In the same clothes he had on when he 
went from you. 

Jul. Does he live 1 

Bust. I saw him drink. 

Jul. Is he not wounded ] 

Bust. He may have a cut i' the leg by this time 
For Don Martino and he were at whole slashes. 

Jul. Met he not with Lisauro ] 

Biisl. I do not know her. 

Jul, Her ! Lisauro is a man, as he is. 

Bust. I saw ne'er a man like him. 

Jul. Didst thou not discourse 
A fight betwixt Antonio and Lisauro 7 

Bust. Ay, to myself: 
I hope a man may give himself the lie 
If it please him. 

Jul. Didst thou lie then 1 



BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 



155 



Btisf. As sure as you live now. [return 1 

Jul. I live the happier by it. When will he 

Btist. That he sent me to tell you — within these 
Ten days at farthest. 

Jul. Ten days ! he's not wont 
To be absent two. [be at home 

Bust. Nor I think he will not. He said he would 
To-morrow ; but I love to speak within 
My compass. 

Jul. You shall speak within mine, Sir, now. 
Within there ! take this fellow into custody. 
Keep him safe, I charge you. [Ente.r Servants. 

Iml. Safe, do you hear! take notice 
What plight you find me in. If there want but 
Or a steak of me, look to 't. [a coUop, 

Jul. If my nephew 
Return not in his health to-morrow, thou goest 
To the rack. 

Ihis'. Let me go to the manger first, 
I'd rather eat oats than hay. 



EDITH PLEADING FOR THE LIFE OF HER FATHER. 

FROM " TH£ TRAGEDY OF ROLLO DUKE OF NORMANDY." 
ACT HI. 

Persons of the scene — Rollo, Dule of Normandy ; Hamond, 
Captain of Vie Guard; Baldwin, Tutor of tlte Prince; 
Edith, Baldwin's Daughter. 

Rollo. Go, take this dotard here (pointing to 
Lal(lwin), and take his head 
Off with a sword. 

Ham. Your schoolmaster ! 

Rollo. Even he. 

Bdld. For teaching thee no better : 'tis the best 
Of all thy damned justices. Away ! 
Captain, I'll follow. 

Ediili. O stay there, Duke, 
And, in the midst of all thy blood and fury. 
Hear a poor maid's petition — hear a daughter, 
The only daughter of a wretched father ! 
Oh ! stay your haste, as I shall need your mercy. 

Rollo. Away with this fond woman ! 

Edilli. You must hear me. 
If there be any spark of pity in you ; 
If sweet humanity and mercy rule you. 
I do confess you are a prince — your anger 
As great as you, your execution greater. 

Rollo. Away with him ! 

Edilh. Oh, Captain, by thy manhood, 
By her soft soul that bare thee — I do confess. Sir, 
Your doom of justice on your foes most righteous. 
Good, noble Prince, look on me. 

Rollo. Take her from me. 

Edith. A curse upon his life that hinders me ! 
May father's blessing never fall upon him ! 
May heav'n ne'er hear his prayers! I beseech you — 
Sir. these tears beseech you — these chaste hands 

woo you. 
That never yet were heaved but to things holy. 
Things like yourself. You are a god above us, 
Be as a god, then, full of saving mercy. 
Mercy ! Oh, mercy ! Sir — for his sake mercy. 
That, when your stout heart weeps, shall give you 
Here I must grow. [pity. 

Rollo. By heaven I'll strike thee, woman ! 



Edith. Most willingly — let all thy anger seize me, 
All the most studied tortures, so this good man. 
This old man, and this innocent escape thee. 

Rollo. Carry him away, I say. 

Edilh. Now blessing on thee ! Oh, sweet pity, 
I see it in thine eyes. I charge you, soldiers, 
Ev'n by the Prince's power, release my father ! 
The Prince is merciful — why do you hold him 7 
The Prince forgets his fury — why do you tug him': 
He is old — why do you hurt himl Speak, oh 

speak. Sir ! 
Speak, as you are a man — a man's life hangs, Sir, 
A friend's life, and a foster life, upon you. 
'Tis but a word, but mercy — quickly spoke, Sir. 
Oh speak, Prince, speak ! 

Rollo. Will no man here obey me 1 
Have I no rule yet ! As I live, he dies 
That does not execute my will, and suddenly. 

Bald. All thou canst do takes but one short hour 

Rollo Hew off her hands ! [from me. 

Hum. Lady, hold off. 

Edi h. No, hew 'em ; 
Hew off my innocent hands, as he commands you, 
They'll hang the faster on for death's convulsion. 
[Exit Baldwin with the guard. 
Thou seed of rocks, will nothing move thee then 1 
Are all my tears lost, all my righteous prayers 
Drown'd in thy drunken wrath ] I stand up thus. 
Thus boldly, bloody tyrant ! [then. 

And to thy face, in heav'n's high name, defy thee ; 
And may sweet mercy, when thy soul sighs for it. 
When under thy black mischiefs thy flesh trembles, 
When neither strength, nor youth, nor friends, 
nor gold, [science. 

Can stay one hour ; when thy most wretched con- 
Waked from her dream of death, like fire shall 

melt thee ; 
When all thy mother's tears, thy brother's wounds, 
Thy people's fears and curses, and my loss. 
My ageti father's loss, shall stand before thee : — 
.... May then that pity, — • [mercy 

That comfort thou expect'st from heav'n — that 
Be lock'd up from thee — fly thee ! howlings find 

theel 
Despair ! (Oh my sweet father !) Storms of terror ! 
Blood till thou burst again ! 

Rollo. Oh fair, sweet anger ! 



INSTALLATION OF THE KING OF THE BEGGARS. 

FROM •' BEGGARS' BUSH," ACT H. SCENE I. 

Persmis. — King Clause, Priog, Ginks, Higgen, Ferret, cmmJ 
other Begtjars. 

Ferret. What is't I see 1 Snap has got it. 

Snap. A good crown, marry. 

Prigg. A crown of gold 

Ferre:. For our new King — good luck. 

Ginks. To the common treasury with it — if it 
Thither it must. [be gold 

Prigg. Spoke like a patriot. Ginks. 

King Clause. I bid '^»od save thee first; first 

After this golden token of a crown [Clause, 

Where's orator Higgen with his gratulating speech 
In all our names ? [now. 

Ferret. Here he is, pumping in it. 



156 



BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 



Ginks. H' has cough'd the second time, 'tis but 
And then it comes. [once more, 

Feriei. So out with all ! Expect now 

Htg. That thou art chosen, venerable Clause, 
Our king, and sovereign monarch of the maunders, 
Thus we throw up our nab-cheats first for joy. 
And then our filches ; last we clap our fambles— 
Three subject signs — we do it without envy. 
For who is he here, did not wish thee chosen] 
Now thou art chosen, ask them — all will say so — 
Nay, swear't — 'tis for the King : but let that pass. 
When last in conference at the bouzu g » m," 
This other day, we sat about our dead prince, 
Of famous memory (rest go with his rags !) 
And that I saw thee at the table's end, 
Rise moved, and gravely leaning on one crutch, 
Lift t'other, like a sceptre, at my head ; 
I then presaged thou shortly wouldst be king. 
And now thou art so — but what need presage 
To us, that might have read it in thy beard. 
As well as he that chose thee ! By that beard. 
Thou wert found out and mark'd for sovereignty ! 
Oh, happy beard ! but happier Prince, whose beai'd 
Was so remark'd, as marking out our Prince, 
Not bating us a hair. Long may it grow. 
And thick and fair, that who lives under it 
May live as safe as under beggars' bush, 
Of which "this is the thing, that but the type. 

Oiiines. Excellent, excellent orator ! Forward, 

good Higgen [Higgen ! 

Give him leave to spit — the fine, well-spoken 

Hig. This is the beard, the bush, or bushy beard, 
Under whose gold and silver reign 'twas said 
So many ages since, we all should smile. 
No impositions, taxes, grievances ! 
Knots III a state, and whips unto a subject. 
Lie lurking in this beard, but all kemb'd' out. 
If, now, the beard be such, what is the Prince 
That owes the beard"! Atatherl no — a grandfather] 
Nay, the great grandfather of you his people. 
He wdl not force away your hens, your bacon. 
When you have ventured hard for't; nor take 

tVom you 
The fattest of your puddings. Under him 
Each man shall eat his own stol'n eggs and butter, 
In his own shade or sunshine, and enjoy 
His own dear doll doxy, or mort at night 
In his own straw, with his own shirt or sheet, 
That he hath filch'd that day — ay. and possess 
What he can purchase — buck or belly cheals 
To his own prop. He will have no purveyors 
For pigs and poultry. 

Clause. That we must have, my learned orator. 
It is our wdl — and every man to keep 
In his own path and circuit. 

Hig. Do you hear 1 
You must hereafter maund on your own pads, 
he says. 
Clinise. And what they get there is their own ; 
besides. 

To give good words 

IJig. Do you mark, to cut been whids. 
This is the second law. 



DISTANT VIEW OF THE ROMAN ARMT ENGAGING 
THE BRITONS. 

FROM "THE TRAGEDV OF BUNDUCA," SCENE V. ACT III. 

See that huge battle moving from the mountains. 
Their gilt coats shine like dragon scales, their march 
Like a rough tumbling storm ; see 'em, .... 
And then see Rome no more. Say they fail; look. 
Look where the armed carts stand, a new army ! 
Look how they hang like fallingrocks, as murdering 
Death rides in triumph, Drusius, fell Destruction 
Lashes his fiery horse, and round about him 
His many thousand ways to let out souls. [tain 
Move me again when they charge,' when the moun- 
Melts under their hot wheels, and from their ax- 
trees 
Huge claps of thunder* plough the ground before 
Till then I'll dream what Rome was. [them, 

BONDUCA ATTACKED IN HER FORTRESS BY THE 
ROMANS. 

FROM THE SAME, SCENE IV. ACT IV. 

Persona — Suetonius, Junius, Dfxius, and other Jtrmians. 
BoNBUCA, and her Daughters, with Nlnnius above. 

Suet. Being up the catapults, and shake the wall, 
We will not be outbraved thus. 

A^ie;;. Shake the earth. 
Ye cannot shake our souls. Bring up your rams, 
And with their armed heads make the fort totter, 
Ye do but rock us into death. 

Juii. See, sir. 
See the Icenian queen in all her glory 
From the strong battlements proudly appearing. 
As if she meant to give us lashes. 

Dei: Yield, queen. [Roman. 

Eond. I'm unacquainted with that language, 

Suet. Yield,honour'd lady, and expect our mercy ; 
We love thy nobleness. 

Bond. I thank ye, ye say well ; 
But mercy and love are sins in Rome and hell. 

Suet. You cannot 'scape our strength, you must 
yield, lady ; 
You must adore and fear the power of Rome. 

Bond. If Rome be earthly, why should any knee 
With bending adoration worship her 1 
She's vicious, and your partial selves confess 
Aspires the height of all impiety. 
Therefore 'tis fitter I should reverence 
The thatched houses where the Britons dwell 
In careless mirth; where the blcss'd household gods 
See nought but chaste and simple purity. 
'Tis not high power that makes a place divine, 
Nor that the men from gods derive their line ; 
But sacred thoughts, in holy bosoms stored. 
Make people noble, and the place adored. 

Suel. Beat the wall deeper. 

Bond. Beat it to the centre. 
We wdl not sink one thought. 

Suei. I'll make ye. 

Bond. No. 

2d Davghter. Oh, mother, these are feurlul 
hours ! — speak gently. 

c The Koman wlio makes this speech is supposcil to be 
rechuiii^', oveicouie with fatigue, auU goiug to suateh a 
momeutary repose. 



BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 



157 



CARATACH, PRINCE OF THE BRITONS, WITH 
HIS NEPHKW HENGO ASLEEP. 

FROM SCENE lO. ACT V. OF THE SAME. 

Car. Sleep still, sleep sweetly, child ; 'tis all 
thou feed'st on : 
No gentle Briton near, no valiant charity 
To bring thee food. Poor knave, thou'rt sick, 

extreme sick, 
Almost grown wild for meat, and yet thy goodness 
Will not confess or show it. All the woods 
Are double Uned with soldiers, no way left us 
To make a noble 'scape. I'll sit down by thee, 
And when thou wakest either get meat to save thee, 
Or lose my life i' the purchase. Good gods comfort 
thee ! 
Enter Caratach and Hengo on the rock. 

Car. Courage, my boy, I've found meat : look, 
Hengo, 
Look, where some blessed Briton, to preserve thee, 
Has hung a httle food and drink. Cheer up, boy ! 
Do not forsake me now. 

Hengo. Oh ! uncle, uncle, 
I feel I cannot stay long ; yet I'll fetch it 
To keep your noble life. Uncle, I'm heart whole. 
And would live. 

Car. Thou shalt, long, I hope. 

Hengo. But — my head, uncle — 
Methinks the rock goes round. 

Enter Macer and Jodas, Romans, 

Macer. Mark 'em well, Judas. 

Judas. Peace, as you love your life. 

Hengo. Do not you hear 
The noise of bells 1 

Car. Of bells, boy 1 'tis thy fancy. 
Alas ! thy body's full of wind. 

Hengo. Methinks, sir, 
They ring a strange sad knell, a preparation 
To some near funeral of state. Nay, weep not. 

Car. Oh ! my poor chicken. 

Hengo. Fye, faint-hearted uncle ; 
Come, tie me in your belt, and let me down. 

Car. I'll go myself, boy. 

Hengo. No ; as you love me, uncle, 
I will not eat it if I do not fetch it, 
The danger only I desire; pray tie me. 

Car. I will, and all my care hang o'er thee. 
My valiant child. [Come, child, 

Hengo. Let me down apace, uncle, 
And you shall see how like a daw I'll whip it 
From all their policies ; for 'tis most certain 
A Eoman train. And you must hold me sure too, 
You'll spoil all else. When I have brought it. 
We'll be as merry • [uncle. 

Car. Go i' the name of heav'n, boy. 

Hengo. Quick, quick, uncle, I have it. Oh ! 

[Judas shoots IlEsao. 

Car. What ail'st thou 1 

Hengo. Oh ! my best uncle, I am slain. 

Car. I see you [Kills Judas with a stone. 

And heav'n direct my hand ! Destruction 

Go with thy coward soul ! How dost thou, boy 1 

Oh! villain • 

Hengo. Oh ! uncle, uncle ! 
Oh ! how it pricks me ; extremely pricks me. 



Cur. Coward rascal ! 
Dogs eat thy flesh ! 

Hengo. 0. 1 bleed hard — I faint too — out upon t 
How sick I am — the lean rogue, uncle ! 

Car. Look, boy, I've laid him sure enough. 

Hengo. Have you knock'd put his brains ! 

Car. I warrant thee, for stirring more. Cheer 
up, child. 

Hengo. Hold my sides hard; stop, stop; oh! 
wretched fortune — 
Must we part thus 7 Still I grow sicker, uncle. 

Car. Heav'n look upon this noble child. 

Hengo. I once hoped 

I should have lived to have met these bloody Romans 

At my sword's point, to have revenged my father. 

To have beaten 'em. — Oh ! held me hard : — but 

uncle [I draw it 1 

Car. Thou shalt live still, I hope, boy. Shall 

Hengo, You draw away my soul then. I would live 
A little longer (spare me, heav'n !) but only 
To thank you for your tender love, good uncle 
Good, noble uncle, weep not. 

Car. Oh ! my chicken ! 
My dear boy ! what shall I lose 1 

Hengo. Why, a child. 
That must have died however, had this 'scaped me, • 
Fever or femine. I was born to die, sir. 

Car. But thus unblown, my boy — 

Hengo. I go the straighter 
My journey to the gods. Sure I shall know you 
When you come, my uncle. 

Car. Yes, boy. 

Hengo. And I hope 
We shall enjoy together that great blessedness 
You told me of. 

Car. Most certain, child. 

Hengo. I grow cold ; 
Mine eyes are going. 

Car. Lift 'em up. 

Hengo. Pray for me. 
And, noble unele, when my bones are ashes, 
Think of your little nephew. Mercy ! 

Car. Mercy ! You blessed angels take him. 

Hengo. Kiss me ! so — 
Farewell ! farewell ! [Dies.' 

Car. Farewell the hopes of Britain ! 
Thou royal graft, farewell for ever ! Time and 
Death, [proudly 

You've done your worst. — Fortune, now see, now 
Pluck off thy veil, and view thy triumph. Look, 
Look what th' hast brought this land to. Oh ! fair 

flower. 
How lovely yet thy ruins show ! how sweetly 
Ev'n death embraces thee ! The peace of heav'n— 
The fellowship of all good souls be with thee ! 



ARNOLDO TEMPTED BY HYPOLITA. 

PROM "the custom OF THE COUNTUT." 

Jrn. Fy ! stand off; 
And give me leave more now than e'er to wonder 
A building of so goodly a proportion, 
Outwardly all exact, the frame of heaven, 
Should hide wi/Hin so base inhabitants. 




158 



BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 



Vou are as fair as if the morning bare you, 

Imagination never made a sweeter 

Be excellent in all as you are outward ; 
The worthy mistress of those many blessings 
Heav'n has bestow'd, make 'em appear still nobler, 
Because they're trusted to a weaker keeper. — 
Would you have me love you 1 

Hyp. Yes. 

jlrn. Not for your beauty ; 
Though I confess it blows the first fire in us ; 
Tiuie as he passes by puts out that sparkle. 
Nor for your wealth, although the world kneel to it, 
And make it all addition to a woman; 
Fortune, that ruins all, make that his conquest. 
Be honest and be virtuous, I'll admire you ; 
At least be wise : and, where you lay these nets, 
Strew over them a little modesty, 
'Twill well become your cause, and catch more fools. 

Hyp. Could any one, that loved this wholesome 
counsel. 
But love the giver morel — You make me fonder. 
You have a virtuous mind — I want that ornament. 
Is it a sin, I covet to enjoy you 1 — 
If you imagine I'm too free a lover, 
And act that part belongs to you, I'm silent. 
Mine eyes shall speak, my blushes parley with you; 
I will not touch your hand but with a tremble 
Fitting a vestal nun; not long to kiss you. 
But gently as the air, and undiscern'd too, 
I'll steal it thus. I'll walk your shadow by you, 
So still and silent, that it shall be equal 
To put me off as that. 

NO RIVALSHIP OR TAINT OF FAITH ADMIS- 
SIBLE IN LOVE. 

FROM THE SAME. 

Zenocia tn Arnoldo. 
Should you lay by the least part of that love 
You've sworn is mine, your youth and faith have 
To entertain another, nay, a fairer, [given me. 
And make the case thus desperate, she must die also ; 
D'ye think I would give way, or count this honest? 
Be not deceived ; these eyes should never see you 

more. 
This tongue forget to name you, and this heart 
Hate you as if you were born my full antipathy : 
Empire and more imperious love alone 
Rule and admit no rivals. The pure springs. 
When they are courted by lascivious land-floods. 
Their maiden sweetness and their coolness perish ; 
And though they purge again to their first beauty. 
The sweetness of their taste is clean departed. 
I must have all or none; and am not worthy 
Longer the noble name of wife, Arnoldo, 
Than I can bring a whole heart pure and handsome. 



feCENE IN THE COMEDY OF MONSIEUR THOMAS. 

Valentine having formed the noble rosolution of giving 
up his mistress Celliile to preserve the life of liis friend 
Francis, who is in love with her. is supposed to hear 
the following dialogue, unknown to Francis. 

Francis. Bless me, what beams 
Flew from those angel eyes ! Oh, what a misery, 
What a most studied torment 'tis to me now 
To be an honest man ! Dare you sit by me 1 



Cellide. Yes, and do more than that too — com 
fort you ; 
I see you've need. 

Frail. You are a fair physician ; 
You bring no bitterness, gilt o'er, to gull us. 
No danger in your looks : yet there my death lies ! 

Cel. I would be sorry, sir, my charity, 
And my good wishes for your health, should merit 
So stubborn a construction. Will it please you 
To taste a little of this cordial 1 

[Enter Valentine privately. 
For this I think must cure you. 

Fran. Of which, lady ]— [so 1 

Sure she has found my grief. — Why do you blush 

Cel. Do you not understand] of this — this cordial. 

Valentine. Oh, my afHicted heart! she's gone 
for ever."* 

Fran. What heaven you have brought me, ladv ! 

Cel. Do not wonder : 
For 'tis not impudence, nor want of honour. 
Makes me do this ; but love to save your life, sir, 
Your life, too excellent to lose in wishes — 
Love, virtuous love ! 

Fran. A virtuous blessing crown you ! 
Oh, goodly sweet ! can there be so much charity, 
So noble a compassion in that heart. 
That's fiU'd up with another's fair aflections 1 
Can mercy drop from those eyes ] 
Can miracles be wrought upon a dead man. 
When all the power you have, and perfect object. 
Lies in another's light, and his deserves it ] 

Cel. Do not despair ; nor do not think too boldly 
I dare abuse my promise ; 'twas your friend's. 
And so fast tied, I thought no time could ruin . 
But so much has your danger, and that spell. 
The powerful name of friend, prevail'd above him, 
To whom I ever owe obedience. 
That here I am, by his command, to cure ye ; 
Nay more, for ever, by his full resignment ; 
And willingly I ratify it. 

Fran. Hold, for heaven's sake! 
Must my friend's misery make me a triumph 1 
Bear I that noble name to be a traitor? 
Oh, virtuous goodness! keep thyself untainted: 
You have no power to yield, nor he to render. 
Nor I to take — I am resolved to die first ! 

Val. Ha ! say'st thou so 1 — Nay, then thou shall 
not perish ! 

Frail. A nd though I loveye above the light shines 
on me ; 
Beyond the wealth of kingdoms ; free content 
Sooner would snatch at such a blessing offer'd, 
Than at my pardon'd life, by the law forfeited. 
Yet — yet, oii, noble beauty ! — yet, oh, paradise ! 
(For you are all the wonder reveal'd of it ;) 
Yet is a gratitude to be preserved, 
A worthy gratitude, to one most worthy 
The name and nobleness of friends ! 

Cel. Pray tell me. 
If I had never knov.-n that gentleman. 
Would you not willingly embrace my offer 1 

Fran. D'you make a doubt? 

I* Valentine is supposed to remain undiscovered, and 
his speeches not to be heard by Francis and Celiide. 



BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 



159 



Cel. And can you be unwilling, 
He being old and impotent 1 — his aim, too, 
Levell'd at you, for your good ; not constraint, 
But out of Cure and counsel 1 — Alas ! consider ; 
Play but the woman with me, and consider. 
As he himself does, and I now dare see it — 
Truly consider, sir, what misery 

Fran. For virtue's sake, take heed ! 

Cel. What loss of youth, 
What everlasting banishment from that 
Our years do only covet to arrive at. 
Equal affections, born and shot together ! 
What living name can dead age leave behind him 1 
What act of memory, but fruitless doting] 

Fran. This cannot be. 

CeJ. To you, unless you apply it 
With more and firmer faith, and so digest it: 
I speak but of things possible, not done. 
Nor like to he ; a posset cures your sickness. 
And yet I know you grieve this; and howsoever 
The worthiness of friends may make you stagger 
(Which is a fair thing in you,) yet, my patient, 
My gentle patient, I would fain say more, 
If you would understand. 

Vid. Oh ! cruel woman ! 

Cel. Yet, sure your sickness is not so forgetful, 
Nor you so willing to be lost ! 

Fran. Pray stay there ; 
Methinks you are not fair now ; methinks more. 
That modest virtue, men deliver'd of you, 
Shows but like shadow to me, thin and fading ! 

Fal. Excellent friend ! 

Fran. You have no share in goodness ; 
You are belied ; you are not Cellide, 
The modest, the immaculate ! — •Who are you 1 

For I will know What devil, to do mischief 

Unto my virtuous friend, hath shifted shapes 
With that unblemish'd beauty] 

Cel. Do not rave, sir. 
Nor let the violence of thoughts distract you ; 
You shall enjoy me ; I am yours ; I pity, 
By those fair eyes, I do. 

Fran. Oh, double hearted ! 
Oh, woman ! perfect woman ! what distraction 
Was meant to mankind when thou wast made a 

devil ! 
What an inviting hell invented ! — Tell me. 
And if you yet remember what is goodness, 
Tell me by that, and truth, can one so cherish'd. 
So sainted in the soul of him, whose service 
Is almost turn'd to superstition, 
M'hose every day endeavours and desires 
Oflcr themselves like incense on your altar, 
Whose heart holds no intelligence, but holy 
And most religious with his love, whose life 
(And let it ever be remember'd, lady !) 
Is drawn out only for your ends 

Val. Oh ! miracle ! 

Fran. Whose all and every part of man, (pray 
mark me !) 
Eike ready pages, wait upon your pleasures, 
W hose breath is but your bubble — can you, dare 

you. 
Must you, cast off this man (though he were willing, 
Though, in a nobleness to cross my danger, 



His friendship durst confirm it,) without has 
Without the stain of honour 7 — Shall not people 
Say liberally hereafter, " There's the lady 
That lost her father, friend, herself, her faith too. 
To fawn upon a stranger," for aught you know 
As faithless as yourself — in love, as fruitless ! 

Val. Take her, with all my heart !■ — 'Thou art 
so honest, 
That 'tis most necessary I be undone. 
With all my soul possess her ! 

Cel. Till this minute 
I scorn'd and hated you, and came to cozen you ; 
Utter'd those things might draw a wonder on me, 
To make you mad. 

Fran. Good heaven ! what is this woman ? 

Cel. Nor did your danger, but in charity. 
Move me a whit ; nor you appear unto me 
More than a common object ; yet now, truly, 
Truly, and nobly, I do love you dearly. 
And from this hour you are the man I honour; 
You are the man, the excellence, the honesty. 
The only friend : — and I am glad your sickness 
Fell so most happily at this time on you. 
To make this truth the world's. 

Fran. Whither d'you drive me ] 

Cel. Back toyour honesty; make that good ever; 
'Tis like a strong-built castle, seated high, 
That draws on all ambitions ; still repair it. 
Still fortify it ; there are thousand foes. 
Besides the tyrant Beauty, will assail it: 
Look to your sentinels, that watch it hourly ; 
Your eyes — let them not wander ! 

Fran. Is this serious. 
Or does she play still with me 1 

Cel. Keep your ears, 
The two main ports that may betray you, strongly 
From light belief first, then from flattery, 
Especially where woman beats the parley ; 
The body of your strength, your noble heart. 
From ever yielding to dishonest ends. 
Ridged round about with virtue, that no breaches. 
No subtle mines, may meet you ! 

Fran. How like the sun 
Labouring in his eclipse, dark and prodigious. 
She show'd till now ! When, having won his way. 
How full of wonder he breaks out again. 
And sheds his virtuous beams! Excellent angel! 
(For no less can that heavenly mind proclaim thee.) 
Honour of all thy sex ! let it be lawful 
(And like a pilgrim thus I kneel to beg it. 
Not with profane lips now, nor burnt affections 
But, reconciled to faith, with holy wishes,) 
To kiss that virgin hand ! 

Cel. Take your desire, sir. 
And in a nobler way, for I dare trust you ; 
No other fruit my love must ever yield you, 
I fear, no more ! — Yet, your most constant me- 
mory 
(So much I'm wedded to that worthiness) 
Shall ever be my friend, companion, husband ! 
Farewell ! and fairly govern your affections ; 
Stand, and deceive me not! — Oh, noble young 

man ! 
I love thee with my soul, but dare not say it ! 
Once more, farewell, and prosper ! 



160 



BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 



FROM "A KING AND NO KING." 

ACT IV. SCENE IV. 

Arbaces, King of Iberia, reveals to Panthea, his sister, the 
criminality of his love for her. 
An Apartment in the Palace. 

Enter Arbaces at one duor, and Gobrias with Panthea at 
another. 

Gob. Sir, here's the princess. 

Jrb. Leave us, then, alone ; 
For the main cause of her imprisonment 
Must not be heard by any but herself. — 

[Exit Gobrias. 
You're welcome, sister ; and I would to heaven 
I could so bid you by another name. — 
Jf you above love not such sins as these, 
Circle my heart with thoughts as cold as snow. 
To quench these rising flames that harbour here. 

Pan. Sir, does it please you I shall speak 1 

Art. Please me 1 
Ay, more than all the art of music can. 
Thy speech doth please me : for it ever sounds 
As thou brought'st joyful unexpected news : 
And yet it is not fit thou shouldst be heard ; 
I pray thee, think so. 

Pan. Be it so : I will. 
Am I the first that ever had a wrong 
So far from being fit to have redress, 
That 'twas unfit to hear it 1 I will back 
To prison, rather than disquiet you, 
And wait till it be fit. 

Arb. No, do not go ; 
For I will hear thee with a serious thought : 
I have collected all that's man about me 
Together strongly, and I am resolved 
To hear thee largely : but I do beseech thee. 
Do not come nearer me ; for there is 
Something in that, that will undo us both. 

Pan. Alas, sir, am I venom 1 

Arb. Yes, to me ; 
Though, of thyself, I think thee to be in 
As equal a degree of heat or cold. 
As Nature can make : yet, as unsound men 
Convert the sweetest and the nourishing'st meats 
Lito diseases, so shall I, distemper'd. 
Do thee : I pray thee, draw no nearer to me. 

Pan. Sir, this is that I would : I am of late 
Shut from the world, and why it should be thus 
Is all I wish to know. 

Jiib. Why, credit me, 
Panthea, credit me, that am thy brother, 
Thy loving brother, that there is a cause 
Sufficient, yet unfit for thee to know. 
That might undo thee everlastingly, 
Only to hear. Wilt thou but credit this? 
By heaven, 'tis true : believe it, if thou canst. 

Pan. Children and fools are very credulous. 
And I am both, I think, for I believe. 
If you dissemble, be it on your head ! 
I'll oack unto my prison. Yet methinks, 
1 might be kept in some place where you are ; 
For in myself, I find, I know not what 
'i'o call it, but it is a great desire 
To see you often. 



Arb. Fy, you come in a step; what do you 
Dear sister, do not so ! Alas, Panthea, [mean 1 
Where I am would you be 1 why, that's the cause 
You are imprison'd, that you may not be 
Where I am. 

Pan. Then I must endure it, sir. 
Heaven keep you ! [Panthea : 

Arb. Nay, you shall hear the cause in short. 
And when thou hear'st it, thou wilt blush for me. 
And hang thy head down like a violet 
Full of the morning's dew. There is a way 
To gain thy freedom ; but 'tis such a one 
As puts thee in worse bondage, and I know 
Thou wouldst encounter fire, and make a proof 
Whether the gods have care of innocence. 
Rather than follow it : Know, that I have lost, 
The only difference betwixt man and beast. 
My reason. 

Pan. Heaven forbid ! 

Alb. Nay, it is gone ; 
And I am left as far without a bound 
As the wild ocean that obeys the winds; 
Each sudden passion throws me where it lists, 
And overwhelms all that oppose my will. 
I have beheld thee with a lustful eye : 
My heart is set on wickedness, to act 
Such sins with thee, as I have been afraid 
To think of. If thou dar'st consent to this, 
Which, I beseech thee, do not, thou may'st gain 
Thy liberty, and yield me a content; 
ff not, thy dwelling must be dark and close. 
Where I may never see tiiee : for Heaven knows, 
That laid this punishment upon my pride. 
Thy sight at some time will enforce my madness 
To make a start e'en to thy ravishing. 
Now spit upon me, and call all reproaches 
Thou canst devise together, and at once 
Hurl 'em against me ; for I am a sickness 
As killing as the plague, ready to seize thee. 

Pan. Far be it from me to revile the king ! 
But it is true, that I shall rather choose 
To search out death, that else would search out me, 
And in a grave sleep with my innocence. 
Than welcome such a sin. It is my fate ; 
To these cross accidents I was ordain'd. 
And must have patience ; and, but that my eyes 
Have more of woman in 'em than my heart, 
I would not weep. Peace enter you again ! 

Arb. Feirewcll; and, good Pantliea, pray for me 
(Thy prayers are pure) that I may find a death. 
However soon, before my passions grow. 
That they forget what I desire is sin ; 
For thither they are tending : if that happen. 
Then I shall force thee, though thou wert a virgin 
By vow to Heaven, and shall pull a heap 
Of strange, yet uninvented, sm upon me. 

Pan. Sir, I will pray for you ! yet you shall know 
It is a sullen fate that governs us : 
For I could wish, as heartily as you, 
I were no sister to you ; I should then 
Embrace your lawful love, sooner than health. 

Arb. Couldst thou affect me then ? 

Pan. So perfectly. 
That, as it is, I ne'er shall sway my heart 
To like another. 



SIR JOHN DAVIES. 



101 



Jlrb. Then I curse my birth ! 
Must this be added to my miseries, 
That thou art wilUng too 1 Is there no stop 
To our full happiness, but these mere sounds, 
Brother and sister ? 

Van, There is nothing else : 
But these, alas ! will separate us more 
Than twenty worlds betwixt us. 

Arb. I have lived 
To conquer men, and now am overthrown 
Only by words, brother and sister. Where 
Have those words dwelling ? I will find 'em out, 
And utterly destroy 'em ; but they are 
Not to be grasp'd : let them be men or beasts. 
And I will cut 'em from the earth ; or towns. 
And I will raze 'em, and then blow 'em up : 
Let 'em be seas, and I will drink 'em off, 
And yet have unquench'd fire left in my breast: 
Let 'em be any thing but merely voice. 

Pan. But 'tis not in the power of any force. 
Or policy, to conquer them. 

Arb. Pantliea, 
What shall we do \ Shall we stand firmly here. 
And gaze our eyes out 1 

Pan. 'Would I could do so! 
But I shall weep out mine. 

Arb. Accursed man. 
Thou bought'st thy reason at too dear a rate ; 
For thou hast all thy actions bounded in 
With curious rules, when every beast is free : 
What is there that acknowledges a kindred, 
But wretched man 1 Who ever saw the bull 
Fearfully leave the heifer that he liked. 
Because they had one dam 1 



Pan. Sir, I disturb you 
And myself too ; 'twere better I were gone. 

Arb. I will not be so foolish as I was ; 
Stay, we will love just as becomes our births. 
No otherwise : brothers and sisters may 
Walk hand and hand together ; so shall wa 
Come nearer : Is there any hurt in this ! 

Pan. I hope not. 

Alb. 'Faith, there is none at all*: 
And tell me truly now, is there not one 
You love above me ] 

Pan. No, by Heaven. 

Arb. Why, yet 
You sent unto Tigranes, sister. 

Pan. True, 
But for another : for the truth 

Arb. No more, 
I'll credit thee ; I know thou canst not lie. 
Thou art all truth. 

Pan. But is there nothing else. 
That we may do, but only walk ] Methinks, 
Brothers and sisters lawfully may kiss. 

Arb. And so they may, Panthea ; so will we ; 
And kiss again too ; we were too scrupulous 
And foolish, but we will be so no more. 

Pan. If you have any mercy, let me go 
To prison, to my death, to any thing : 
I feel a sin growing upon my blood, 
Worse than all these, hotter, I fear, than yours. 

Arb. That is impossible : what should we do '' 

Pan. Fly, sir, for Heaven's sake. 

Arb. So we must ; away ! 
Sin grows upon us more by this delay. 

[Exeunt several ways. 



SIR JOHN 

[Born, 1570. 

Sir. John Davies wrote, at twenty-five years 
of age, a poem on the immortality of the soul; 
and at fifty-two, when he was a judge and a 
statesman, another on " Oie art of dancing."* 
Well might the teacher of that noble accomplish- 
ment, in i^Ioliere's comedy exclaim. La phdosophie 
est qitelque chose — mais la danse ! 

Sir John was the son of a practising lawyer at 
Tisbury, in Wiltshire. He was expelled from the 
Temple for beating Richard Martin,t who was 
afterwards recorder of London ; but his talents 
redeemed the disgrace. He was restored to the 
Temple, and elected to parliament, where, although 
he had flattered Queen Elizabeth in his poetry, he 
distinguished himself by supporting the privileges 
of the house, and by opposing royal monopolies. 
On the accession of King James he went to Scot- 
land with Lord Hunsdon, and was received by 
the new sovereign with flattering cordiality, as 
author of the poem Nosce Teipsum. In Ireland 



* [This is not the case; the " Poeme of Dauncing" ap- 
peared in 1596, in his twenty-sixlh year, and, curious 
enous;h. with a deilicatory sonnet '-To his very Friend, 
Ma. Uich. Martin." A copy, supposed unique, is in the 
Bridgewater Library. The pnem was tlie work of fiftwrn 
days. — S^e Collier's BHliographie(d Cululoyue, p. 93. The 
poet wrote his name D.ijys. — C.j 



DAVIES. 

Died, 1626.] 

he was successively nominated solicitor and attor- 
ney-general, was knighted, and chosen speaker 
of the Irish House of Commons, in opposition to 
the Catholic interest. Two works which he pub- 
lished as the fruits of his observation in that king- 
dom, have attached considerable importance to his 
name in the legal and political history of Ireland.J 
On his return to England he sat in parliament for 
Newcastle-under-Lyne, and had assurances of 
being appointed chief justice of England, when 
his death was suddenly occasioned by apoplexy. 
He married, while in Ireland, Eleanor, a daughter 
of Lord Audley, by whom he had a daughter, 
who was married to Ferdinand Lord Hastings, 
afterwards Earl of Huntingdon. Sir John's 
widow turned out an enthusiast and a prophet- 
ess. A volume of her ravings was published 
in 1649, for which the revolutionary government 
sent her to the Tower, and to Bethlehem Hos 
pital. 

•}■ A respectable man, to whom Ben Jonson dedicated 
his Poetaster. 

X The worl<8 are " A DiscoTery of the Causes why Ire 
land was never subdued till the beginning of his Majesty's 
•Heign." and "Reports of Cases adjudged in the King's 
Courts in Ireland." 

02 



162 



SIR JOHN DAVIES. 



THE VANITY OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. 

FROM "NOSCE TEIPSUM," OR A POEM OX THE IMMORTAUTT 
OF THE SOUL. 

Why did my parents send me to the schools, 
That I with knowledge might enrich my mind 1 
Since the desire to know first made men fools, 
And did corrupt the root of all mankind 

What is this knowledge but the sky-stol'n fire, 
For which the thief* still chain'd in ice doth sit] 
And which the poor rude satyr did admire, 
And needs would kiss, but burnt his lips with it. . . 

In fine, what is it but the fiery coach 

Which the youthf sought, and sought his death 

withal. 
Or the boy's wingsj which, when he did approach 
The sun's hot beams, did melt and let him fall] 

And yet, alas ! when all our lamps are burn'd, 
Our bodies wasted and our spirits spent ; 
When we have all the learned volumes turn'd, 
Which yield men's wits both strength and orna- 
ment, 

M^hat can we know, or what can we discern, 
When error chokes the windows of the mind ] 
The divers forms of things how can we learn. 
That have been ever from our birth-day blind ] 

When reason's lamp, that, like the sun in sk}^ 
Throughout man's little world her beams did spread, 
Is now become a sparkle, which doth lie 
Under the ashes, half extinct and dead. 

How can we hope, that through the eye and ear 
This dying sparkle, in this cloudy space. 
Can recollect these beams of knowledge clear. 
Which were infused in the first minds by grace ] 
So might the heir whose father hath in play 
Wasted a thousand pounds of ancient rent. 
By painful earning of one groat a day 
Hope to restore the patrimony spent. 

The wits that dived most deep and soar'd most high. 
Seeking man's powers, have found his weakness 

such ; 
Skill comes so slow, and time so fast doth fly, 
We learn so little and forget so much. 

For this the wisest of all moral men 
Said, " he knew nought but that he did not know." 
And the great mocking master mock'd not then, 
When he said " Trutli was buried deep below." . . . 

As spiders, touch'd, seek their web's inmost part; 
A.3 bees, in storms, back to their hives return ; 
A.S blood in danger gathers to the heart; 
As men seek towns when foes the country burn : 

If aught can teach us aught, aflihction's looks 
(Making us pry into ourselves so near) 
Teach us to know ourselves beyond all books. 
Or all the learned schools that ever were 

She within lists my ranging mind hath brought, 
That now beyond myself I will not go : 
Myself am centre of my circling thought : 
Only myself I study, learn, and know. 



Prometheus. 



t Phaeton. 



t Icarus. 



I know my body's of so frail a kind, 
As force without, fevers within can kill ; 
I know the heavenly nature of my mind, 
But 'tis corrupted both in wit and will. 

I know my soul hath power to know all things. 
Yet is she blind and ignorant in all ; 
I know I'm one of nature's little kings. 
Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall. 
I know my life's a pain, and but a span ; 
I know my sense is mock'd in every thing : 
And, to conclude, I know myself a man. 
Which is a proud and yet a wretched thing. . . . 

We seek to know the moving of each sphere. 
And the strange cause of th' ebbs and floods of Nile ; 
But of that clock within our breasts we bear, 
The subtle motions we forget the while. 

For this few know themselves ; for merchants broke 
View their estate with discontent and pain ; 
And seas are troubled, when they do revoke 
Their flowing waves into themselves again. 

And while the face of outward things we find 

Pleasing and fair, agreeable and sweet. 

These tilings transport and carry out the mind, 

That with herself the mind can never meet. 

Yet if affliction once her wars begin. 

And threat the feebler sense with sword and fire, 

The mind contracts herself and shrinketh in, 

And to herself she gladly doth retire. 



REASONS FOR THE SOCL'S HIMORTALITY. 
Again, how can she but immortal be, 
When, with the motions of both will and wit, 
She still aspireth to eternity, 
And never rests till she attain to it ] ... . 

All moving things to other things do move 
Of the same kind, which shows their nature such 
So earth falls down, and fire doth mount above. 
Till both their proper elements do touch. 

And as the moisture which the thirsty earth 
Sucks from the sea to fill her empty veins, 
From out her womb at last doth take a birth, 
And runs a lymph along the grassy plains. 

Long doth she stay, as loth to leave the land 
From whose soft side she first did issue make ; 
She tastes all places, turns to every hand, 
Her flowery banks unwilling to forsake. 

Yet nature so her streams doth lead and carry, 
As that her course doth make no final stay. 
Till she herself unto the sea doth marry, 
Within whose wat'ry bosom first she lay. 

E'en so the soul, which, in this earthly mould. 
The spirit of God doth secretly infuse, 
Because at first she doth the earth behold. 
And only this material world she views. 

At first her mother earth she holdeth deai, 
And doth embrace the world and worldly things 
She flies close by the ground, and hovers here, 
And mounts not up with her celestial wings: 



SIR JOHN DAVIES. 



1G3 



Yet under heaven she cannot light on aught 
That with her heavenly nature doth agree ; 
She cannot rest, she cannot fix her thought, 
She cannot in this world contented be. 

For who did ever yet, in honour, wealth, 
Or pleasure of the sense, contentment find ? 
Who ever ceased to'wish, when he had health, 
Or, having wisdom, was not vex'd in mind 1 

Then, as a bee which among weeds doth fall, 
Which seem sweet flowers, with lustre fresh 

and gay, 
She lights on that, and this, and tasteth all. 
But, pleased with none, doth rise and soar away. 

So, when the soul finds here no true content. 
And, like Noah's dove, can no sure footing take, 
She doth return from whence she first was sent. 
And flies to him that first her wings did make. . . . 

Doubtless, all souls have a surviving thought. 
Therefore of death we think with quiet mind ; 
But if we think of being turned to nought, 
A trembliaig horror in our souls we find. 



IN WHAT MANNER THE SOUL IS UNITED TO 
THE BODY. 

But how shall we this union well express ? 
Nought ties the soul, her subtlety is such, 
She moves the body which she doth possess, 
Yet no part toucheth but by virtue's touch. 

Then dwells she not therein as in a tent, 
Nor as a pilot in his ship doth sit. 
Nor as the spider in his web is pent, 
Nor as the wax retains the print in it. 

Nor as a vessel water doth contain, 

Nor as one liquor in another shed. 

Nor as the heat doth in the fire remain, 

Nor as the voice throughout the air is spread ; 

But as the fair and cheerful morning light 
Doth here and there her silver beams impart, < 
And in an instant doth herself unite 
To the transparent air, in all and every part. . . , 

So doth the piercing soul the body fill. 
Being all in all, and all in part difiused ; 
Indivisible, incorruptible still. 
Not forced, encounter'd, troubled, nor confused. 

And as the sun above the light doth bring, 
Though we behold it in the air below, 
So from the Eternal light the soul doth spring. 
Though in the body she her powers do show. 



TUAT THE sour. IS MORE THAN THE TEMPERA- 
TURE OF THE HUMOURS OF THE BODY. 
If she doth, then, the subtle sense excel. 
How gross are they that drown her in the blood 
Or in the body's humours temper'd well ? 
As if in them such high perfection stood. 

As if most skill in that musician were. 
Which had the best, and best tuned, instrument ; 
As if the pencil neat, and colours clear. 
Had power to make the painter excellent. 

Why doth not beauty, then, refine the wit, 
And good complexion rectify the will 1 
Why doth not health bring wisdom still with it ! 
Why doth not sickness make men brutish still ! 

Who can in memory, or wit, or will, 
Or air, or fire, or earth, or water, find ; 
What alchymist can draw, with all his skill. 
The quintessences of these from out the mindl 

If th' elements, which have nor life nor sense, 
Can breed in us so great a power as this. 
Why give they not themselves like excellence, 
Or other things wherein their mixture is? 

If she were but the body's quality, 
Then we should be with it sick, maim'd, and blind 
But we perceive, where these privations be. 
An healthy, perfect, and sharp-sighted mind. . 



THAT THE SOUL IS MORE THAN A PERFECTION 

OR REFLEXION OF THE SENSE. 
Are they not senseless, then, that think the soul 
Nought but a fine perfection of the sense. 
Or of the forms which fancy doth enrol, 
A quick resulting and a consequence] 
M'hat is it, then, that doth the sense accuse 
Both of false judgments and fond appetites 1 
"What makes us do what sense doth most refuse 
Which oft in torment of the sense delights ? . 
Could any powers of sense the Roman move. 
To burn his own right hand with courage stout 1 
Could sense make Marius sit unbound, and prove 
The cruel lancing of the knotty gout ] . . . . 

Sense outsides knows — the soul through all things 

sees; 
Sense, circumstance ; she doth the substance view . 
Sense sees the bark, but she the life of trees ; 
Sense hears the sounds, but she the concord true. . 

Then is the soul a nature which contains 
The power of sense within a greater power, 
Which doth employ and use the sense's pains, 
But sits and rules within her jirivate bower. 



THOxMAS GOFFE. 

[Born, 1592. Died, 1627.] 



This writer lerl four or five dramatic pieces, of 
very ordinary merit. He was bred at Christ's 
Church, Oxford. He held the living of East 
Clandon in Surrey, but unfortunately succeeded 
not only to the living, but to the widow of his 



predecessor, who, being a Xantippe, contributed, 
according to Langbaine, to shorten his days l)y 
the " viokme of her provoking tongve." He had 
the reputation of an eloquent preacher, and some 
of his sermons appeared in print. 



SCENE FROM GOFFE'S TRAGEDY OF " AMUKATH, 

OR THE COURAGEOUS TURK." 
Alahin, hu.sband to the daughter of Amurath, having 

rebelled against his father-iu-law, is brought captive 

before him. 
£nier at one donr, Amurath, with Attendants ; at the other 

dorrr, Aladin, his W ife, two Children, in white, — they kneel 

to Amurath. 

^nmr. Our hate must not part thus. I'll tell 
thee, prince. 
That thou hast kindled .(Etna in our breast ! 
And such a flame is quench'd with nought but 

blood — 
His blood whose hasty and rebellious blast 
Gave life unto the fire ! . . . . [hide 

Jllacl. Why then, I'll, like the Roman Pompey, 
My dying sight, scorning imperious looks 
Should grace so base a stroke with sad aspect. 
Thus will I muffle up, and choke my groans, 
Lest a grieved tear should quite put out the name 
Of lasting courage in Carmania's fame ! 

Amur. What, still stifl-neck'd 1 Is this the 
truce you beg 1 
Sprinkled before thy face, those rebel brats 
Shall have their brains — 'and their dissected limbs 
Hurl'd for a prey to kites ! — for, lords, 'tis fit 
No spark of such a mountain-threatening fire 
Be left as unextinct, lest it devour. 
And prove more hot unto the Turkish Empery 
Than the Promethean blaze did trouble Jove ! — 
First sacrifice those brats ! 

JilatL Wife. Dear father, let thy fury rush on me ! 
M^ithin these entrails sheath thine insate sword ! 
And let this ominous and too fruitful womb 
Be torn in sunder ! for from thence those babes 
Took all their crimes; error (hath) made them 

guilty — 
'Twas nature's fault, not theirs. if affection 
Can work then ! — now show a true father's love: 
If not. appease those murdering thoughts with me ; 
For as Jocasta pleaded with her sons 
For their dear father, so to a father I [father ! — 
For my dear babes and husband — husband ! — 
W hich shall I first embrace ] Victorious father ! 
Be blunt those now sharp thoughts ; lay down 

those threats ; 
Unclasp that impious helmet ; fix to earth 
That monumental spear — look on thy child 
With pardoning looks, not with a warrior's eye, 
Else shall my breast cover my husband's breast, 
And serve as buckler to receive thy wound.s^ — 
Why dost thou doubt] — I'ear'st thou thy daugh- 
ter's faith 1 
Amur. I fear ; for after daughter's perjury, 
k\\ laws of nature shall distasteful be, 
No' will I trust thy children or thyself. 



jjlad. Wife 

let me kiss, kind father ! first the earth 
Onwhich you tread,then kiss mine husband's cheek. 
Great king, embrace those babes — you are the stock 
On which these grafts were planted [of sap, 

Amur. True ; and when sprouts do rob the tree 
They must be pruned. [similitudes. 

Alad. Wife. Dear father ! leave such harsh 
By my deceased mother, to whose womb 

1 was a ten months' burden — by yourself, 
To whom I was a pleasing infant once. 
Pity my husband and these tender infants ! 

Amur. Yes; to have them collect a manlystrength, 
And their first lesson that their dad shall teach them, 
Shall be to read my misery, [shows 

Alud. Stern conqueror ! but that thy daughter 
There once dwelt good in that olidurate breast, 
I would not spend a tear to soften thee. 
Thou see'st my countries turn'd into a grave ! 
My cities scare the sun with fiercer flames. 
Which turn them into ashes! — 'all myself 
So sleckt and carved, that my amazed blood 
Knows not through which wound first to take its 
If not on me, have mercy on my babes, [way ! 
Which with thy mercy thou may'st turn to love. 

Amur. No, Sir, we must root out malicious seed; 
Nothing sprouts faster than an envious weed. 
We see a little bullock 'mongst an herd. 
Whose horns are yet scarce crept from out his front, 
Grows on a sudden tall, and in the fields 
Frolics so much, he makes his father yield, 
A little twig left budding on an elm, 
Ungratefully bars his mother's sightfrom heaven — 
I love not future Aladins. 

Alad. Wife 

Alas, these infants ! — these weak-sinew'd hands 

Can be no terror to these Hector's arms. 

Beg, infants — beg, and teach these tender joints 

To ask for mercy — learn your lisping tongues 

To give due accent to each syllable ; 

Nothing that fortune urgeth to is base. 

Put from your thoughts all memory of descent ; 

Forget the princely titles of your father. 

If your own misery you can feel, 

Thus learn of me to weep — of me to kneel 

\st Chilli. Good grandsire, see — see how my father 

cries ! [ter prays. 

Wife. Good father, hear — hear how thy daugli- 

Thou that know'st how to use stern warrior's arms, 

Learn how to use mild warrior's pity too 

Amur. Rise, my dear child ! as marble against 
So I at these obedient showers melt. [rain. 

Thus I do raise thy husband — thus thy babes. 

Freely admitting you to former state 

Be thou our son and friend. 



SIR FULKE CxREVILLE, 

[Born, 1554. Died, 1628.] 



Who ordered this inscription for his own grave : 
" Servant to Queen Elizabeth, counsellor to King 
James, and friend to Sir Philip Sydney ;" was 
created knight of the bath at James's coronation, 



afterwards appointed sub- treasurer, chancellor of 
the exchequer, and made a peer, by the title of 
Baron Brooke, in 1621. He died by the stab of 
a revengeful servant, in 1628. 



STANZAS FROM HIS "TRKATISE ON HUMAN 
LEARNING." 
KNOWLEDGE. 

A CLIMBING height it is, without a head, 
Depth without bottom, way without an end ; 
A circle with no line environed. 
Not comprehended, all it comprehends ; 
Worth infinite, yet satisfies no mind 
Till it that infinite of the Godhead find. 
For our defects in nature who sees not ] 
We enter first, things pieseul not conceiving, 
Not knowing future, what is past forgot ; 
All other creatures instant power receiving 
To help themselves: man only bringeth sense 
To teel and wail his native impotence. 

IMAGINATION. 

Knowledge's next organ is imagination, 
A glass wherein the object of our sense 
Ought to respect true height or declination. 
For understanding's clear intelligence ; 
But this power also hath her variation 
Fixed in some, in some with diflerence — 
In all so shadow'd with self-application, 
As makes her pictures still too foul or fair, 
Not like the life in lineament or air 

REASON. 

The last chief oracle of what man knows 
Is understanding, which, though it contain 
Some ruinous notions which our nature shows 
Of general truths, yet they have such a stain 
From our corruption, as all light they lose ; 
Save to convince of ignorance or sin, 
Which, where they reign, let no perfection in. . . . 
Nor in a right line can her eyes ascend. 
To view the things that immaterial are ; 
For as the sun doth, while his beams descend. 
Lighten the earth but shjdow every star, 
So reason, stooping to attend the sense. 
Darkens the spirit's clear intelligence 



INSUFFICIEKCY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

Then what is our high-praised philosophy, 
But books of poesy in prose compiled, 
Far more delightful than they fruitful be, 
W itty appearance, guile that is beguiled ; 
Corrupting minds much rather than directing, 
Th' allay of duty, and our pride's erecting. 

For, as among physicians, what they call 
Word magic, never helpeth the disease 
Which drugs and diet ought to deal withal. 
And by their real working give us ease; 
So these word-sellers have no power to cure 
The passions which corrupted lives endure. 

SONNET 

FROM LORD BROOKE'S CAEUCA. 

Merlin, they say, an English prophet born. 
When he was young, and govern'd by his mother. 
Took great delight to laugh such fools to scorn, 
As thought by nature we might know a brother. 
His moiher chid him oft, till on a day 
They stood and saw a corpse to burial carried: 
The father tears his beard, doth weep and pray, 
The mother was the woman he had married. 
Merlin laughs out aloud, instead of crying ; 
His mother chides h'lm lor that childish fashion, 
Says men must mourn the dead, themselves are 

dying ; 
Good manners doth make answer unto passion. 
The child (for children see what should be hidden") 
Replies unto his mother by and by : 
Motlier, if you did know, and were forbidden. 
Yet you would laugh as heartily as I. 
This man no part hath in the child he sorrows. 
His father was the monk, that sings before him : 
See then how nature of adoption borrows. 
Truth covets in me that I should restore him. 



SIR JOHN BEAUMONT. 

(Born, ISS2. Died l(>2ti.] 

Sir John Beaumont, brother of the celebrated 
dramatic poet, was born at Grace Dieu, the seat 
of the family in Leicestershire. He studied at 
Oxford, and at the inns of court; but, forsaking 
the law, married and retired to his native seat. 
Two years before his death he was knighted by 
Charles the First. 

He wrote the Crown of Thorns, a poem, of 



[* "I'll.' (•ouiinendation of improving the rliylhm of tlie 
couplet is due also to t>ir Jolm Heauuioiit, luitlior of a 
pliort poem on I lie llaitle of Uoswoi'lh Kield. In otiier 
respects it lias no pretensions to a IiihIi riiiik. '— UaLLAM's 
Lit. nut., vol. lii. p. 4y9. Tbe poem, tliougU a postbu- 



which no copy is known to be extant ; Bosworth 
Field ; and a variety of small original and trans- 
lated pieces. Bosworth Field may be compared 
with Addison's Campaign, without a high compli- 
ment to either. Sir John has no fancy, but there 
is force and dignity in some of his passages ; and 
he deserves notice as one of the earliest polishers 
of what is called the heroic couplet.* 



mous publication, was not without its prefatory commei 

dations: 

This book will live ; it hath a genius; this 

Above his reader, or his praiser, is — Be.v Jonson.— C, 



MICHAEL DRAYTON. 



RICHARD BEFORE THE BATTLE OF P.OSWORTH. 

The duke's stout presence, and courageous looks, 

Were to the king as falls of sliding brooks ; 

Which bring a gentle and delightful rest 

To weary eyes, with grievous care opprest. 

He bids that Norfolk, and his hopeful son, 

Whose rising fame in arms this day begun, 

Should lead the vanguard — for so great command 

He dares not trust in any other hand — 

The rest he to his own advice refers, 

And as the spirit in that body stirs. 

Then, putting on his crown, a fatal sign ! 

So offer'd beasts near death in garlands shine — 

He rides about the ranks, and strives t' inspire 

Each breast with part of his unwearied fire. 

* * " My fellow soldiers ! though your swords 

Are sharp, and need not whetting by my words, 

Yet call to mind the many glorious days 

[n which we treasured up immortal praise. 

[f. when I served, I ever fled from foe. 

Fly ve from mine — let me be punish'd so ! 



But if my father, when at first he tried 
How all his sons could shining blades abide, 
Found me an eagle whose undazzled eyes 
Affront the beams that from the steel arise, 
And if I now in action teach the same, 
Know then, ye have but changed your general's 

name. 
Be still yourselves ! Ye fight against the dross 
Of those who oft have run from you with loss. 
How many Somersets (dissension's brands) 
Have felt the force of our revengeful hands 1 — • 
From whom this youth, as from a princely flood, 
Derives his best, but not untainted blood — 
Have our assaults made Lancaster to droop 1 
And shall this Welshman, with his ragged troop, 
Subdue the Norman and the Saxon line, 
That only Merlin may be thought divine 1 — 
See what a guide these fugitives have chose ! 
Who, bred among the French, our ancient foes. 
Forgets the English language and the ground. 
And knows not what our drums and trumpets 

sound !" 



MICHAEL DRAYTON. 



[Born, 1570? Died, 1631.] 



Michael Drayton was born in the parish of 
Atherston, in Warwickshire. His family was 
ancient, but it is not probable that his parents 
were opulent, for he was educated chiefly at the 
expense of Sir Godfrey Godere. In his childhood, 
which displayed remarkable proficiency, he was 
anxious to know what strange kind of beings 
poets were, and on his coming to college he im- 
portuned his tutor, if possible, to make him a poet. 
Either from this ambition, or from necessity, he 
seems to have adopted no profession, and to have 
generally owed his subsistence to the munificence 
of friends. An allusion which he makes, in the 
poem of " Moses's Birth and Miracles," to the 
destruction of the Spanish Armada, has been con- 
tinually alleged as a ground for supposing that he 
witnessed that spectacle in a military capacity ; 
but the lines, in fact, are far from proving that he 
witnessed it at all. On the accession of King 
James the First, he paid his court to the new 
sovereign, with all that a poet could ofler, his 
congratulatory verses. James, however, received 
him but coldly, and though he was patronized by 
Lord Buckhurst and the Earl of Dorset,* he ob- 
tained no situation of independence, but continued 
to publish his voluminous poetry amidst severe 
irritations with his booksellers, "f Popular as 
Drayton once was in comparison of the present 
neglect of him, it is difficult to conceive that his 
works were ever so profitable as to allow the 
bookseller much room for peculation. He was 
known as a poet many years before the death of 
Queen Elizabeth. His Poly-olbion, which the 

[* Lord Buckhurst and the Earl of Dorset, — th« poet and 
lord high treasurer, — are one and the same person. — C] 

[t He received a yearly pension of ten pounds fi-om 
Prince Henry, to whom he dedicated his Poly-olbion. — C.J 



learned Selden honoured with notes, did not 
appear till 1613. In 1626 we find him styled 
poet laureate ; but the title at that time was often 
a mere compliment, and implied neither royal ap- 
pointment nor butt of canary. The Countess of 
Bedford supported him for many years. At the 
close of his life we find him in the family of the 
Earl of Dorset, to whose magnanimous countess 
the Aubrey MSS. ascribe the poet's monument 
over his grave in Westminster Abbey. 

The language of Drayton is free and perspi- 
cuous. With less depth of feeling than that 
which occasionally bursts from Cowley, he is a 
less excruciating hunter of conceits, and in har- 
mony of expression is quite a contrast to Donne. 
A tinge of grace and romance pervades much bf 
his poetry : and even his pastorals, which exhibit 
the most fantastic views of nature, sparkle with 
elegant imagery. The Nymphidia is in his hap- 
piest characteristic manner of airy and sportive 
pageantry. In some historic sketches of the 
Barons' Wars he reaches a manner beyond him- 
self — the pictures of Mortimer and the Queen, 
and of Edward's entrance to the castle, are 
splendid and spirited. In his Poly-olbion, or 
description of Great Britain, he has treated the 
subject with such topographical and minute detail 
as to chain his poetry to the map ; and he has 
unfortunately chosen a form of verse which, 
though agreeable when interspersed with other 
measures, is fatiguing in long continuance by 
itself: still it is impossible to read the poem with- 
out admiring the richness of his local associations, 
and the beauty and variety of the fabulous allu- 
sions which he scatters around him. Such, in- 
deed is the profusion of romantic recollections in 
the Poly-olbion, that a poet of taste and selection 



MICHAEL DRAYTON. 



167 



might there find subjects of happy description, to 
which the author who suggested them had not 
the power of doing justice; for Drayton started so 
many remembrances, that he lost his inspiration 
in the etibrt of memory. In the Barons' Wars, 
excepting the passages already noticed, where the 

Purpureus late qui splendeat unus ei alter, 
Assudur pann us, 

we unhappily exchange only the geographer for 
the chronicler. On a general survey, the mass 
of his poetry has no strength or sustaining spirit 
adequate to its bulk. There is a perpetual play 



of fancy on its surface ; but the impulses of pas- 
sion, and the guidance of judgment give it no 
strong movements nor consistent course. In 
scenery or in history he cannot command selected 
views, but meets them by chance as he travels 
over the track of detail. His great subjects have 
no interesting centre, no shade for uninteresting 
things. Not to speak of his dull passages, his 
description is generally lost in a flutter of whim- 
sical touches. His muse has certainly no strength 
for extensive flights, though she sports in happy 
moments on a brilliant and graceful wing.* 



MORTIMER, EARL OF MARCH, AND TIIK QUEEN, 
SURPRISED BY EDWARD III. IN NOTTINGHAM 
CASTLE. 

FROM "THE barons' WARS," BOOK VI. 

Within the castle hath the queen devised 
A chamber with choice rarities so fraught, 
As in the same she had imparadised 
Almost what man by industry hath sought ; 
Where with the curious pencil was comprised 
What could with colours by the art be wrought, 
In the most sure place of the castle there, 
Which she had named the Tower of Mortimer. 

An orbal form with pillars small composed. 
Which to the top like parallels do bear, 
Arching the compass where they were enclosed, 
Fashioning the fair roof like the hemisphere, 
In whose partitions by the hnes disposed, 
All the clear northern asterisms were 

In their corporeal shapes with stars inchased. 
As by th' old poets they in heaven were placed. 

About which lodgings, tow'rds the upper face, 
Ran a fine bordure circularly led, 
As equal 'twixt the high'st point and the ba.se, 
That as a zone the waist engirdled. 
That lends the sight a breathing, or a space, 
'Twixt things near view and those far over head. 
Under the which the painter's curious skill 
In lively forms the goodly room did fill. 

Here Phoebus clipping Hyacinthus stood. 
Whose life's last drops his snowy breast imbrue. 
The one's tears mixed with the other's blood. 
That should't be blood or tears no sight could view. 
So mix'd together in a little flood ; 
k'et here and there they sev'rally withdrew. 
The pretty wood-nymphs charting him with balm. 
To bring the sweet boy from his deadly qualm. 

With the god's lyre, his quiver, and his bow, 
His golden mantle cast upon the ground, 
T' express whose grief Art ev'n her best did show. 
The sledge so shadow'd still seem'd to rebound. 
To counterfeit the vigour of the blow. 
As still to give new anguish to the wound ; 
The purple flower sprung from the blood that run, 
That op'neth since and closeth with the sun. 



[* " Drayton's Poly-olbion is a poem of about oO.OOO lines 
in length, written hi Alexandrine couplets, a m'.'HSure, 
from its monotony, and perhaps from its fi-cc^uency in 
doggrel ballads, not at all pleasing to the oar. It con- 
'.ains a topographical description of Kngland, ilhistriitcd 
with a prodigality of historical and legendary erud.;iou 



By which the heifer lo, Jove's fair rape, 
Gazing her new-ta'en figure in a brook, 
The water shadow'd to observe the shape 
In the same form that she on it doth look. 
So cunningly to cloud the wanton 'scape, 
That gazing eyes the portraiture mistook. 
By perspective devised beholding now. 
This way a maiden, that way 't seem'd a cow. 

Swift Mercury, like to a shepherd's boy. 
Sporting with Hebe by a fountain brim. 
With many a sweet glance, many an am'rous toy, 
He sprinkling drops at her, and she at him ; 
Wherein the painter so explain'd their joy. 
As though his skill the perfect life could limn. 
Upon whose brows the water hung so clear, 
As through the drops the fair skin might appear. 
And ciffy Cynthus with a thousand birds, 
Whose freckled plumes adorn the bushy crown. 
Under whose shadow graze the straggling herds. 
Out of whose top the fresh springs trembling down. 
Dropping like fine pearl through his shaggy beards, 
With moss and climbing ivy over-grown ; 
The rock so lively done in every part, 
As nature could be patterned by Art. 

The naked nymphs, some up and down descending, 
Small scatt'ring flowers at one another flung. 
With nimble turns their limber bodies bending. 
Cropping the blooming branches lately sprung, 
(Upon the briars their colour'd mantles rending) 
Which on the rocks grew here and there among ; 
Some comb their hair, some making garlands by. 
As with delight might satisfy the eye. 
There comes proud Phaeton tumbling through the 

clouds. 
Cast by his palfreys that their reins had broke. 
And setting fire upon the welked shrouds. 
Now through the heaven run madding from the 

yoke. 
The elements together thrust in crowds. 
Both land and sea hid in a reeking smoke ; 
Drawn with such life, as some did much desire 
To warm themselves, some frighted with the fire. 
The river Po, that him receiving burn'd. 
His seven sisters standing in degrees, 

Such a poem is essentially designed to instruct, and speaks 
to the understanding more than to the fancy. The powers 
displayed in it are, however, of a high cast. Yet perhaps 
no English poem, known as well by name, is so little 
knowu beyond its name."— Hallam, Lit. Hist., vol. i\i 



168 



MICHAEL DRAYTON. 



Trees into women seeming to be turn'd, 
As the gods turn'd the women into trees, 
Both which at once so mutually that mpurn'd, 
Drops from their boughs, or tears fell from their eyes ; 
The fire seem'd to be water, water flame, 
Such excellence in showing of the same. 

And to this lodging did the light invent. 
That it should first a lateral course reflect. 
Through a short room into the window sent. 
Whence it should come expressively direct, 
Holding just distance to the lineament. 
And should the beams proportionably project, 
And being thereby condensated and grave, 
To every figure a sure colour gave. 

In part of which, under a golden vine, 
"Whose broad-leaved branches cov'ring over all. 
Stood a rich bed, spread with this wanton twine, 
Doubling themselves in their lascivious fall, 
AVhose rip'ned clusters seeming to decHne, 
Where, as among the naked Cupids sprawl 
Some at the sundry-colour'd birds do shoot, 
Some swarming up to pluck the purple fruit. 

On which a tissue counterpane was cast, 
Arachne's web the same did not surpass, 
Wherein the story of his fortunes past 
In lively pictures neatly handled was ; 
How he escaped the Tower, in France how graced, 
With stones embroider'd, of a wondrous mass ; 
About the border, in a curious fret, 
Emblems, impresas, hieroglyphics set. 
This flatt'ring sunshine had begot the shower. 
And the black clouds with such abundance fed, 
That for a wind they waited but the hour. 
With force to let their fury on his head: 
Which when it came, it came with such a power. 
As he could hardly have imagined. 

But when men think they most in safety stand^ 
Their greatest peril often is at hand. 

For to that largeness they increased were. 
That Edward felt March heavy on his throne. 
Whose props no longer both of them could bear ; 
Two for one seat, that over-great were grown, 
Prepost'rously that moved in one sphere, 
And to the like predominancy prone. 

That the young king down Mortimer must cast, 
If he himself would e'er hope to sit fast. 
Who finding the necessity was such. 
That urged him still th' assault to undertake, 
And yet his person it might nearly touch. 
Should he too soon his sleeping power awake : 
Th' attempt, wherein the danger was so much, 
Drove him at length a secret means to make. 
Whereby he might the enterprise effect. 
And hurt him most, where he did least suspect. 
Without the castle, in the earth is found 
A cave, resembling sleepy Morpheus' cell. 
In strange meanders winding under ground, 
Where darkness seeks continually to dwell. 
Which with such fear and horror doth abound, 
\s though it were an entrance into hell ; 
By architects to serve the castle made. 
When as the Danes this island did invade. 



Now on along the crankling path doth keep. 
Then by a rock turns up another way. 
Rising tow'rds day, then falling tow'rds the deep, 
On a smooth level then itself doth lay, 
Directly then, then obliquely doth creep. 
Nor in the course keeps any certain stay ; 
Till in the castle, in an odd by-place. 
It casts the foul mask from its dusky face. 
By which the king, with a selected crew 
Of such as he with his intent acquainted. 
Which he affected to the action knew. 
And in revenge of Edward had not fainted. 
That to their utmost would the cause pursue, 
And with those treasons that had not been tainted, 
Adventured the labyrinth t' assay. 
To rouse the beast which kept them all at bay. 
Long after Phoebus took his lab'ring team, 
To his pale sister and resign'd his place, 
To wash his cauples in the open stream, 
And cool the fervour of his glowing face ; 
And Phoebe, scanted of her brother's beam. 
Into the west went after him apace, 

Leaving black darkness to possess the sky, 
To fit the time of that black tragedy. 
What time by torch-light they attempt the cave, 
Which at their entrance seemed in a fright. 
With the reflection that their armour gave, 
As it till then had ne'er seen any light ; 
Which, striving there pre-eminence to have, 
Darkness therewith so daringly doth fight, 
That each confounding other, both appear. 
As darkness light, and light but darkness were. 
The craggy cliff's, which cross them as they go. 
Made as their passage they would have denied, 
And threat'ned them their journey to foreslow, 
As angry with the path that was their guide, 
And sadly seem'd their discontent to show 
To the vile hand that did them first divide; 

Whose cumbrous falls and risings seem'd to say, 
So ill an action could not brook the day. 

And by the lights as they along were led, 
Their shadows then them following at their back, 
Were like to mourners carrying forth their dead, 
Andas the deed, so were they, ugly, black. 
Or like to fiends that them had followed, 
Pricking them on to bloodshed and to wrack ; 
Whilst the light look'd as it had been amazed 
At their deformed shapes, whereon it gazed. 
The clatt'ring arms their masters seem'd to chide, 
As they would reason wherefore they should wound, 
And struck the cave in passing on each side. 
As they were angry with the hollow ground. 
That it an act so pitiless should hide : 
Whose stony roof lock'd in their angry sound. 
And hanging in the creeks, drew back again. 
As willing them from murder to refrain. 
The night wax'd old (not dreaming of these things) 
And to her chamber is the queen withdrawn. 
To whom a choice musician plays and sings. 
Whilst she sat under an estate of lawn. 
In night-attire more god-like glittering, 
Than any eye had seen the cheerful dawn, 



MICHAKL DRAVTON. 



169 



Leaning upon her most-loved Mortimer, 
Whose voice,more than the music,pleased her ear. 

Where her fair breasts at Hberty were let, 
Whose violet veins in branched riverets flow, 
And Venus' swans and milky doves were set 
Upon those swelling mounts of driven snow ; 
Whereon whilst Love to sport himself doth get, 
He lost his way, nor back again could go, 
But with those banks of beauty set about. 
He wander'd still, yet never could get out. 

Her loose hair look'd like gold (O word too base ! 
Nay, more than sin, but so to name her hair) 
Declining, as to kiss her fairer face. 
No word is fair enough for thing so fair, 
Nor ever was there epithet could grace 
That, by much praising which we much impair; 
And where the pen fails, jjencils cannot show it, 
Only the soul may be supposed to know it. 

She laid her fingers on his manly cheek, 
The gods' pure sceptres and the darts of Love, 
That with their touch might make a tiger meek, 
Or might great Atlas from his seat remove ; 
So white, so soft, so delicate, so sleek, 
As she had worn a lily for a glove ; 

As might beget life where was never none, 
And put a spirit into the hardest stone. 

The fire of precious wood; the light perfume, 
Which left a sweetness on each thing it shone, 
As every thing did to itself assume 
The scent from them, and made the same their own : 
So that the painted flowers within the room 
Were sweet, as if they naturally had grown ; 
The light gave colours, which upon them fell. 
And to the colours the perfume gave smell. 

When on those sundry pictures they devise. 
And from one piece they to another run, 
Commend that face, that arm, that hand, those eyes; 
Show how that bird, how well that flower was done ; 
How this part shadow'd, and how that did rise, — 
This top was clouded, how that trail was spun, — ■ 
The landscape, mixture, and delineatings, 
And in that art a thousand curious things : 

liooking upon proud Phaeton wrapt in fire, 
The gentle queen did much bewail his fall ; 
But Mortimer commended his desire. 
To lose one poor life, or to govern all : 
" What though (quoth he) he madly did aspire, 
And his great mind made him proud Fortune's 
thrall ! 
Yet in despight, when she her worst had done, 
He perish'd in the chariot of the sun." 

" Phoebus (she said) was over-forced by art ; 
Nor could she find how that embrace could be." 
But Mortimer then took the painter's part: 
" Why thus, bright empress, thus and thus, (quoth 

he:) 
•That hand doth hold his back, and this his heart ; 
Thus their arms twine, and thus their lips, you see : 

Now are you Phcebus, Hyacinthus I ; 

It were a life, thus every hour to die." 
22 



When, by that time, into the castle-hall 
Was rudely enter'd that well-armed rout, 
And tjiey within suspecting nought at all, 
Had then no guard to watch for them without. 
See how mischances suddenly do fall, 
And steal upon us, being farth'st from doubt ! 
Our life's uncertain, and our death is sure, 
And tow'rds most peril man is most secure. 

Whilst youthful Nevil and brave Turrington, 
To the bright queen that ever waited near. 
Two with great March much credit that had won 
That in the lobby with the ladies were. 
Staying delight, whilst time away did run. 
With such discourse as women love to hear 
Charged on the sudden by the armed train, 
Were at their entrance miserably slain. 

When, as from snow-crown'd Skidow's lofty cliflTs, 
Some fleet-wing'd haggard, tow'rds her preying 

hour, 
Amongst the teal and moor-bred mallard drives. 
And th' air of all her feather'd flock doth scow'r, 
Whilst to regain her former height she strives, 
The fearful fowl all prostrate to her power : 
Such a sharp shriek did ring throughout the vault, 
Made by the women at the fierce assault. 



NYMPIIIDIA, THE COURT OF FAIRY. 

Old Chaucer doth of Topas tell. 
Mad Rab'lais of Pantagruel, 
A later third of Dowsabel, 

With such poor trifles playing: 
Others the like have labour'd at. 
Some of this thing, and some of that. 
And many of they know not what. 

But that they must be saying. 

Another sort there be, that will 
Be talking of the Fairies still. 
Nor never can they have their fill. 

As they were wedded to them : 
No tales of them their thirst can slake. 
So much delight therein they take, 
And some strange thing they fain would make, 

Knew they the way to do them. 

Then since no muse hath been so bold. 
Or of the later or the old. 
Those elvish secrets to unfold, 

M'hich lie from others' reading; 
My active muse to light shall bring 
The court of that proud Fairy King, 
And tell there of the revelling : 

Jove prosper my proceeding. 

And thou Nymphidia, gentle Fay, 
Which meeting me upon the way, 
These secrets didst to me bewray, 

Which now I am in teUing; 
My pretty light fantastic maid, 
I here invoke thee to my aid, 
That I may speak what th^u hast said. 

In numbers smoothly swelling 



170 MICHAEL 


DRAYTON. 




This palace standeth in the air, 


Pigwiggen gladly would commend 


By necromancy placed there, 


Some token to queen Mab to send, 




That it no tempests needs to fear, 


If sea or land him aught could lend, 




Which way soe'er it blow it ; 


Were worthy of her wearing : 




And somewhat southward tow'rd the noon, 


At length this lover doth devise 




Whence lies a way up to the moon. 


A bracelet made of emmets' eyes, 




And thence the Fairy can as soon 


A thing he thought that she would prize, 




Pass to the earth below it. 


No whit her state impairing. 




The walls of spiders' legs are made, 


And to the queen a letter writes. 




Well mortised and finely laid ; 


Which he most curiously indites. 




He was the master of his trade. 


Conjuring her by all the rites 




It curiously that builded : 


Of love, she would be pleased 




The rt'indovvs of the eyes of cats. 


To meet him her true servant, where 




And for the roof, instead of slates. 


They might without suspect or fear 




Is cover'd with the skins of bats. 


Themselves to one another clear. 




With moonshine that are gilded. 


And have their poor hearts eased. 




Hence Oheron, him sport to make, 


« At midnight the appointed hour. 




(Their rest when weary mortals take. 


And for the queen a fitting bower. 




And none but only fairies wake) 


(Quoth he) is that fair cowslip flower, 




Descendeth for his pleasure : 


On Hipcut-hill that bloweth : 




And Mab, his merry queen, by night 


In all your train there's not a Fay, 




Bestrides young folks that lie upright, 


That ever went to gather May, 




(In elder times the Mare that hight) 


But she hath made it in her way. 




Which plagues them out of measure. 


The tallest there that groweth." 




Hence shadows, seeming idle shapes. 


When by Tom Thumb, a fairy page, 




Of little frisking elves and apes. 


He sent it, and doth him engage. 




To earth do make their wanton scapes. 


By promise of a mighty wage, 




As hope of pastime hastes them : 


It secretly to carrj' : 




Which maids think on the hearth they see, 


Which done, the queen her maids doth call, 




When fires well-near consumed be, 


And bids them to be ready all. 




There dancing hayes by two and three. 


She would go see her summer hall. 




Just as their fancy casts them. 


She could no longer tarry. 




These make our girls their slutt'ry rue, 


Her chariot ready straight is made. 




By pinching them both black and blue, 


Each thing therein is fitting laid, 




And put a penny in their shoe. 


That she by nothing might be stay'd. 




The house for cleanly sweeping : 


For nought must her be letting: 




And in their courses make that round. 


Four nimble gnats the horses were. 




In meadows and in marshes found. 


The harnesses of gossamer. 




Of them so call'd the Fairy ground, 


Fly Cranion, her charioteer. 




Of which they have the keeping. 


Upon the coach-box getting. 




These, when a child haps to be got. 


Her chariot of a snail's fine shell. 




Which alter proves an idiot. 


Which for the colours did excel ; 




When folk perceive it thriveth not, 


The fair queen Mab becoming well. 




The fault therein to smother : 


So lively was the limning : 




Some silly, doating, brainless calf, 


The seat the soft wool of the bee. 




That understands things by the half. 


The cover (gallantly to see) 




Say, that tha Fairy lelt this aulf, 


The wing of a py'd butterflee. 




And took away the other. 


I trow, 'twas simple trimming. 




But listen, and I shall you tell 


The wheels composed of crickets' bones, 




A chance in Fairy that befell, 


And daintily made for the nonce. 




Which certainly may please some well. 


For fear of rattling on the stones. 




In love and arms delighting : 


With thistle-down they shod it: 




Of Oberon that jealous grew 


For all her maidens much did fear. 




Of one of his own Fairy crew. 


If Oberon had chanced to hear. 




Too well (he fear'd) his queen that knew, 


That Mab his (jueen should have been there, 




His love but ill requiting. 


He would not have abode it. 




Pigwiggen was this Fairy knight. 


She mounts her chariot with a trice. 




One wondrous gracious in the sight 


Nor would she stay for no advice. 




Of fair queen Mab, which day and night 


Until her maids, that were so nice. 




He amorously observed : 


To wait on her were fitted. 




Which made king Oberon suspect 


But ran herself away alone ; 




His service took too good effect. 


Which when they heard, there was not one 




His sauciness and often checkt, 


But hasted after to be gone. 




And could have wish'd him starved. 


As she had been diswitted. 





MICHAEL 


DRAYTON. 171 


Hop, and Mop, and Drap so clear, 


'• Oh ! (quoth the glow-worm) hold thy hand. 


Pip, and Trip, and Skip, that were 


Thou puissant king of Fairy land. 


To Mab their sovereign dear. 


Thy mighty strokes who may withstand ] 


Her special maids of honour; 


Hold, or of life despair I." 


Fib, and Tib, and Pinck, and Pin, 


Together then herself doth roll. 


Tick, and Quick, and Jill, and Jin, 


And tumbling down into a hole, 


Tit, and Nit, and Wap, and Win, 


She seem'd as black as any coal, 


The train that wait upon her. 


Which vext away the Fairy. 


Upon a grasshopper they got, 


From thence he ran into a hive, 


And what with amble and with trot, 


Amongst the bees he letteth drive, 


For hedge nor ditch they spared not, 


And down their combs begins to rive, 


But after her they hie them. 


All likely to have spoiled : 


A cobweb over them they throw. 


Which with their wax his face besmear'd 


To shield the wind if it should blow, 


And with their honey daub'd his beard ; 


Themselves they wisely could bestow, 


It would have made a man afl^ear'd, 


Lest any should espy them. 


To see how he was moiled. 


But let us leave queen Mab a while, 


A new adventure him betides : 


Through many a gate, o'er many a stile, 


He met an ant, which he bestrides. 


That now had gotten by this wile, 


And post thereon away he rides, 


Her dear Pigwiggen kissing ; 


Which with his haste doth stumble, 


And tell how Oberon doth fare, 


And came full over on her snout. 


Who grew as mad as any hare. 


Her heels so threw the dirt about, 


When he had sought each place with care, 


For she by no means could get out, 


And found his queen was missing. 


But over him doth tumble. 


By griesly Pluto he doth swear. 


And being in this piteous case, 


He rent his clothes, and tore his hair, 


And all beslurried head and face, 


■ And as he runneth here and there, 


On runs he in this wild-goose chase, 


An acorn-cup he getteth ; 


As here and there he rambles, 


Which soon he taketh by the stalk, 


Half-blind against a mole-hill hit, 


About his head he lets it walk. 


And for a mountain taking it. 


Nor doth he any creature baulk. 


For all he was out of his wit, 


But lays on all he meeteth. 


Yet to the top he scrambles. 


The Tuscan poet doth advance 


And being gotten to the top, 


The frantic Paladine of France, 


Yet there himself he could not stop. 


And those more ancient do enhance 


But down on th' other side doth chop. 


Alcides in his fury. 


And to the foot came rumbling: 


And others Ajax Telamon ; 


So that the grubs therein that bred, 


But to this time there hath been none 


Hearing such turmoil over head. 


So Bedlam as our Oberon, 


Thought surely they had all been dead, 


Of which I dare assure ye. 


So fearful was the jumbling. 


And first encount'ring with a wasp, 


And falling down into a lake. 


He in his arms the fly doth clasp. 


Which him up to the neck doth take, 


As though his breath he forth would grasp, 


His fury it doth somewhat slake, 


Him for Pigwiggen taking: 


He calleth for a ferry : 


" W^here is my wife, thou rogue 1 (quoth he) 


Where you may some recovery note, 


Pigwiggen, she is come to thee ; 


What was his club he made his boat. 


Restore her, or thou diest by me," 


And in his oaken cup doth float, 


Whereat the poor wasp quaking. 


As safe as in a wherry. 


Cries, " Oberon, great Fairy king. 


Men talk of the adventures strange 


Content thee, I am no such thing ; 


Of Don Quishot and of their change, 


I am a wasp, behold my sting !" 


Through which he armed oft did range, 


At which the Fairy started. 


Of Sancha Pancha's travel ; 


When soon away the wasp doth go, 


But should a man tell every thing 


Poor wretch was never frighted so, 


Done by this frantic Fairy king. 


He thought his wings were much too slow. 


And them in lofty numbers sing, 


O'erjoy'd they so were parted. 


It well his wits might gravel. 


He next upon a glow-worm light. 


Scarce set on shore, but therewithal 


(You must suppose it now was night,) 


He meeteth Puck, which most men call 


Which, for her hinder part was bright, 


Hobgoblin, and on him doth fall 


He took to be a devil ; 


With words irom phrensy spoken ' 


And furiously doth her assail 


" Hoh, hoh," quoth Hob, •' God save thy grace, 


For carrying fire in her tail ; 


Who drest thee in this piteous case ] 


He thrash'd her rough coat with his flail. 


He thus that spoil'd my sovereign's face, 


The mad king fear'd no evil. 


I would his neck were broken." 



172 



MICHAEL DRAYTON. 



This Puck seems but a dreaming dolt, 
Still walking like a ragged colt, 
\nd oft out of a bush doth bolt. 
Of purpose to deceive us ; 
And leading us, makes us to stray 
Long winter's nights out of the way. 
And when we stick in mire and clay. 

He doth with laughter leave us. 
" Dear Puck," quoth he, " my wife is gone ; 
As e'er thou lovest king Oberon, 
Let every thing but this alone, 

With vengeance and pursue her: 
Bring her to me, alive or dead ; 
Or that vile thief Pigwiggen's head; 
That villain hath defiled my bed, 
He to this folly drew her." 
Quoth Puck, « My liege, I'll never lin, 
But I will thorough thick and thin, 
Until at length I bring her in. 

My dearest lord, ne'er doubt it." 
Thorough brake, thorough brier, 
Thorough muck, thorough mire, 
Thorough water, thorough fire, 

And thus goes Puck about it. 
This thing Nymphidia overheard. 
That on this mad king had a guard, 
Not doubting of a great reward. 

For first this bus'ness broaching; 
And through the air away doth go 
Swift as an arrow from the bow. 
To let her sovereign Mab to know 

What peril was approaching. 
The queen, bound with love's powerful charm, 
gate with Pigwiggen arm in arm ; 
Her merry maids, that thought no harm, 

About the room were skipping: 
A bumble-bee, their minstrel, play'd 
Upon his hautbois, every maid 
Fit lor this revel was array'd, 

The hornpipe neatly tripping. 
In comes Nymphidia, and doth cry, 
" My sovereign, for your safety fly. 
For there is danger but too nigh, 
I posted to forewarn you. 
The king hath sent Hobgoblin out. 
To seek you all the fields about. 
And of your safety you may doubt, 
If he but once discern you." 
When like an uproar in a town. 
Before them every thing went down ; 
Some tore a rufi', and some a gown, 
'Gainst one another justling: 
They flew about like chaff i' th' wind ; 
For haste some left their masks behind, 
borne could not stay their gloves to find ; 

There never was such bustling. 
Forth ran they by a secret way. 
Into a brake that near them lay, 
Yet much they doubted there to stay. 

Lest Hob should hap to find them : 
He had a sharp and piercing sight, 
Ml one to hmi the day and night, 
And therefore were resolved by flight 

To leave this place beliind them. 



At length one chanced to find a nut, 
In th' end of which a hole was cut, 
Which lay upon a hazel root. 

There scatter'd by a squirrel, 
Which out the kernel gotten had : 
When quoth this fay, " Dear queen, be glad. 
Let Oberon be ne'er so mad, 

I'll set you safe fi-om peril, 
" Come all into this nut, (quoth she,) 
Come closely in, be ruled by me. 
Each one may here a chooser be. 

For room yc need not wrestle, 
Nor need ye be together heapt." 
So one by one therein they crept. 
And lying down, they soundly slept. 

And safe as in a castle. 
Nymphidia, that this while doth watch, 
Perceived if Puck the queen should catch, 
That he would be her over-match. 

Of which she well bethought her; 
Found it must be some powerful charm. 
The queen against him that must arm. 
Or surely he would do her harm, 

For throughly he had sought her. 
And list'ning if she aught could hear. 
That her might hinder, or might fear ; 
But finding still the coast was clear. 

Nor creature had descried her ; 
Each circumstance and having scann'd. 
She came therel'y to understand. 
Puck would be with them out of hand. 

When to her charms she hied her. 
And first her fern-seed doth bestow. 
The kernel of the misletoe ; 
And here and there as Puck should go, 

With terror to affright him. 
She night-shade straws to work him ill. 
Therewith her vervain and her dill. 
That hind'reth witches of their wdl. 
Of purpose to despight him. 
Then sprinkles she the juice of rue. 
That grovveth underneath the yew. 
With nine drops of the midnight dew, 

From lunary distilling; 
The mole warp's brain mixt therewithal, 
And with the same the pismire's gall ; 
For she in nothing short would fall. 

The Fairy was so willing. 
Then thrice under a brier doth creep. 
Which at both ends was rooted deep, 
And over it three times she leapt. 
Her magic much availing: 
Then on Proserpina doth call, 
And so upon her spell doth fall, 
Which here to you repeat I shall, 

Not in one tittle falling. 
" By the croaking of the frog ; 
By the howling of the dog; 
By the crying of the hog 

Against the storm arising; 
By the evening curfcw-bell ; 
By the doleful dying knell ; 
O let this my direful spell. 

Hob, hinder thy surprising. 



MICHAEL DRAYTON. 



173 



"By the mandrake's dreadful groans; 
By the Lubricans sad nio-ins ; 
By the noise of dead men's bones, 

In charnel-houses ratthng ; 
By the hissing of the snake, 
The rustling of the fire-drake, 
I charge thee this place forsake. 

Nor of queen Mab be prattling. 
" By the whirlwind's hollow sound, 
*By the thunder's dreadful stound, 
Yells of spirits under ground, 

I charge thee not to fear us : 
By the screech-owl's dismal note, 
By the black night-raven's throat, 
I charge thee, Hob, to tear thy coat 

With thorns, if thou come near us." 
Her spell thus spoke, she stept aside, 
And in a chink herself doth hide, 
To see thereof what would betide, 

For she doth only mind him : 
When presently she Puck espies, 
And well she markt his gloating eyes, 
How under every leaf he pries. 

In seeking st.U to find them. 
But once the circle got within, 
The charms to work do straight begin, 
And he was caught as in a gin : 

For as he thus was busy, 
A pain he in his head-piece feels, 
Against a stubbled tree he reels. 
And up went poor Hobgoblin's heels , 

Alas ! his brain was dizzy. 
At length upon his feet he gets. 
Hobgoblin fumes, Hobgoblin frets. 
And as again he forward sets, 

And through the bushes scrambles, 
A stump doth trip him in his pace, 
Down comes poor Hob upon his face. 
And lamentably tore his case 

Amongst the briers and brambles. 
" Plague upon queen Mab (quoth he) 
And all her maids, where'er they be ! 
I think the devil guided me. 

To seek her, so provoked." 
When stumbling at a piece of wood, 
He fell into a ditch of mud, 
Where to the very chin he stood. 

In danger to be choked. 
Now worse than e'er he was before, 
Poor Puck doth yell, poor Puck doth roar. 
That waked queen Mab, who doubted sore 

Some treason had been wrought her : 
Until Nymphidia told the queen 
What she had done, what she had seen. 
Who then had well-near cratk'd her spleen 

With very extreme laughter. 
But leave we Hob to clamber out, 
Queen Mab and all her Fairy rout. 
And come again to have a bout 

With Oberon yet madding: 
Ar..l with Pigwiggin now distraught, 
Who much was troubled in his thought. 
That he so long the queen bad sought, 

And through the fields was gadding. 



And as he runs, he still doth cry, 

" King Oberon, I thee defy. 

And dare thee here in arms to try, 

For my dear lady's honour : 
For that she is a queen right good, 
In whose defence I II shed my blood. 
And that thou in this jealous mood 

Hast laid this slander on her." 
And quickly arms him for the field, 
A little cockle-shell his shield. 
Which he could very bravely wield. 

Yet could it not be pierced : 
His spear a bent b'-th stiti' and strong. 
And well near of '"^ i inches long: 
The pile was of » horse-fly's tongue, 

Whose sKarpnt^ss nought reversed. 
And puts him on a coat of mail. 
Which was ol a fish's ycale, 
That when his foe should him assail. 

No point should le prevaihng. 
His rapier was a hornet's sting, 
It was a very dangerous thing ; 
For if he chanced to hurl the king. 

It would be long in healing. 
His helmet was a beetle's head, 
Most horrible and full of di ^ad. 
That able was to strike one dead. 

Yet it did well become him: 
And for a plume, a horse's hair. 
Which being tossed by the air, 
Had force to strike his foe with fear, 

And turn his weapon fiom him. 
Himself he on an earwig set, 
.Yet scarce he on his back could get. 
So oft and high he did curvet. 

Ere he himself could settle : 
He made him turn, and stop, and bound, 
To gallop, and to trot the round, 
He scarce could stand on any gro nd, 

He was so full of mettle. 
When soon he met with TomaHn, 
One that a valiant knight had been. 
And to great Oberon of kin : 

Quoth he, " Thou manly Faiiy, 
Tell Oberon 1 come prepared. 
Then bid him stand upon his guard : 
TLis hand his baseness shall reward 

Let him be ne'er so wary. 
" Say to him thus. That I defy 
His slanders and his infamy. 
And as a mortal enemy 

Do publicly proclaim him : 
Withal, that if I had mine own. 
He should not wear the Fairy crown, 
But with a vengeance should come down 

Nor we a king should name hii» 
This Tomalin could not abide. 
To hear his sovereign vilified ; 
But to the Fairy court him hied. 

Full furiously he posted. 
With every thing Pigwiggen said. 
How title to the crown he laid. 
And in what arms he was array'd. 

And how himself he boasted. 
p2 



MICHAEL DRAYTON. 



'Twixt head and foot from point to point, 
He told the arming of each joint, 
In every piece how neat and quaint ; 

For Tomalin could do it : 
How fair he sat, how sure he rid ; 
As of the courser he bestrid. 
How managed, and how well he did. 

The king, which listen'd to it. 
Quoth he, " Go, Tomalin, with speed, 
Provide mo arms, provide my steed, 
And every thing that I shall need. 

By thee I will be guided: 
To strait account call thou thy wit. 
See there be wanting not a whit. 
In every thing see thou me fit, 

Just as my foe's provided." 
Soon flew this news through Fairy-land, 
Which gave queen Mah to understand 
The combat that was then in hand 

Betwixt those men so mighty : 
Which greatly she began to rue. 
Perceiving that all Fairy knew, 
The first occasion from her grew. 

Of these affairs so weighty. 
Wherefore, attended with her maids. 
Through fogs, and mists, and damps, she wades 
To Proserpine, the queen of shades, 

To treat, that it would please her 
The cause into her hands to take. 
For ancient love and friendship's sake. 
And soon thereof an end to make. 

Which of much care would ease her. 
Awhile there let we Mab alone, 
And come we to king Oberon, 
Who ann'd to meet his foe is gone, 

For proud Pigwiggen crying: 
Who sought the Fairy king as fast. 
And had so well his journeys cast. 
That he arrived at the last. 

His puissant foe espying. 
Stout Tomalin came with the king, 
Tom Thumb doth on Pigwiggen bring, 
That perfect were in every thing 

To single fights belonging : 
And therefore they themselves engage, 
To see them exercise their rage, 
With fair and comely equipage, 

Not one the other wronging. 
So like in arms these champions were, 
As tiiey had been a very pair, 
So that a man would almost swear 

That either had been either; 
Theii furious steeds began to neigh, 
• That they were heard a mighty way : 
Their staves upon their rests they lay; 

Yet ere -hey flew together, 
Their seconds minister an oath, 
Which was inditferent to them both, 
That on their knightly faith and troth. 

No magic them supplied ; 
And sought them that they had no charms, 
Wherewith to work each other's harms, 
But came with simple open arms, 

To have their causes tried. 



Together furiously they ran, 

That to the ground came horse and man ; 

The blood out of their helmets span. 

So sharp were their encounters; 
And though they to the earth were thrown. 
Yet quickly they regain'd their own ; 
Such nimbleness was never shown. 

They were two gallant mounters. 
W^hen in a second course again. 
They forward came with might and main. 
Yet which had better of the twain, 

The seconds could not judge yet : 
Their shields were into pieces cleft, 
Their helmets from their heads were reft. 
And to defend them nothing left, 

These champions would not budge yet. 
Away from them their staves they threw, 
Their cruel swords they quickly drew, 
And freshly they the fight renew. 

They every stroke redoubled : 
Which made Proserpina take heed. 
And make to them the greater speed. 
For fear lest they too much should bleed, 

Which wondrously her troubled. 
When to th' infernal Styx she goes. 
She takes the fogs from thence that rose. 
And in a bag doth them enclose. 

When well she had them blended • 
She hies her then to Lethe spring, 
A bottle and thereof doth bring. 
Wherewith she meant to work the thing 

Which only she intended. 
Now Proserpine with Mab is gone 
Unto the place where Oberon 
And proud Pigwiggen, one to one. 

Both to be slain were likely : 
And there themselves they closely hide, 
Because they would not be espied ; 
For Proserpine meant to decide 

The matter very quickly. 
And suddenly unties the poke. 
Which out of it sent such a smoke, 
As ready was them all to choke. 

So grievous was the pother : 
So that the knights each other lost. 
And stood as still as any post, 
Tom Thumb nor Tomalin could boast 

Themselves of any other. 
But when the mist 'gan somewhat cease, 
Proserpina commandeth peace. 
And that a while they should release 

Each other of their peril : 
" Which here, (quoth she,) I do proclaim 
To all, in dreadful Pluto's name. 
That as ye will eschew his blame, 

You let me hear the quarrel. 
" But here yourselves you must engage, 
Somewhat to cool your spleenish rage, 
Your grievous thirst and to assuage 

That first you drink this liquor; 
Which shall your understandings clear, 
As plainly shall to you appear, 
Those things from me that you shall hear. 

Conceiving much the quicker." 



MICHAEL DRAYTON. 



176 



This Lethe water, you must know, 
The memory destroyeth so. 
That of our weal, or of our woe. 

It all remembrance blotted, 
Of it nor can you ever think : 
For they no sooner took this drink. 
But nought into their brains could sink, 

Of what had them besotted. 

King Oberon forgotten had, 

That he for jealousy ran mad ; 

But of his queen was wondrous glad. 

And ask'd how they came thither. 
Pigwiggen likewise doth forget, 
That he queen Mab had ever met, 
f r that they were so hard beset. 

When they were found together. 
Nor either of 'em both had thought. 
That e'er they had each other sought, 
Much less that they a combat fought. 

But such a dream were loathing. 
Tom Thumb had got a little sup, 
And Tomalin scarce kiss'd the cup. 
Yet had their brains so sure lockt up. 

That they remember'd nothing. 

Queen Mab and her light maids the while 
Amongst themselves do closely smile. 
To see the king caught with this wile, 

With one another jesting : 
And to the Fairy court they went, 
With mickle joy and merriment. 
Which thing was done with good intent; 

And thus I left them feasting. 



THE QUEST OF CYNTHIA. 
What time the groves were clad in green, 

The fields drest all in flowers, 
And that the sleek-hair'd nymphs were seen 

To seek them summer bowers. . . . 

Long wand'ring in the wood, said I, 
" O whither's Cynthia gonel" 

When soon the echo doth reply 
To my last word, " go on." 

At length upon a lofty fir 

It was my chance to find, 
Where that dear name most due to her, 

Was carved upon the rind. 

Which whilst with wonder I beheld, 

The bees their honey brought. 
And up the carved letters fiU'd, 

As they with gold were wrought. 

And near that tree's more spacious root, 

Then looking on the ground, 
The shape of her most dainty foot 

Imprinted there I found. . . . 

The yielding sand, where she had trod, 

Untoucht yet with the wind. 
By the fair posture plainly show'd 

Where I might ('ynthia find. 
When chance me to an arbour led, 

Whereas I might behold ; 



Two blest elysiums in one sted, 
The less the great infold. 

The wealthy Spring yet never bore 

That sweet, nor dainty flower, 
That damask'd not the chequer'd floor 

Of Cynthia's summer bower. 

The birch, the myrtle, and the bay, 

Like friends did all embrace ; 
And their large branches did display, 

To canopy the place. 

Where she like Venus doth appear 

Upon a rosy bed ; 
As lilies the soft pillows were. 

Whereon she laid her head. 

The winds were hush'd, no leaf so small 

At all was seen to stir: 
Whilst tuning to the waters fall, 

The small birds sang to her. 

" Into these secret shades (quoth she) 

How darest thou be so bold 
To enter, consecrate to me. 

Or touch this hallow'd mould 1" . . . . 

" Bright nymph, again I thus reply, 

This cannot me artright : 
I had rather in thy presence die, 

Than live out of thy sight. 

" I first upon the mountains high 

Built altars to thy name. 
And graved it on the rocks thereby, 

To propagate thy fame." . . . 

Which when she heard, full pearly floods 

I in her eyes might view. 
(Quoth she) " Most welcome to these woods, 

Too mean for one so true. 

« Here from the hateful world we'll live, 

A den of mere despight : 
To idiots only that doth give, 

Which be for sole delight. 

" Whose vileness us shall never awe : 

But here our sports shall be. 
Such as the golden world first saw. 

Most innocent and tiree. 

" Of simples in these groves that grow, 

We'll learn the perfect skill ; 
The nature of each herb to know, 

Which cures, and which can kill. 

« We'll suck the sweets out of the comb. 

And make the gods repine, 
As they do feast in Jove's great room, 

To see with what we dine. 

" The nimble squirrel noting here, 

Her mossy dray that makes ; 
And laugh to see the dusty deer 

Come bounding o'er the brakes. 

" Sometime we'll angle at the brook. 

The freckled trout to take, 
With silken worms and bait the hook, 

Which him our prey shall make. . . 



"And when the moon doth once appear, 

We'll trace the lower grounds, 
When fairies in their ringlets there 

Do dance their nightly rounds. 
' And have a flock of turtle-doves, 

A guard on us to keep, 
As witness of our honest loves 

To watch us till we sleep." 

Which spoke, I felt such holy fires 

To overspread my breast, 
As lent life to my chaste desires, 

And gave me endless rest. 

By Cynthia thus do I suhsist. 
On earth heaven's only pride; 

Let her be mine, and let who list 
Take all the world beside. 



BALLAD OK DOWSABEL. 
Fab in the country of Arden, 
There won'd a knight, hight Cassamen, 

As bold as Isenbras: 
Fell was he and eager bent, 
In battle and in tournament, 

As was the good Sir Topas. 

He had, as antique stories tell, 
A daugl]ter cleped Dowsabcl, 

A maiden fair and free. 
And for she was her father's heir, 
Full well she was ycond the leir 

Of mickle courtesy. 

The silk well couth she twist and twine. 
And make the fine march-pine, 

And with the needle work : 
And she couth help the priest to say 
His mattins on a holy-day, 

And sing a psalm in kirk. 

She wore a frock of frolic green. 
Might well become a maiden queen, 

Which seemly was to see ; 
A hood to that so neat and fine. 
In colour like the columbine, 

Iwrought full featously. 

Her features all as fresh above, 

As is the grass that grows by Dove, 

And lythe as lass of Kent. 
Her skin as soft as Lemster wool, 
As white as snow on Peakish Hull, 

Or swan that swims in Trent. 

This maiden in a morn betime. 

Went forth when May was in the prime. 

To get sweet setywall. 
The honey-suckle, the harlock, 
The lily, and the lady-smock. 

To deck her summer hall. 

Thus as she wander'd here and there. 
And picked oflTthe bloomy brier. 

She chanced to espy 
A shepherd sitting on a bank. 
Like chanticleer he crowned crank, 

And piped full merrily. 



He learn'd his sheep, as he him list. 
When he would whistle in his fist. 

To fieed about him round. 
Whilst he full many a carol sang, 
Until the fields and meadows rang, 

And all the woods did sound. 

In favour this same shepherd swain 
Was like the bedlam Tamerlane, 

Which held proud kings in awe : 
But meek as any lamb might be; 
And innocent of ill as he 

Whom his lewd brother slaw. 

The shepherd wore a sheep-gray cloak. 
Which was of the finest lock. 

That could be cut with sheer. 
His mittens were of bauzons' skin, 
His cockers were of cordiwin. 

His hood of miniveer. 

His awl and lingel in a thong. 
His tar-box on his broad belt hung, 

His breech of Cointree blue. 
Full crisp and curled were his locks. 
His brows as white as Albion rocks. 

So like a lover true. 

And piping still he spent the day. 
So merry as the popinjay, 

Which liked Dowsabel ; 
That would she ought, or would she nought, 
This lad would never from her thought. 

She in love-longing fell. 

At length she tucked up her frock. 
White as a lily was her smock, 

She drew the shepherd nigh : 
But then the shepherd piped a good. 
That all his sheep forsook their food. 

To hear this melody. 

Thy sheep, quoth she, cannot be lean. 
That have a jolly shepherd swain, 

The which can pipe so well : 
Yea but (saith he) their shepherd may. 
If piping thus he pine away. 

In love of Dowsabel. 

Of love, fond boy, take thou no keep. 
Quoth she, look well unto thy sheep. 

Lest they should hap to stray. 
Quoth he, So had I done full well. 
Had I not seen fair Dowsabel 

Come forth to gather May. 

With that she 'gan to veil her head. 
Her cheeks were like the roses red, 

But not a word she said. 
With that the shepherd 'gan to frown. 
He threw his pretty pipes adown. 

And on the ground him laid. 

Saith she, I may not stay till night, 
And leave my summer hall undight, 

And all for love of thee. 
My cote, saith he, nor yet my fold. 
Shall neither sheep nor shepherd hold, 

Except thou favour me 



MICHAEL DRAYTON. 



177 



Saith she, Yet lever I were dead, 
Than I should lose my maidenhead. 

And all for love of men. 
Saith he, Yet are you too unkind, 
If in your heart you cannot find 

To love us now and then. 
And I to thee will be as kind 
As Colin was to Rosalind, 

Of courtesy the flower. 
Then will I be as true, quoth she, 
As ever maiden yet might be 

Unto her paramour. 
With that she bent her snow-white knee, 
Down by the shepherd kneeled she, 

And him she sweetly kist. 
With that the shepherd whoop'd for joy ; 
Quoth he, There's never shepherd's boy 

That ever was so blest. 



TO HIS COY LOVE. 

FROM HIS ODES. 

I PRAT thee, love, love me no more, 

Call home the heart you gave me ; 
I but in vain that saint adore. 

That can, but will not save me : 
These poor half kisses kill me quite ; 

Was ever man thus served ] 
Amidst an ocean of delight. 

For pleasure to be starved. 
Show me no more those snowy breasts, 

With azure rivers branched, 
Where whilst mine eye with plenty feeists, 

Yet is my thirst not staunched. 
Tantalus, thy pains ne'er tell ! 

By me thou art prevented ; 
'Tis nothing to be plagued in hell, 

But thus in heaven tormented. 
Clip me no more in those dear arms. 

Nor thy life's comfort call me ; 
0, these are but too powerful charms. 

And do but more enthral me. 
But see how patient I am grown, 

In all this coil about thee ; 
Come, nice thing, let thy heart alone, 

I cannot live without thee. 



SONNET 

TO HIS FAIR IDEA. 

In pride of wit, when high desire of fame 
Gave life and courage to my labouring pen. 
And first the sound and virtue of my name 
Won grace and credit in the ears of men ; 
With those the thronged theatres that press, 
I in the circuit for the laurel strove. 
Where, the full praise, I freely must confess. 
In heat of blood, a modest mind might move. 
With shouts and claps, at every little pause. 
When the proud round on every side hath rung. 
Sadly I sit unmoved with the applause. 
As though to me it nothing did belong : 
No public glory vainly I pursue ; 
The praise I strive, is to eternize you. 



DESCRIPTION OP MORNING, BIRDS, AND HUNTING 
THE DEER. 

POLT-OLBION. SONG XIH. 

When Phoebus lifts his head out of the winter's 

wave, 
No sooner doth the earth her flowery bosom brave. 
At such time as the year brings on the pleasant 

spring. 
But hunts-up to the morn the feather'd sylvans 

sings : 
And in the lower grove, as on the rising knoll. 
Upon the highest spray of every mounting pole, 
Those quiristers are percht with many a speckled 

breast. 
Then from her burnisht gate the goodly glitt'ring 

east 
Gilds every lofty top, which late the humorous night 
Bespangled had with pearl, to please the morning's 

sight : 
On which the mirthful quires, with their clear open 

throats. 
Unto the joyful morn so strain their warbling notes. 
That hills and valleys ring, and even the echoing air 
Seems all composed of sounds, about them every- 
where. 
The throstel,with shrill sharps ; as purposely he sung 
T' awake the lustless sun ; or chiding, that so long 
He was in coming forth, that should the thickets 

thrill ; 
The woosel near at hand, that hath a golden bill ; 
As nature him had markt of purpose, t' let us see 
That from all other birds his tunes should different 

be: 
For, with their vocal sounds, they sing to pleasant 

May; 
Upon his dulcet pipe the merle doth only play. 
When in the lower brake, the nightingale hard by, 
In such lamenting strains the joyful hours doth ply. 
As though the other birds she to her tunes would 

draw 
And, but that nature (by her all-constraining law) 
Each bird to her own kind this season doth invite. 
They else, alone to hear that charmer of the night, 
(The more to use their ears) their voices sure would 

spare. 
That moduleth her tunes so admirably rare. 
As man to set in parts at first had learn'd of h'sr. 

To Philomel the next, the linnet we prefer ; 
And by that warbling bird, the wood-lark place we 

then. 
The red-sparrow, the nope, the red-breast, and the 

wren. 
The yellow-plate; which though she hurt the 

blooming tree. 
Yet scarce hath any bird a finer pipe than she. 
And of these chaunting fowls, the goldfinch not 

behind. 
That hath so many sorts descending from her kind. 
The tydy for her notes as delicate as they. 
The laughing hecco, then the counterfeiting jay. 
The softer with the shrill (some hid among the 



Some in the taller trees, some in the lower greaves) 
Thus sing away the morn, until the mounting sun 



178 



MICHAEL DRAYTON. 



Through thick exhaled fogs his golden head hath 

run, 
\nd through the twisted tops of our close covert 

creeps 
To kiss the gentle shade, this while that sweetly 

sleeps. 
And near to these our thicks, the wild and fright- 
ful herds, 
N 3t hearing other noise but this of chattering birds, 
Feed fairly on the lawns ; both sorts of season'd deer: 
Here walk the stately red, the freckled fallow there : 
The bucks and lusty stags amongst the rascals 

strew'd, 

As sometime gallant spirits amongst the multitude. 

Of all the beasts which we for our venerial name. 

The hart among the rest, the hunter's noblestgame : 

Of which most princely chase sith none did e'er 

report. 
Or by description touch, t' express that wondrous 

sport 
(Yet might have well beseem'd th' ancients nobler 

songs) 
To our old Arden here, most fitly it belongs : 
Yet shall she not invoke the muses to her aid ; 
But thee, Diana bright, a goddess and a maid : 
In many a huge-grown wood, and many a shady 

grove. 
Which oft hast borne thy bow (great huntress, used 

to rove) 
At many a cruel beast, and with thy darts to pierce 
The lion, panther, ounce, the bear, and tiger fierce ; 
And following thy fleet game, chaste mighty forest's 

queen, 
With thy dishevel'd nymphs attired in youthful 

green. 
About the lawns has scour'd, and wastes both far 

and near, 
Brave huntress ; but no beast shall prove thy 

quarries here ; 
Save those the best of chase, the tall and lusty red, 
The stag for goodly shape, and stateliness of head. 
Is fitt'st to hunt at force. For whom, when with 

his hounds 
The labouring hunter tufts the thick unbarbed 

grounds 
Where harbour'd is the hart; there often from 

his feed 
The dogs of him do find ; or thorough skilful heed. 
The huntsman by his slot, or breaking earth, 

perceives, 
On ent'ring of the thick by pressing of the greaves, 
Where he had gone to lodge. Now when the hart 

doth hear 
The often-bellowing hounds to vent his secret leir, 
He rousing rusheth out, and through the brakes 

doth drive. 
As though up by the roots the bushes he would 

rive. 
And through the cumbrous thicks, as fearfully he 

makes. 
He with his branched head the tender saplings 

shakes. 
That sprinkling their moist pearl do seem for him 

to weep; 



When after goes the cry, with yellings loud ana 

deep, 
That all the forest rings, and every neighbouring 

place : 
And there is not a hound but falleth to the chase. 
Rechating with his horn, which then the hunter 

cheers. 
Whilst still the lusty stag his high-palm'd head 

upbears. 
His body showing state, with unbent knees upright, 
Expressing from all beasts, his courage in his 

flight. 
But when th' approaching foes still following he 

perceives, 
That he his speed must trust, his usual walk he 

leaves : 
And o'er the champain flies: which when th' 

assembly find, 
Each follows, as his horse were footed with the 

wind. 
But being then imbost, the noble stately deer 
When he hath gotten ground (the kernel cast 

arrear) 
Doth beat the brooks and ponds for sweet refreshing 

soil: 
That serving not, then proves if he his scent can 

foil, 
And makes amongst the herds, and flocks of shag- 

wool'd sheep, 
Them frighting from the guard of those who had 

their keep. 
But when as all his shifts his safety still denies. 
Put quite out of his walk, the ways and fallows 

tries. 
Whom when the ploughman meets, his team he 

letteth stand 
T' assail him with his goad : so with his hook in 

hand. 
The shepherd him pursues, and to his dog doth 

hallo : 
When, with tempestuous speedy the hounds and 

huntsmen follow; 
Until the noble deer through toil bereaved of 

strength. 
His long and sinewy legs then failing him at length, 
The villages attempts, enraged, not giving way 
To any thing he meets now at his sad decay. 
The cruel ravenous hounds and bloody hunters 

near, 
This noblest beast of chase, that vainly doth but 

fear, 
Some bank or quickset finds ; to which his haunch 

opposed. 
He turns upon his foes, that soon have him enclosed. 
The churlish-throated hounds then holding him at 

bay, 
And as their cruel fangs on his harsh skin they lay, 
With his sharp-pointed head he dealeth deadly 

wounds. 
The hunter, coming in to help his wearied 

hounda, 
He desperately assails ; until opprest by force. 
He who the mourner is to his own dying corse, 
Upon the ruthless earth his precious tears lets fall. 



EDWARD FAIRFAX. 



Edward Fairfax, the truly poetical translator 
of Tasso, was the second son of Sir Thomas 
Fairfax, of Denton, in Yorkshire. His family 
were all soldiers ; but the poet, while his brothers 
were seeking military reputation abroad, preferred 
the quiet enjoyment of letters at home. He mar- 
ried and settled as a pi-ivate gentleman at Fuys- 
ton, a place beautifully situated between the 
family seat at Denton and the forest of Knares- 
borough. Some of his time was devoted to the 
management of his brother Lord Fairfax's pro- 
perty, and to superintending the education of his 
lordship's cljildren. 7'he prose MSS. which he 
left in the library of Denton sufficiently attest his 
literary industry. They have never been pub- 
lished, and, as they relate chiefly to religious con- 
troversy, are not likely to be so ; although his 
treatise on witchcraft, recording its supposed ope- 
ration upon his own family, must form a curious 
relic of superstition. Of Fairfax it might, there- 
fore, well be said — ■ 

"Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind 
Believed the magic powers which he sung." 

Of his original works in verse, his History of 
Edward the Black Prince has never been pub- 



hshed; but Mr. A. Chalmers (Biog. Diet. art. 
Fairfax) is, I believe, as much mistaken in sup- 
posing that his Eclogues have never been collec- 
tively printed, as in pronouncing them entitled 
to high commendation for their poetry.* A more 
obscurely stupid allegory and fable can hardly 
be imagined than the fourth eclogue, preserved 
in Mrs. Cooper's Muse's Library: its being an 
imitation of some of the theological pastorals of 
Spenser is no apology for its absurdity. When 
a fox is described as seducing the chastity of 
a lamb, and when the eclogue writer tells us 
that 

" An hundred times her virgin lip he kiss'd. 
As oft. her maiden finger gently wrung," 

who could imagine that either poetry, or ecclesi- 
astical history, or sense or meaning of any kind, 
was ever meant to be conveyed under such a 
conundrum 1 

The time of Fairfax's death has not been dis- 
covered; it is known that he was alive in 1631 ; 
but his translation of the Jerusalem was pub- 
lished when he was a young man, was inscribed 
to Queen Elizabeth, and forms one of the glories 
of her reign. 



FROM FAIRFAX'S TRANSLATION OP TASSO'S 
JERUSALEM DELIVERED, 

BOOK XVIII. STANZAS XU. TO XU. 

RlMAlDO, after offiTing his devotion.s on Mount Olivet, 
enters on the adventure of the Enchanted Wood. 

It was the time, when 'gainst the breaking day, 
Rebellious night yet strove, and still repined ; 
For in the east appear'd the morning gray. 
And yet some lamps in Jove's high palace shined. 
When to Mount Olivet he took his way, 
And saw, as round about his eyes he twined, 
Night's shadows hence, from thence the morn- 
ing's shine ; 
This bright, that dark ; that earthly, this divine : 
Thus to himself he thought: how many bright 
And splendent lamps shine in heaven's temple high! 
Day hath his golden sun, her moon the night. 
Her fix'd and wand'ring stars the azure sky ; 
So framed all by their Creator's might. 
That still they live and shine, and ne'er shall die, 
'Till, in a moment, with the last day's brand 
They burn, and with them burn sea, air, and land. 
Thus as he mused, to the top he went, 
And there kneel'd down with reverence and fear ; 
His eyes upon heaven's eastern face he bent ; 
His thoughts above all heavens up-lifted were — 
The sins and errors, which I now repent, 
Of my unbridled youth, O Father dear. 
Remember not, but let thy mercy fall. 
And purge my faults and my oliences all. 

[* The fourth eclogue alone is in print; nor is a MS. 
fopy of the whole known to e.\ist. — C.J 



Thus prayed he ; with purple wings up-flew 
In golden weed the morning's lusty queen, 
Begilding, with the radiant beams she threw, 
His helm, his harness, and the mountain green : 
Upon his breast and forehead gently blew 
The air, that balm and nardus breathed unseen ; 
And o'er his head, let down from clearest skies, 
A cloud of pure and precious dew there flies: 
The heavenly dew was on his garments spread. 
To which compared, his clothes pale ashes seem. 
And sprinkled so, that all that paleness fled. 
And thence of purest white bright rays outstream : 
So cheered are the flowers, late withered. 
With the sweet comfort of the morning beam ; 
And so, return'd to youth, a serpent old 
Adorns herself in new and native gold. 
The lovely whiteness of his changed weed 
The prince perceived well and long admired ; 
Toward the forest march'd he on with speed. 
Resolved, as such adventures great required : 
Thither he came, whence, shrinking back for dread 
Of that strange desert's sight, the first retired ; 
But not to him fearful or loathsome made 
That forest was, but sweet with pleasant shade. 
Forward he pass'd, and in the grove before 
He heard a sound, that strange, sweet, pleasing was ; 
There roll'd a crystal brook with gentle roar. 
There sigh'd the winds, as through the leaves they 

pass ; 
There did the nightingale her wrongs deplore. 
There sung the swan, and singing died, alas ! 
There lute, harp, cittern, human voice, he heard, 
And all these sounds one sound right well de<:lared 
17 i» 



180 



EDWARD FAIRFAX. 



A dreadful thunJ'^r-clap at last he heard, 
The aged trees and plants well nigh that rent, 
Yet heard the nymphs and sirens afterward, 
Birds, winds, and waters, sing with sweet consent; 
Whereat amazed, he stay'd, and well prepared 
For his defence, heedful and slow forth-went ; 
Nor in his way his passage ought withstood, 
Except a quiet, still, transparent flood: 

On the green banks, which that fair stream inbound, 
Flowers and odours sweetly smiled and smell'd. 
With reaching out his stretched arms around, 
All the large desert in his bosom held. 
And through the grove one channel passage found ; 
This in the wood, in that the forest dwell'd : 

Trees clad the streams, streams green those trees 
aye made, 

And so exchanged their moisture and their shade. 

The knight some way sought out the flood to pass. 
And as he sought, a wondrous bridge appear'd ; 
A bridge of gold, an huge and mighty mass, 
On arches great of that rich metal rear'd : 
When through that golden way he enter'd was, 
Down fell the bridge ; swelled the stream, and wear'd 
The work away, nor sign left, where it stood. 
And of a river calm became a flood. 

He turn'd, amazed to see it troubled so, 
Like sudden brooks, increased with molten snow ; 
The billows fierce, that tossed to and fro, 
The whirlpools suck'd down to their bosoms low ; 
But on he went to search for wonders mo. 
Through the thick trees, there high and broad 
which grow ; 
And in that forest huge, and desert wide, 
The more he sought, more wonders still he spied : 

Where'er he stepp'd, it seem'd the joyful ground 
Renew'd the verdure of her flowery weed ; 
A fountain here, a well-spring there he found ; 
Here bud the roses, there the lilies spread ; 
The aged wood o'er and about him round 
Flourish'd with blossoms new,new leaves, new seed; 
And on the boughs and branches of those treen 
The bark was soften'd, and renew'd the green. 

The manna on each leaf did pearled lie ; 
The honey stilled from the tender rind : 
Again he heard that wondrous harmony 
Of songs and sweet complaints of lovers kind ; 
The human voices sung a treble high. 
To which respond the birds, the streams, the wind ; 
But yet unseen those nymphs,those singers were. 
Unseen the lutes, harps, viols which they bear. 

He look'd, he listen'd, yet his thoughts denied 
To think that true, which he did hear and see : 
A myrtle in an ample plain he spied, 
And thither by a beaten path went he ; 
The myrtle spread her mighty branches wide, 
Higher than pine, or palm, or cypress tree. 
And far above all other plants was seen 
That forest's lady, and that desert's queen. 

Upon the tree his eyes Rinaldo bent. 

And there a marvel great and strange began ; 

An aged oak beside him cleft and rent, 



And from his fertile, hollow womb, forth ran, 
Clad in rare weeds and strange habiliment, 
A nymph, for age able to go to man ; 

An hundred plants beside, even in his sight, 
Childed an hundred nymphs, so great, so dight. 

Such as on stages play, such as we see 
The dryads painted, whom wild satyrs love, 
Whose arms half naked, locks untrussed be. 
With buskins laced on their legs above. 
And silken robes tuck'd short above their knee, 
Such seem'd the sylvan daughters of this grove ; 
Save, that instead of shafts and bows of tree, 
She bore a lute, a harp or cittern she ; 
And wantonly they cast them in a ring. 
And sung and danced to move his weaker sense, 
Rinaldo round about environing. 
As does its centre the circumference ; 
The tree they compass'd eke, and 'gan to sing, 
That woods and streams admired their excellence — 
Welcome,dear Lord,welcome to this sweet grove. 
Welcome, our lady's hope, welcome, her love ! 
Thou comest to cure our princess, faint and sick 
For love, for love of thee, faint, sick, distress'd ; 
Late black, late dreadful was this forest thick. 
Fit dwelling for sad folk, with grief oppress'd ; 
See, with thy coming how the branches quick 
Revived are, and in new blossoms dress'd ! 
This was their song ; and after from it went 
First a sweet sound, and then the myrtle rent. 

If antique times admired Silenus old, 
Who oft appear'd set on his lazy ass. 
How would they wonder, if they had behold 
Such sights as from the myrtle high did pass ! 
Thence came a lady fair with locks of gold, 
That like in shape, in face, and beauty was 
To fair Armida ; Rinald thinks he spies 
Her gestures, smiles, and glances of her eyes : 

On him a sad and smiling look she cast. 
Which twenty passions strange at once bewrays ; 
And art thou come, quoth she, return'd at last 
To her, from whom but late thou ran'st thy ways 1 
Comest thou to comfort me for sorrows past. 
To ease my widow nights, and careful days 1 
Or comest thou to work me grief and harm 1 
Why nilt thou speak, why not thy face disarm ? 

Comest thou a friend or foe 1 I did not frame 
That golden bridge to entertain my foe ; 
Nor open'd flowers and fountains, as you came, 
To welcome him with joy, who brings me woe : 
Put off thy helm : rejoice me with the flame 
Of thy bright eyes, whence first my fires did grow ; 
Kiss me, embrace me; if you further venture. 
Love keeps the gate, the fort is eath to enter. 

Thus as she wooes, she rolls her rueful eyes 
With piteous look, and changeth oft her chear ; 
An hundred sighs from her false heart up-fly ; 
She sobs, she mourns, it is great ruth to hear : 
The hardest breast sweet pity mollifies ; 
What stony heart resists a woman's tear 1 
But yet the knight, wise, wary, not unkind. 
Drew forth his sword, and from her careless 
twined : 



SAMUEL ROWLANDS. 



181 



Towards the tree he march'd ; she thither start, 
Before him stepp'd, embraced the plant, and cry 'd — 
All ! never do me such a spiteful part, 
To cut my tree, this forest's joy and pride ; 
Put up thy sword, else pierce therewith the heart 
Of thy forsaken and despised Armide; [unkinJ, 
For through this breast, and through this heart, 
To this fair tree thy sword shall passage find. 

He lift his brand, nor cared, though oft she pray'd,. 
And she her form to other shape did change ; 
Such monsters huge, when men in dreams are laid, 
Oft in their idle fancies roam and range : 
Her body swell'd, her face obscure was made ; 
Vanish'd her garments rich, and vestures strange ; 
A giantess before him high she stands, 
Arm'd, like Briareus, with an hundred hands : 

With fifty swords, and fifty targets bright, 

She threaten'd death, she roar'd, she cry'd and 

fought ; 
Each other nymph, in armour likewise dight, 
A Cyclops great became ; he fcar'd them nought, 
But on the myrtle smote with all his might. 
Which groan 'd, like living souls, to death nigh 
brought ; 
The sky seem'd Pluto's court, the air seem'd hell. 
Therein such monsters roar, such spirits yell : 

Lighten'd the heaven above, the earth below 
Roared aloud ; that thunder'd, and this shook : 
Bluster'd the tempests strong; the whirlwinds 
blow; 



The bitter storm drove hailstones in his look 
But yet his arm grew neither weak nor slow. 
Nor of that fury heed or care he took, 

Till low to earth the wounded tree down bended 
Then fled the spirits all, the charms all ended. 

The heavens grew clear, the air wax'd calm and still 
The wood returned to its wonted state. 
Of witchcrafts free, quite void of spirits ill, 
Of honor full, but horror there innate ; 
He further tried, if ought withstood his will 
To cut those trees, as did the charms of late. 
■ And finding nought to stop him.smiled and said — 
O shadows vain ! O fools, of shades afiraid ! 

From thence home to the camp-ward turn'd the 

knight ; 
The hermit cry'd, up-starting from his seat. 
Now of the wood the charms have lost their might ; 
The sprites are conquer'd, ended is the feat ; 
See where he comes ! — Array'd in glitt'ring while 
Appear'd the man, bold, stately, high and great ; 
His eagle's silver wings to shine begun 
With wondrous splendour 'gainst the golden sun 

The camp received him with a joyful cry, — 
A cry, the hills and dales about that fiU'd ; 
Then Godfrey w elcomed him with honours high 
His glory quench'd all spite, all envy kill'd : 
To yonder dreadful grove, quoth he, went I, 
And from the fearful wood, as me you will'd, 
Have driven the sprites away ; thither let be 
Your people sent, the way is safe and free. 



SAMUEL ROWLANDS. 



The history of this author is quite unknown, 
except that he was a prolific pamphleteer in the 
reigns of Elizabeth, James I. and Charles L Rit- 
son has mustered a numerous catalogue of his 
works, to which the compilers of the Censura 
Literaria have added some articles. It has been 
remarked by the latter, that his muse is generally 
found in low company, from which it is inferred 
that he frequented the haunts of dissipation. 
The conclusion is unjust — Fielding was not a 
blackguard, though he wrote the adventures of 



Jonathan Wild. His descriptions of contempo- 
rary follies have considerable humour. I think he 
has afibrded in the following story of Smug the 
Smith a hint to Butler for his apologue of vicari- 
ous justice, in the case of the brethren who hanged 
a " poor weaver that was bed-rid," instead of the 
cobbler who had killed an Indian, 

" Not out of malice, but mere zeal, 
Because he was au Infidel." 

HUDIBRAS, Part II. Canto II. 1. 420. 



LIKE MASTER LIKE MAN. 

FROM "THE KNAVE OP SPADES." 

Two serving men, or rather two men-servers. 
For unto God they were but ill deservers, 
Conferr'd together kindly, knave with knave, 
What fitting masters for their turns they have. 
" Mine," quoth the one, " is of a bounteous sprite, 
And in the tavern will be drunk all night, 
Spending most lavishly he knows not what. 
But I have wit to make good use of that : 
And is for tavern and for bawdy house, . . . 
He hath some humours very strange and odd, 
\s every day at church, and not serve God; 
With secret hidden virtues other ways, 
As often on his knees, yet never prays." 



Quoth t'other, " How dost prove this obscure 
talkl"— [to walk; 

« W^hy, man, he haunts the church that's Paul's, 
And for his often being on the knee, 
'Tis drinking healths, as drunken humours be." 
" It's passing good, I do protest," quoth t'other, 
" I think thy master be my master's brother ; 
For sure in qualities they may be kin. 
Those very humours he is daily in. 
For drinking healths, and being churched so, 
They cheek-by-jowl may with each other go. 
Then, pray thee, let us two in love go drink, 
And on these matters for our profit think ; 
To handle such two masters turn us loose ; 
Shear thou the sheep, and I will pluck tlie goose." 
Q 



182 



JOHN DONNE, D. D. 



TRAGEDY OF SMUG THE SMITH. 



FROM "THE NIGHT RAVEN." 

A SMITH for felony was apprehended, 
And being condemn'd for having so ofl'ended, 
The townsmen, with a general consent. 
Unto the judge with a petition went, 
AtFirming that no smith did near them dwell. 
And for his art they could not spare him well ; 
For he was good at edge-tool, lock, and key. 
And for a farrier most rare man, quoth they. 
The discreet judge unto the clowns replied, 
How shall the law be justly satisfied I 
A thief that steals must die therefore, that's flat. 
O Sir, said they, we have a trick for that : 
Two weavers dwelling in our town there are. 
And one of them we very well can spare ; 
Let hhii be hang'd, we very humbly crave — 
Nay, hang them both, so we the smith may save. 
The judge he smiled at their simple jest, 
And said, the smith would serve the hangman best. 



Because with coming he should not forswear him, 
To save his oaths they on their backs should bear 

him. 
Of this good course the vicar well did think, 
And so they always carried him to drink. 



THE VICAR. 

FROM HIS EPIGRAMS, NO. XXXTO. 

Jn the Letting of Humour's Blood, in the Head Vein. 
Fint published in ICOO. 

An honest vicar and a kind consort. 

That to the ale-house friendly would resort. 

To have a game at tables now and then, 

Or drink his pot as soon as any man ; 

As fair a gamester, and as free from brawl, 

As ever man should need to play withal ; 

Because his hostess pledged him not carouse. 

Rashly, in choler, did forswear her house : 

Taking the glass, this was his oath he swore — 

" Now, by this drink, I'll ne'er come hither more." 

But mightily his hostess did repent. 

For all her guests to the next ale-house went, 

Following the vicar's steps in every thing, 

He led the parish even by a string ; 

At length his ancient hostess did complain 

She was undone, unless he came again ; 

Desiring certain friends of hers and his, 

To use a policy, which should be this : 



FOOLS AND BABES TELL TRUE. 

FROM " THE KNAVE OF SPADES." 

Two friends that met would give each other wine, 
And made their entrance at next bush and sign. 
Calling for claret, which they did agree, 
(The season hot) should qualified be 
With water and sugar: so the same being brought 
By a new boy, in vintners' tricks untaught, 
They bad him quickly bring fair water in. 
Who look'd as strange as he amazed had bin. 
« Why dost not stir," quoth they, " with nimble 
feet?" 
" 'Cause, gentlemen," said he, " it is not meet 
To put in too much water in your drink, 
For there's enough already, sure, I think ; 
Richard the drawer, by my troth I vow. 
Put in great store of water even now." 



THE MARRIED SCHOLAR. 
A SCHOLAH, newly enter'd marriage life. 
Following his study, did offend his wife. 
Because when she his company expected, 
By bookish business she was still neglected : 
Coming unto his study, " Lord," quoth she, 
" Can papers cause you love them more than me ! 
I would I were transform'd into a book. 
That your affection might upon me look 
But in my wish withal be it decreed, 
I would be such a book you love to read. [takeV 
Husband (quoth she) which book's form should I 
« Marry," said he, " 'twere best an almanack : 
The reason wherefore I do wish thee so. 
Is, every year we have a new, you know."* 

[* Malone attributes this saying to Dryden, but it was 
said before Dryden was born ; is in Rowlands, and among 
the jests of Drummoiid of Uawlhornden. — C] 



JOHN DONNE, D. D. 

Born, 1573, 

The life of Donne is more interesting than his 
poetry. He was descended from an ancient 
family ; his mother was related to Sir Thomas 
More, and to Heywood, the epigrammatist. A 
prodigy of youthful learning, he was entered of 
Hart Hall, now Hertford College, at the unpre- 
■cedented age of eleven ; he studied afterwards 
with an extraordinary thirst for general know- 
ledge, and seems to have consumed a consider- 
able patrimony on his education ana travels. 
Having accompanied the Earl of Essex in his 
expedition to CaJiz, he purposed to have set out 
on an extensive course of travels, and to have 
visited the holy sepulchre at Jerusalem. Though 
compelled to give up his design by the insuper- 



Died, 1631. J 

able dangers and difficulties of the journey, he 
did not come home till his mind had been stored 
with an extensive knowledge of foreign languages 
and manners, by a residence in the south of 
Europe. On his return to England, the Lord 
Chancellor Ellcsmere made him his secretary, 
and took him to his house. There he formed a 
mutual attachment to the niece of Lady Elles- 
mere, and without the means or prospect of sup- 
port, the lovers thought proper to marry. The 
lady's father, Sir George More, on the declara- 
tion of this step, was so transported with rage, 
that he insisted on the chancellor's driving Donne 
from his protection, and even got him imprisoned, 
together with the witnesses of the marriage. He 



JOHN DONNE, D. D. 



183 



was soon released from prison, but the chancellor 
would not again take him into his service ; and 
the brutal father-in-law would not support the 
unfortunate pair. In their distress, however, they 
were sheltered by Sir Francis Wolley, a son of 
Lady Ellesmere by a former marriage, with whom 
they resided for several years, and were treated 
with a kindness that mitigated their sense of de- 
pendence. 

Donne had been bred a catholic, but on mature 
reflection had made a conscientious renuncia- 
tion of that faith. One of his warm friends, Dr. 
Morton, afterwards bishop of Durham, wished 
to have provided for him, by generously surren- 
dering one of his benefices : he therefore pressed 
him to take holy orders, and to return to him 
the third day with his answer to the proposal. 
" At hearing of this," (says his biographer,) " Mr. 
Donne's faint breath and perplexed countenance 
gave visible testimony of an inward conflict. He 
did not however return his answer till (he third 
day ; when, with fervid thanks, he declined the 
ofler, telling the bishop that there were some 
errors of his life which, though long repented 
of, and pardoned, as he trusted, by God, might 
yet be not forgotten by some men, and which 
might cast a dishonour on the sacred office." 
We are not told what those irregularities were ; 
but the conscience which could dictate such an 



answer was not likely to require great offence!, 
for a stumbling-block. This occurred in the 
poet's thirty-fourth year. 

After the death of Sir F. Wolley, his next pro- 
tector was Sir Robert Drury, whom he accompa- 
nied on an embassy to France. His wife, with an 
attachment as romantic as poet could wish for, had 
formed the design of accompanying him as a page. 
It was on this occasion, and to dissuade her from 
the design, that he addressed to her the verses, be- 
ginning, " By our first strange and fatal interview." 
Isaak Walton relates, with great simplicity, how 
the poet, one evening, as he sat alone in his cham- 
ber in Paris, saw the vision of his beloved wife 
appear to him with a dead infant in her arms, a 
story which wants only credibility to be interest- 
ing. He had at last the good fortune to attract 
the regard of King James ; and, at his majesty's 
instance, as he might now consider that he had 
outlived the remembrance of his former follies, he 
was persuaded to become a clergyman. In this 
capacity he was successively appointed chaplain 
to the king, lecturer of Lincoln's Inn, vicar of St. 
Dunstan's Fleet Street, and dean of St. Paul's. 
His death, at a late age, was occasioned by con- 
sumption. He was buried in St. Paul's, where 
his figure yet remains in the vault of St. Faith's, 
carved from a painting for which he sat a few 
days before his death, dressed in his winding-sheet. 



THE BREAK OF DAY. 
Stat, oh sweet ! and do not rise : 
The light that shines comes from thine eyes : 
The day breaks not— it is my heart, 
Because that you and I must part. 
Stay, or else my joys will die. 
And perish in their infancy. 
'Tis true, it's day — what though it be' 
O wilt thou therefore rise from me ? 
Why should we rise because 'tis light ? 
Did we lie down because 'twas night ] 
Love, which in spite of darkness brought us hither, 
Should, in despite of light, keep us together. 
Light hath no tongue, but is all eye ; 
If it could speak as well as spy. 
This were the worst that it could say. 
That, being well, I fain would stay. 
And that I loved my heart and honour so, 
That I would not from her that had them go. 
Must business thee from hence remove ] 
O, that's the worst disease of love ! 
The poor, the foul, the false, love can 
Admit, but not the busy man. 
He which hath business and makes love, doth do 
Such wrong as when a married man doth woo. 



THE DREAM. 
Image of her whom I love more than she 
Whose fair impression in my faithful heart 
Makes me her medal, and makes her love me 
As kings do coins, to which their stamps impart 
The value — go, and take my heart from hence, 
Which now is grown too great and good for me. 



Honours oppress weak spirits, and our sense 
Strong objects dull ; the more, the less we see. 
When you are gone, and reason gone with you. 
Then phantasy is queen, and soul, and all ; 
She can present joys meaner than you do, 
Convenient, and more proportional. 
So if I dream I have you, I have you. 
For all our joys are but fantastical. 
And so I 'scape the pain, for pain is true ; 
And sleep, which locks up sense, doth lock out all. 
After such a fruition I shall wake. 
And, but the waking, nothing shall repent ; 
And shall to love more thankful sonnets make, 
Than if more honour, tears, and pains, were spent. 
But, dearest heart, and dearer image, stay ; 
Alas ! true joys at best are dreams enough. 
Though you stay here you pass too fast away, 
For even at first life's taper is a snufl^. 
Fill'd with her love, may I be rather grown 
Mad with much heart, than idiot with none. 



ON THE LORD HARRINGTON, &c. 

TO THE COUNTESS OF BEDFORD. 

Fair soul ! which wast not only, as all souls be, 

Then when thou wast infused, harmony. 

But didst continue so, and now dost bear 

A part in God's great organ, this whole sphere ; 

If looking up to God, or down to us. 

Thou find that any way is pervious 

'Twixt heaven and earth, and that men's actions do 

Come to your knowledge and affections too. 

See, and with joy, me to that good degree 

Of goodness grown, that I can study thee ; 



184 



THOMAS PICKE.— GEORGE HERBERT. 



And by these meditations refined, 
Can unapparel and enlarge my mind ; 
And so can make, by this soft ecstasy. 
This place a map of heaven, myself of thee. 
Thou see'st me here at midnight now all rest, 
Time's dead low-water, when all minds divest 
To-morrow's business, when the lab'rers have 
Such rest in bed, that their last churchyard grave. 
Subject to change, wdl scarce be a type of this 
Now, when the client, whose last hearing is 
To-monow, sleeps : when the condemned man, 
(Who, when he opes his eyes, must shut them, then, 
Again by death !) although sad watch he keep, 
Doth practise dying by a little sleep. 
Thou at this midnight seest me, and as soon 
As that sun rises, to me midnight's noon ; 
All the world grows transparent, and I see 
Through all, both church and state, in seeing thee. . . 



SONG. 
Sweetest love, I do not go 
For weariness of thee. 
Nor in hope the world can show 
A fitter love for me. 
But since that I 
Must die at last, 'tis best 
Thus to use myself in jest 
By feigned death to die. 

Yesternight the sun went hence, 
And yet is here to-day ; 
He hath no desire nor sense, 
Nor half so short a way : 
Then fear not me. 
But believe that I shall make 
Hastier journeys, since I take 
More wings and spiers than he. . 



THOMAS PICKE. 



Of this author I have been able to obtain no 
farther information, than that he belonged to the 
Inner Temple, and translated a great number of 
John Owen's Latin epigrams into English. His 



songs, sonnets, and elegies, bear the date of 1631. 
Indifferent as the collection is, entire pieces of it 
are pilfered. 



FROM SONGS, SONNETS, AND ELEGIES, BY T. PICKE. 
The night, say all, was made for rest ; 
And so say I, but not for all ; 
To them the darkest nights are best, 
Which give them leave asleep to fall ; 
But I that seek my rest by light. 
Hate sleep, and praise the clearest night. 
Bright was the moon, as bright as day. 
And Venus glitter'd in the west. 
Whose light did lead the ready way. 
That led me to my wished rest ; 
Then each of them increased their light. 
While I enjoy'd her heavenly sight. 



Say, gentle dames, what moved your mind 
To shine so bright above your wont I 
Would Phoebe fair Endymion find. 
Would Venus see Adonis hunt 1 
No, no, you feared by her sight, 
To lose the praise of beauty bright. 

At last for shame you shrunk away, 
And thought to reave the world of light ; 
Then shone my dame with brighter ray. 
Than that which comes from Phoebus' sight ; 
None other light but hers I praise, 
Whose nights are clearer than the days. 



GEORGE HERBERT. 



[Born, 1593. Died, 1632-3.] 



"Holy George Herbert," as he is generally 
called, was prebendary of Leighton Ecclesia, a 
village in Huntingdonshire. Though Bacon is 
said to have consulted him about some of his 
writings, his memory is chiefly indebted to the 
affectionate mention of old Isaak Walton. 

[In saying but thus much of George Herbert, 
it seems to me that Campbell did him less than 
justice. He was a younger brother of Lord Her- 
bert of Cherbury, and was educated at Westmin- 
ster and Cambridge. He was a favourite with 
Bishop Andrews as well as with Bacon, and he 
would probably have risen at court but for the 
death of James, after which, having no more hopes 
in that quarter, he retired into Kent, where he 
lived with great privacy, and taking a survey of 



his past life determined to devote his remaining 
years to religion ; in his own words, " to consecrate 
all my learning and all my abilities to advance 
the glory of that God which gave them, know- 
ing that I can never do too much for Him that 
hath done so much for me as to make me a Chris- 
tian." He took orders, was married, and after a 
few years was presented with the living of Bemer- 
ton, near Salisbury, into which he was inducted 
in 1630. Here he passed the remainder of his 
days in the faithful discharge of the duties of a 
parish minister, as delineated by himself in " The 
Country Parson," and by Isaak Walton in his 
pleasant biography. He died, of consumption, in 
February, 1632. Herbert's « Temple, or Sa .red 
Poems," have been many times reprinted in Eng- 



GEORGE HERBERT. 



185 



land and in this country. Its popularity when 
first published was so great that when Walton 
wrote, more than twenty thousand copies of it 
had been sold. Baxter says : " I must confess 
that next the Scripture Poems, there are none so 
savory to me as our George Herbert's. I know 
that Cowley and others far excel Herbert in wit 
and accurate composure ; but as Seneca takes 
with me above all his contemporaries, because he 
speaketh by words feelingly and seriously, like a 
man that is past jest, so Herbert speaks to God, 



like a man that really believeth in God, and whose 
business in the world is most with God : heart- 
work and heaven-work make up his books." 
Coleridge, the best of critics, alludes to Herbert 
as " the model of a man, a gentleman, and a 
clergyman," and adds, " that the quaintness of 
some of his thoughts (not of his diction, than 
which nothing could be more pure, manly, and 
unattected) has blinded modern readers to the 
great general merit of his poems, which are for 
the most part excellent in their kind." — G.J 



FROM HIS POEMS, ENTITLED "THE TEMPLE, SA- 
CRED POEMS, AND PRIVATE EJACULATIONS." 

8vo, less. 
Sweet day ! so cool, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky. 
Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night, 
For thou must die. 

Sweet rose ! whose hue, angry and brave, 
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye. 
Thy root is ever in its grave. 

And thou must die. 

Sweet spring ! full of sweet days and roses, 
A box where sweets compacted lie; 
My music shows you have your closes. 
And all must die. 

Only a sweet and virtuous soul. 
Like season'd timber, never gives. 
But when the whole world turns to coal, 
Then chiefly lives. 



THE QUIP. 
The merry world did on a day 

With his train-bands and mates agree 
To meet together where I lay. 

And all in sport to jeer at me. 

First Beauty crept into a rose. 

Which when I pluck'd not, " Sir," said she, 
" Tell me, I pray, whose hands are those 1" 

But thou shalt answer. Lord, foi^ me. 

Then Money came : and, chinking still, 
" What tune is this, poor man 1" said he ; 

" I heard in music you had skill :" 
But Thou shalt answer. Lord, for me. 

Then came brave Glory puffing by. 
In silks that whistled " who but he V 

He scarce allow'd me half an eye ; 
But Thou shalt answer. Lord, for me 

Then came quick Wit and Conversation, 
And he would needs a comfort be ; 

And, to be short, make an oration : 
But Thou shalt answer. Lord, for me. 

Yet when the hour of thy design 

To answer these fine things shall come, 

Speak not at large ; say, I am thine ; 
And then they have their answer home. 
24 



GRACE. 

My stock lies dead, and no increase 
Doth my dull husbandry improve ; 
0, let Thy graces, without cease. 
Drop from above ! 

If still the sun should hide his face. 
Thy house would but a dungeon prove, 
Thy works night's captives ; 0, let grace 
Drop from above ! 

The dew doth every morning fall. 
And shall the dew outstrip Thy dovel 
The dew for which grass cannot call 
Drop from above ! 

O come, for Thou dost know the way. 
Or, if to me Thou will not move, 
Remove me where I need not say. 
Drop firom above ! 



Canst be idle, canst thou play 
Foolish soul, who sinned to-day ? 
Rivers run, and springs each one 
Know their home, and get them gone : 
Hast thou tears, or hast thou none 1 

If, poor soul, thou hast no tears, 
Wouldst thou had no fault or fears ! 
Who hath those, those ills forbears ! 

Winds still work, it is their plot 

Be the season cold or hot : 

Hast thou sighs, or hast thou not 1 

If thou hast no sighs or groans. 
Would thou hadst no flesh and bones : 
Lesser pains 'scape greater ones. 

But if yet thou idle be, 
Foolish soul, who died for thee ? 
Who did leave his Father's throne, 
To assume thy flesh and bone 1 
Had He life, or had He none 1 

If He had not lived for thee 
Thou hadst died most wretchedly; 
And two deaths had been thy fee. 

He so far thy good did plot. 
That his own self He forgot — 
Did He die, or did He not ] 
<i2 



186 



GEORGE HERBERT. 



If He had not died for thee 

Thou hadst lived in misery — 

Two lives worse than two deaths be. 

And hath any space of breath 
'Twixt his sins and Saviour's death 1 
He that loseth gold, though dross, 
Tells to all he meets, his cross — 
He that hath sins, hath he no loss 1 

He that finds a silver vein 
Thinks on it, and thinks again — 
Brings thy Saviour's death no gain 1 
Who in heart not ever kneels, 
Neither sin nor Saviour's feels. 



PEACE. 
Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell 1 I humbly 
crave 
Let me once know. 
I sought thee in a secret cave, 

And ask'd if peace were there, 
A hollow wind did seem to answer, « No ! 
Go seek elsewhere." 

I did ; — and going, did a rainbow note : 

Surely, thought I, 
This is the lace of Peace's coat : 
I will search out the matter. 
But while I look'd, the clouds immediately 
Did break and scatter. 

Then went I to a garden, and did spy 

A gallant flower, 
The crown imperial. " Sure," said I, 
" Peace at the root must dwell." 
But when I digg'd I saw a worm devour 
What show'd so well. 
At length I met a reverend good old man ; 

Whom when for peace 
I did demand, he thus began : 
" There was a prince of old 
At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase 
Of flock and fold. 

" He sweetly lived ; yet sweetness did not save 

His life from foes. 
But after death out of his grave 

There sprang twelve stalks of wheat : 
Which many wond'ring at, got some of those 
To plant and set. 

" It prosper'd strangely, and did soon disperse 

Through all the earth ; 
For they that taste it do rehearse. 
That virtues lie therein ; 
A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth. 
By flight of sin. 

« Take of this grain which in my garden grows, 

And grows for you : 
Make bread of it ; and that repose, 
And peace which everywhere 
With so much earnestness you do pursue, 
Is only there " 



I CANNOT ope mine eyes. 
But thou art ready there to catch 
My morning-soul and sacrifice : 
Then we must needs for that day make a match. 

My God, what is a heart 1 
Silver, or gold, or precious stone, 
Or star, or rainbow, or a part 
Of all these things, or all of them in one ] 

My God, what is a heart 1 
That thou shouldst it so eye and woo. 
Pouring upon it all thy art. 
As if that thou hadst nothing else to do 1 

Indeed, man's whole estate 
Amounts (and richly) to serve thee : 
He did not heaven and earth create, 
Yet studies them, not him by whom they be. 

Teach me thy love to know ; 
That this new light, which now I see 
May both the work and workman show : 
Then by a sunbeam I will climb to thee. 



THE COLLAR. 
I STRUCK the board, and cried, " No more ! 

I will abroad. 
What ! shall I ever sigh and pine ] 
My lines and life are free — free as the road, 
Loose as the wind, as large as store ; 
Shall I be still in suit 1 
Have I no harvest, but a thorn 
To let my blood ; and not restore 
What I have lost with cordial fruit] 

Sure there was wine 
Before my sighs did dry it; there was ccrn 
Before my tears did drown it; 
Is the year only lost to me 1 
Have I no bays to crown it ] 
No flowers, no garlands gay 1 all blasted 1 

All wasted ] 
Not so, my heart ! but there is fruit 

And thou hast hands. 
Recover all thy sigh-flown age 
On double pleasures ; leave thy cold dispute 
Of what is fit and not : forsake thy cage. 

Thy rope of sands. 
Which petty thoughts have made, and made to thee 
Good cable to enforce and draw, 

And be thy law, 
While thou didst wink and wouldst not see : 

Away ! take heed ! 

I will abroad. 
Call in thy death's head there : tie up thy fears. 
He that torbears 
To suit and serve his need, 

Deserves his load." 
But as I raved, and grew more fierce and wild 

At every word, 
Methought I heard one calling, " Child !" 

And I replied, " Mv Lord !" 



JOHN MARSTON. 



This writer was the antagonist of Jonson in 
."he drama, and the rival of Bishop Hall in satire,* 
though confessedly inferior to them both in their 
espective walks of poetry. While none of his 
biographers seem to know any thing about him, 
Mr. Gitlbrd (in his Memoirs of Ben Jonson) con- 
ceives that Wood has unconsciously noticed him 
as a gentleman of Coventry, who married Mary, 
the daughter of the Rev. W. Wilkes, chaplain to 
King James, and rector of St. Martin, in Wilt- 
shire. According to this notice, our poet died at 
London, in 1634, and was buried in the church 
belonging to the Temple. These particulars 
agree with what Jonson said to Drummond re- 
specting this dramatic opponent of his, in his con- 
versation at Hawthornden, viz. that Marston wrote 
his father-in-law's preachings, and his father-in- 
law Marst'^n's comedies. Marston's comedies 
are somewhat dull ; and it is not ditficult to con- 
ceive a witty sermon of those days, when puns 



were scattered from the pulpit, to have been as 
lively as an indifferent comedy. Marston is the 
Crispinus of Jonson's Poetaster, where he is 
treated somewhat less contemptuously than his 
companion Demetrius, (Dekker ;) an allusion it 
even made to the respectabihty of his birth. 
Both he and Dekker were afterwards reconciled 
to Jonson ; but Marston's reconcilement, though 
he dedicated his Malcontent to his propitiated 
enemy, seems to have been subject to relapses. 
It is amusing to find Langbaine descanting on 
the chaste purity of Marston as a writer, and the 
author of the Biographia Dramatica transcribing 
the compliment immediately before the enumera- 
tion of his plays, which are stuffed with ob- 
scenity. To this disgraceful characteristic of 
Marston an allusion is made in "The Return 
from Parnassus," where it is said, 

"Give him plain naked words striptfrom their shirts. 
That might beseem plain-dealing Aretine." 



FROM SOPHONISBA, A TKAGEDY. 

ACT V. SCENE HI. 

SoPHONiSBA, the daughter of Asdrubal, has been woopd 
by Syphax and Massinissa, rival kings of Africa, and both 
the allies of Carthage. She prefers MH8siiiis.«a; and Sy- 
pliax, indignant at her refusal, revolts to the Komans. 
Massinissa, on the night of his marriage, is summoned 
to the assistance of the Carthaginians, on the alarm of 
Scipio's invasion. The senate of Carthage, notwilhstand- 
iug Massinissa's fidelity, decree that Syphax shall be 
tempted back to them by the offer of Soph()ni>ba in mar- 
riage. Sophonisba is on the point of being sacr.ficcd to 
the enforcid nuptials, when Massinissa, who had been 
apprized of the treachery of Carthage, attacks the troops 
of Syphax, joins the Komans, and brings Syphax a cap- 
tive to Scipio's feet. Syphax, in liis justification to Seipio, 
pleads, that his love for Sophonisba alone hjid terapti d 
him to revolt from Rome. Seipio therefore orders that 
the daughter of Asdrubal, when taken prisoner, shall 
belong to the Komans alone. Lelius and Massinissa 
march on to Cirta, and storm the palace of Syphax, 
where they find Sophonisba. 

The cornets sounding a march, Massinissa enters with his 
beaver up. 

Mass. March to the palace ! 

Soph. Whate'er man thou art. 
Of Lybia thy fair arms speak, give heart 
To amazed weakness : hear her that for long time 
Hath seen no wished light. Sophonisba, 
A name for misery much known, 'tis she 
Intreats of thy graced sword this only boon : 
Let me not kneel to Rome ; for though ao cause 
Of mine deserves their hate, though Massinissa 
Be ours to heart, yet Roman generals 
Make proud their triumphs with whatever captives. 
O 'tis a nation which from soul I fear. 
As one well knowing the much-grounded hate 
They bear to Asdrubal and Carthage blood ! 

* lie wrote the Scourge of Villany; three books of 
satires, 159a. He was also author of the Metjimnrphosis 
of I'igmalion's Image, and certain Satires, pulilished 1598, 
which makes his date as satirist nearly coeval with that 
of Uishop Uall. 



Therefore, with tears that wash thy feet, with hands 
Unused to beg, I clasp thy manly knees. 
O save me from their fetters and contempt, 
Their proud insults, and more than insolence ! 
Or if it rest not in thy grace of breath 
To grant such freedom, give me long-wish'd death ; 
For 'tis not much-loathed life that now we crave — 
Only an unshamed death and silent grave, 
We will now deign to bend for. 

Muss. Rarity ! 
By thee and this right hand, thou shalt live free ! 

Soph. We cannot now be wretched. 

Mass. Stay the sword ! 
Iiet slaughter cease ! sounds, soft as Leda's breast, 
[Soft music. 
Slide through all ears! this night be love's high feast. 

Soph. O'erwhelm me not with sweets ; let me 
not drink 
Till my breast burst ! O Jove ! thy nectar, think — 
[She sinks into Massinissa's arms. 

Mass. She is o'ercome with joy. 

Soph. Help, help to bear 
Some happiness, ye powers ! I've joy to spare 
Enough to make a god ! O Massinissa ! 

Mass. Peace: 
A silent thinking makes full joys increase. 
Enter Lelius. 

Lei. Massinissa ! 

31uss. Lelius ! 

Lei. Thine ear. 

Muss. Stand off! 

Lei. From Seipio thus : by thy late vow of faith, 
And mutual league of endless amity, 
As thou respect'st his virtue or Rome's force, 
Deliver Sophonisba to our hand. 

Mass. Sophonisba! 

LcL Sophonisba 



188 



JOHN MARSTON. 



Soph. My lord 
Looks pale, and from his half-burst eyes a flame 
Of deep disquiet breaks ! the gods turn false 
My sad presage. 

Muss. Sophonisba ! 

Lei. Even she. 

Muss. She kill'd not Scipio's father, nor his uncle, 
Great Cneius. 

Lei. Carthage did. 

Mass. To her what's Carthage 1 

Lei. Know 'twas her father Asdrubal, struck off 
His father's head. Give place to faith and fate. 

Mass. 'Tis cross to honour. 

Lei. But 'tis just to state. 
So speaketh Scipio : do not thou detain 
A Roman prisoner due to this great triumph. 
As thou shalt answer Rome and him. 

Mass. Lelius, 
We are now in Rome's power. Lelius, 
View Massinissa do a loathed act 
Most sinking from that state his heart did keep. 
Look, Lelius, look, see Massinissa weep ! 
Know I have made a vow more dear to me 
Than my soul's endless being. She shall rest 
Free from Rome's bondage ! 

Lei. But thou dost forget 
Thy vow, yet fresh thus breathed. When I desist 
To be commanded by thy virtue, Scipio, 
Or fall from friend of Rome, revenging gods 
Afflict me with your tortures ! 

Mass. Lelius, enough : 
Salute the Roman — tell him we will act 
What shall amaze him. 

Lei. Wilt thou yield her, then 1 

31us. She shall arrive there straight. 

Lei. Best fate of men 
To thee ! 

Mass. And, Scipio, have I lived, O Heavens ! 
To be enforcedly perfidious ! 

Sofli. What unjust grief afflicts my worthy lord 1 

Mass. Thank mc, ye gods, with much behold- 
ingness ; 
For, mark, I do not curse you. 

Soph. Tell me, sweet. 
The cause of thy much anguish. 

3Iass. Ha ! the cause — 
Let's see — wreathe back thine arms, bend down 

thy neck, 
Practise base prayers, make fit thyself for bondage. 

Si:ph. Bondage ! 

31ass. Bondage ! Roman bondage ! 

Soph. No, no ! 

Muss. How, then, have I vow'd well to Scipio 1 

Soph. How, then, to Sophonisba 1 

Mass. Right : which way 1 
Run mad ! — impossible — distraction ! [power. 

Soph. Dear lord, thy patience : let it 'maze all 
And list to her in whose sole heart it rests, 
To keep thy faith upright. 

Mass. Wilt thou be slaved 1 
Soph. No, free. 

Mass, How, then, keep I my faith 1 
Styph. My death 
Gives help to all ! From Rome so rest we free ; 
So brought to Scipio, faith is kept in thee. 



Enter Page witfi a howl of wine. 
Mass. Thou darest not die — some wine 
darest not die ! 



-thou 



».] 



[S'le taAe*- a bnwl, into which Massinissa j 
Behold me, Massinissa, like thyself, 
A king and soldier ; and, I pray thee, keep 
My last command. 

Muss. Speak, sweet. 

Soph. Dear ! do not weep. 
And now with undismay'd resolve behold. 
To save you — you — (for honour and just faith 
Are most true gods, which we should much adore) 
With even disdainful vigour I give up [to ine. 

An abhorr'd life ! {She (/rinks.) You have been good 
And I do thank thee, Heaven. my stars ! 
I bless your goodness, that, with breast unstain'd, 
Faith pure, a virgin wife, tied to my glory, 
I die, of female faith the long-lived story ; 
Secure from bondage and all servile harms. 
But more, most happy ii) my husband's arms. 



FROM ANTONIO AND MELLIDA. 

ACT m. SCENE I. 

Representing the affliction of fallen greatnewin Andruoio, 
Duke of Genoa, after he ha.^ been defeated by the Vene- 
tians, proscribed by bis countrymen, and left wilh only 
two attendants in his flight. 

Enter Andrugio in armour, Lucio with a shepherd's gown 
171 his hand, and a Page. 

And. Is not yon gleam the shuddering morn, 
that flakes 
With silver tincture the east verge of heaven 1 

Luc, 1 think it is, so please your excellence. 

,^iid. Away ! I have no excellence to please. 
Prithee observe the custom of the world. 
That only flatters greatness, states exalts ; 
And please my excellence ! Oh, Lucio, 
Thou hast been ever held respected, dear. 
Even precious to Andrugio's inmost love. 
Good, flatter not. Nay, if thou givest not faith 
That I am wretched ; oh, read that, read that — 
My thoughts are fix'd in contemplation 
Why this huge earth, this monstrous animal. 
That eats her children, should not have eyes and 

ears. 
Philosophy maintains that Nature's wise. 
And forms no useless or imperfect thing. 
Did nature make the earth, or the earth nature ': 
For earthly dirt makes all things, makes the man 
Moulds me up honour ; and, like a cunning Dutcii- 

man. 
Paints me a puppet even with seeming breath, 
And gives a sot appearance of a soul. 
Go to, go to ; thou liest, philosophy ; 
Nature forms things imperfect, useless, vain. 
Why made she not the earth with eyes and ears ? 
That she might see desert, and hear men's plaints : 
That when a soul is splitted, sunk with grief. 
He might fall thus upon the breast of earth, 

[ffe tlirows himself on Ou ground. 
And in her ear, hallow his misery. 
Exclaiming thus : Oh, thou all-bearing earth. 
Which men do gape for, till thou cramm'st theii 
mouths, 



And choak'st their throats with dust : open thy 

breast, 
And let me sink into thee. Look who knocks; 
Andrugio calls. But, oh ! she's deaf and blind. 
A wretch but lean relief on earth can find. 

Luc. Sweet lord, abandon passion, and disarm. 
Since by the fortune of the tumbling sea, 
We are roH'd up upon the Venice marsh, 
Let's clip all fortune, lest more low'ring fate 

A)id. More low'ring fate 1 Oh, Lucio, choke 
that breath. 
Now I defy chance. Fortune's brow hath frown'd, 
Even to the utmost wrinkle it can bend : 
Her venom's spit. Alas, what country rests, 
What son, what comfort that she can deprive? 
Triumphs not Venice in my overthrow ] 
Gapes not my native country for my blood ? 
Lies not my son tomb'd in the swelling main ? 
And is more low'ring fate ] There's nothing left 
Unto Andrugio, but Andrugio : 
And that nor mischief, force, distress, nor hell, can 

take. 
Fortune my fortunes, not my mind shall shake. 

Luc. Spoke like yourself: but give me leave, 
my lord, 
To wish your safety. If you are but seen, 
Your arms display you ; therefore put them off, 
And take 

Jlnd. Wouldst have me go unarm'd among 
my foesi 
Being besieged by passion, entering lists. 
To combat with despair and mighty grief; 
My soul beleagur'd with the crushing strength 
Of sharp impatience. Ah, Lucio, go unarm'd 1 
Come soul, resume the valour of thy birth ; 
Myself, myself, will dare all opposites: 
I'll muster forces, an unvanquish'd power; 
Cornets of horse shall press th' ungrateful earth. 
This hollow wombed mass shall inly groan. 
And murmur to sustain the weight of arms : 
Ghastly amazement, with upstarted hair. 
Shall hurry on before, and usher us. 
Whilst trumpets clamour with a sound of death. 

Luc. Peace, good my lord, your speech is all 
too light. 
Alas ! survey your fortunes, look what's left 
Of all your forces, and your utmost hopes, 
A weak old man, a page, and your poor self. 

And. Andrugio lives, and a fair cause of arms ; 
Why that's an army all invincible. 
He, who hath that, hath a battalion royal. 
Armour of proof, huge troops of barbed steeds. 
Main squares of pikes, millions of arquebuse. 
Oh, a fair cause stands firm and will abide ; 
Legions of angels fight upon her side. 

Luc. Then, noble spirit, slide m strange disguise 



Unto some gracious prince, and sojourn there. 
Till time and fortune give revenge firm means. 

And. No, I'll not trust the honour of a man : 
Gold is grown great, and makes perfidiousness 
A common waiter in most princes' courts : 
He's in the check-roll : I'll not trust my blood : 
I know none breathing but will cog a dye 
For twenty thousand double pistolets. 
How goes the time 1 

Luc. I saw no sun to-day. 

And. No sun will shine where poor Andrugio 
breathes : 
My soul grows heavy : boy, let's have a song ; 
We'll sing yet, faith, even in despite of fate. 



FROM THE SAME. 

ACT IV. 

Andr. Come, Lucio, let's go eat — what hast 
thou got 1 
Roots, roots ■? Alas ! they're seeded, new cut up. 
O thou hast wronged nature, Lucio ; 
But boots not much, thou but pursu'st the world, 
That cuts off virtue 'fore it comes to growth. 
Lest it should seed, and so o'errun her son, 
Dull, pore-blind error. Give me water, boy ; 
There is no poison in't, I hope ] they say 
That lurks in massy plate ; and yet the earth 
Is so infected with a general plague. 
That he's most wise that thinks there's no man fool, 
Right prudent that esteems no creature just : 
Great policy the least things to mistrust. 
Give me assay. How we mock greatness now ! 

Luc. A strong conceit is rich, so most men deem ; 
If not to be, 'tis comfort yet to seem. 

Andr. Why, man, I never was a prince till now ! 
'Tis not the bared pate, the bended knees. 
Gilt tipstaves, Tyrian purple, chairs of state, 
Troops of pied butterflies, that flutter still 
In greatness' summer, that confirm a prince ; 
'Tis not th' unsavoury breath of multitudes, 
Shouting and clapping with confused din, 
That makes a prince. No, Lucio, he's a king, 
A true right king, that dares do ought save wrong. 
Fears nothing mortal but to be unjust ; 
Who is not blown up with the flattering puffs 
Of spungy sycophants ; who stands unmoved. 
Despite the justling of opinion; 
Who can enjoy himself, maugre the throng 
That strive to press his quiet out of him ; 
Who sits upon'Jove's footstool, as I do. 
Adoring, not affecting majesty ; 
Whose brow is wreathed with the silver crown 
Of clear content : this, Lucio, is a king, 
And of this empire every man's possess d 
That's worth his soul. 



GEORGE CHAPMAN. 



[Born, 1557 Died, 1634.] 



Georoe Chapman was born at Hitching-hill,* 
in the county of Hertford, and studied at Oxford. 
From thence he repaired to London, and became 
the fiiend of Shakspeare, Spenser, Daniel, Mar- 
lowe, and other contemporary men of genius. 
He was patronized by Prince Henry, and Carr 
Earl of Somerset. The death of the one, and 
the disgrace of the other, must have injured his 
prospects ; but he is supposed to have had some 
place at court, either under King James or his 
consort Anne. He lived to an advanced age ; and, 
according to Wood, was a person of reverend 
aspect, religious, and temperate. Inigo Jones, 
with whom he lived on terms of intimate friend- 
ship, planned and erected a monument to his 
memory over his burial-place, on the south side 
of St. Giles's church in the fields ; but it was un- 
fortunately destroyed with the ancient church- 



Chapman seems to have been a favourite of his 
own times ; and in a subsequent age, his version 
of Homer excited the raptures of Waller, and was 
diligently consulted by Pope. The latter speaks 
of its daring fire, though he owns that it is clouded 
by fustian. Webster, his fellow dramatist, praises 
his " full and heightened style," a character which 
he does not deserve in any favourable sense ; for 
his diction is chiefly marked by barbarous rugged- 
ncss, false elevation, and extravagant metaphor. 
The drama owes him very little ; his Bussy D'Am- 
bois is a piece of frigid atrocity, and in the Widow's 
Tears, where his heroine Cynthia falls in love 
with a sentinel guarding the corps of her husband, 
whom she was bitterly lamenting, he has drama- 
tized one of the most puerile and disgusting legends 
ever fabricated for the disparagement of female 
constancy.f 



FROM THE COMEDY OP ALL FOOLS. 

A Son appeasing his Father by Submission, after a 
Stolen Marriage. 

Persons — Oostanzo, the father ; Valeric, ttie son ; Marc- 
Antonio and Ri a ALDO, friends: and Oratiana, the bride 
of Valeuio. 

Ryn. Come on, I say ; 
Your father with submission will be calm'd ! 
Come on, down on your knees. 

Gost. Villain, durst thou 
Presume to gull thy father 1 dost thou not 
Tremble to see my bent and cloudy brows 
Ready to thunder on thy graceless head. 
And with the bolt of my displeasure cut 
The thread of all my living from thy life. 
For taking thus a beggar to thy wifel 

Val. Father, if that part I have in your blood, 
If tears, which so abundantly distil 
Out of my inward eyes; and for a need 
Can drown these outward (lend me thy handker- 
chief,) 
And being indeed as many drops of blood, 
Issuing from the creator of my heart. 
Be alile to beget so much compassion, 
Not on my life, but on this lovely dame. 
Whom I hold dearer 

Gost. Out upon thee, villain. 

Mure. Jnt. Nay, good Gostanzo, think you are 
a father. 

Gosl. I will not hear a word ; out, out upon thee : 
Wed without my advice, my love, my knowledge, 
Ay, and a beggar too, a trull, a blowze 1 

* William Browne, the pastoral poet, calls him "the 
learned Sluipherd of fair Uitcliing-liill." 

[t " Chapman, who assisted Ben Joiison and some others 
In lomfdy, deserves no great praise for his Bussy D'Am- 
bois. The style in this, and in all his tragedies, is extrava- 
gantly hyperbolical; he is not very dramatic, nor has any 
power of exciting emotion exci-p in those who sympathize 
with a tumid pride auU se!f-coufideuce. Yet he has more 
1«0 



Ryn. You thought not so last day, when you 
ofler'd her 
A twelvemonth's board for one night's lodging 
with her. 

Gost. Go to, no more of that! peace, good 
Rynaldo, 
It is a fault that only she and you know. 

JRya. Well, sir, go on, I pray. 

Gost. Have I, fond wretch, 
With utmost care and labour brought thee up. 
Ever instructing thee, omitting never 
The office of a kind and careful father, 
To make thee wise and virtuous like thy father' 
And hast thou in one act everted all? 
Proclaim'd thyself to all the world a fool 1 
To wed a beggar 1 

Val. Father, say not so. 

Gost. Nay, she's thy own ; here, rise fool, take 
her to thee. 
Live with her still, I know thou count'st thyself 
Happy in soul, only in winning her : 
Be happy st.ll, here, take her hand, enjoy her. 
Would not a son hazard his father's wrath, 
His reputation in the world, his birthright. 
To have but such a mess of broth as this ] 

Marc. Ant. Be not so violent, I pray you, good 
Gostanzo, 
Take truce with passion, license your sad son, 
To speak in his excuse? 

Gost. What? what excuse? 
Can any orator in this case excuse him ? 
What can he say ? what can be said of any ? 

thinking than many of the old dramatists. His tragi- 
comedies All Fools and The (ientleman-Uslier, are perhaps 
superior to his tragedies." — Hallam, Lit. Hist., vol. iii. 
p. (321. 

'•Chapman would have made a great Epic Poet, if indeed 
he has not abundantly shown liimself to be one; for )iis 
Homer is not so properly a Translation as the stories of 
Achilles and Ulysses re-written." — Lamb. — C.] 



THOMAS RANDOLPH. 



191 



Val. Alas, sir, hear me ! all that I can say 
In my excuse, is but to show love's warrant. 

Gusl. Notable wag. 

Val. I know I have committed 
A great impiety, not to move you first 
Before the dame, I meant to make my wife. 
Consider what I am, yet young, and green, 
Behold what she is ; is there not in her 
Ay, in her very eye, a power to conquer 
Even age itself and wisdom ] Call to mind. 
Sweet father, what yourself being young have been. 
Think what you may be ; for I do not think 
The world so far spent with you. but you may 
Look back on such a beauty, and I hope 
To see you young again, and to live long 
With young afl'ections ; wisdom makes a man 
Live young for ever : and where is this wisdom 
If not in you ] alas, I know not what 
Kest in your wisdom to subdue ali'ections ; 
But I protest it wrought with me so strongly. 
That I had quite been drown'd in seas of tears, 
Had I not taken hold in happy time 
Of this sweet hand ; my heart had been consumed 
T' a heap of ashes with the flames of love, 
Had it not sweetly been assuaged and cool'd 
With the moist kisses of these sugar'd lips. 

Gost. O puissant wag, what huge large thongs 
he cuts 
Out of his friend Fortunio's stretching leather. 

Marc. Ant. He knows he docs it but to blind 
my eyes. 

Gosl, O excellent ! these men will put up any- 
thing. 

Val. Had I not had her, I had lost my life: 
Which life indeed I would have lost before 
I had displeased you, had I not received it 
From such a kind, a wise, and honour'd father. 

Gosl. Notable boy. 

V(d. Yet do I here renounce 
Love, life and all, rather than one hour longer 
Endure to have your love eclipsed from me. 

Gral. O, I can hold no longer, if thy words 
Be used in earnest, my Valerio, 
Thou wound'st my heart, but I know 'tis in jest. 

Gost. No, I'll be sworn she has her liripoop too. 



Grat. Didst thou not swear to love me, spite 
of father and all the world 1 
That nought should sever us but death itself? 

Val. I did ; but if my father 
Will have his son forsworn, upon his soul 
The blood of my black perjury shall lie, 
For I will seek ais favour though I die. [know 

Gost. No, no, live still my son, thou well shalt 
I have a father's heart : come, join your hand&> 
Still keep thy vow.s, and live together still, 
Till cruel death set foot betwixt you both. 

Val. O speak you this in earnest 1 

Gosl. Ay, by heaven ! 

Val. And never to recall it? 

Gost. Not till death. 



Speech of Valerio to Rtnaldo, m answer to his bitter 

INVtCTIVE AGAINST THE SeX. 

I TELL thee love is nature's second sun. 
Causing a spring of virtues where he shines. 
And as without the sun, the world's great eye, 
All colours, beauties, both of art and nature, 
Are given in vain to men ; so without love 
All beauties bred in women are in vain, 
All virtues born in men lie buried, 
For love informs them as the sun doth colours. 
And as the sun, reflecting his warm beams 
Against the earth, begets all fruits and flowers, 
So love, fair shining in the inward man. 
Brings forth in him the honourable fruits 
Of valour, wit, virtue, and haughty thoughts. 
Brave resolution, and divine discourse. 
O 'tis the paradise ! the heaven of earth ! 
And didst thou know the comfort of two hearts 
In one delicious harmony united, 
As to joy one joy, and think both one thought, 
Live both one life, and there in double life, .... 
Thou wouldst abhor thy tongue for blasphemy. 



Pride. 

O, the good gods. 
How blind is pride ! What eagles are we still 
In matters that belong to other men ' 
What beetles in our own ! 



THOMAS RANDOLPH. 



[Bo: 



1605. Died, 1634.] 



Thomas Randolph was the son of a steward 
to Lord Zouch. He was a king's scholar at West- 
minster, and obtained a fellowship at Cambridge. 
His wit and learning endeared him to Ben Jon- 
son, who owned him, like Cartwright, as his 
adopted son in the Muses. Unhappily he fol- 
lowed the taste of Ben not only at the pen, but 
at the bottle ; and he closed his life in poverty, 
at the age of twenty-nine, — a date lamentably 
premature, when we consider the promises of his 
genius. His wit and humour are very conspicu- 
ous in the Puritan characters, whom he supposes 
the sjjectators of his scenes in the Muse's Look- 
ing-Glass. Throughout the rest of that drama 



(though it is on the whole his best performance) 
he unfortunately prescribed to himself too hard 
and confined a system of dramatic effect. Pro- 
fessing simply, 

" in single ccenes to show, 

How comedy presents each siugle vice, 

Kidiculou8 — " 

he introduces the vices and contrasted humours 
of human nature in a tissue of unconnected per- 
sonifications, and even refines his representations 
of abstract character into conflicts of speculative 
opinion. 

For his skill in this philosophical pageantry the 
poet speaks of being indebted to Aristotle, and 



192 



THOMAS RANDOLPH. 



probably thought of his play what Voltaire said 
of one of his own, " This would please you, if you 
were Gieeks." The female critic's reply to Vol- 
taire was very reasonable, " But we are not Greeks^' 
Judging of Randolph, however, by the plan which 
he professed to follow, his execution is vigorous : 
his ideal characters are at once distinct and vari- 
ous, and compact with the expression which he 



purposes to give them. He was author of five 
other dramatic pieces, besides miscellaneous 
poems.* 

He died at the house of his friend, W. Stafford, 
Esq. of Biatherwyke, in his native county, and 
was buried in the adjacent church, where an ap- 
propriate monument was erected to him by Sir 
Christopher, afterwards Lord Hatton. 



INTRODUCTORT SCENE OF "THE MUSES LOOK- 
ING-GLASS." 

Ei^ter BrRD, a feather^man, and Mrs. Flowerdew, wife to a 
hahrrdaslier of small wares — the one having brought fea- 
thers to the pUyhori^e, the other pins and looldng-glasses— 
two of the sanctified fraternity of Btaclfriars. 

Mrs. Fhwerdew. See, brother, how the wicked 
throng and crowd 
To works of vanity ! not a nook or corner 
In all this house of sin, this cave of filthiness. 
This den of spiritual thieves, but it is stuff 'd, 
Stuff'd, and stuff'd full, as is a cushion. 
With the lewd reprobate. 

Bird. Sister, were there not before inns — 
Yes, I will say inns (for my zeal bids me 
Say filthy inns) enough to harbour such 
As travell'd to destruction the broad way, 
But they build more and more — more shops of 
Satan 1 

Mrs. F. Iniquity aboundeth, though pure zeal 
Teach, preach, huff, puft', and snuff at it ; yet still, 
Still it aboundeth ! Had we seen a church, 
A new-built church, erected north and south, 
It had been something worth the wondering at. 

Bird. Good works are done. 

Mrs. F. I say no works are good ; 
Good works are merely popish and apocryphal. 

Bird. But the bad abound, surround, yea, and 
confound us. 
No marvel now if playhouses increase, 
For they are all grown so obscene of late. 
That one begets another. 

Mrs. F. Flat fornication ! 
I wonder anybody takes delight 
To hear them prattle. 

Bird. Nay, and I have heard. 
That in a — tragedy, I think they call it, 
They make no more of killing one another, 
Than you sell pins. 

Mrs. F. Or you sell feathers, brother ; 
But are they not hang'd for it 1 

Bird. Law grows partial. 
And finds it but chance-medley : and their comedies 
Will abuse you, or me, or anybody ; 
We cannot put pur moneys to increase 
By lawful usury, nor break in quiet. 
Nor put off our false wares, nor keep our wives 
Finer than others, but our ghosts must walk 
Upon their stages. 

Mrs. F. Is not this flat conjuring. 
To make our ghosts to walk ere we be dead 1 



* 1. Aristippus, or the .Tovial Philosopher.— 2. The Con- 
ceited Pedlar.—:}. The Jealous Lovers, a comedy. — 1. Amyn- 
TMs, or the liiipo.s.iible Dowry, a pa.«toral. — 5. Uey for 
Uouestv i>owii with Knavery, a comedy. 



Bird. That's nothing, Mrs. Flowerdew ! they 
will play 
The knave, the fool, the devil and all, for money. 

Mrs. F. Impiety ! O, that men endued with 
Should have no more grace in them ! [reason 

Bird, Be there not other 
Vocations as thriving, and more honest \ 
Bailiffs, promoters, jailers, and apparitours, 
Beadles and martials-men, the needful instruments 
Of the repuhlic; but to make themselves 
Such monsters ! for they are monsters — th' are 

monsters — 
Base, sinful, shameless, ugly, vile, deform'd, 
Pernicious monsters ! 

Mrs. F. I have heard our vicar 
Call play-houses the colleges of transgression, 
Wherein the seven deadly sins are studied. 

Bird, Why then the city will in time be made 
An university of iniquity. 

We dwell by Black-Friars college, where I wonder 
How that profane nest of pernicious birds 
Dare roost themselves there in the midst of us. 
So many good and well-disposed persons. 

impudence ! 

Mrs. F. It was a zealous prayer 

1 heard a brother make concerning play-houses. 

Bird. For charity, what is't 1 

Mrs, F, That the Globef 
Wherein (quoth he) reigns a whole world of vice, 
Had been consumed ; the Phoenix burnt to ashes ; 
The Fortune whtpt for a blind whore; Blackfriars 
He wonders how it 'scaped demolishing 
r th' time of reformation : lastly, he wish'd 
The Bull might cross the Thames to the Bear- 
And there be soundly baited. [garden, 

Bird, A good 'prayer! [science, 

Mrs, F. Indeed, it something pricks my con- 
I come to sell 'em pins and looking-glasses. 

Bird. I have their custom, too, for all their 
feathers ; 
'Tis fit that we, which are sincere professors, 
Should gain by infidels. 

SPEECH OF ACOLASTUS THE EPICURE. 

FROM THK SAME. 

O ! NOW for an eternity of eating ! 
I would have 



My senses feast together ; Nature envied us 

In giving single pleasures. Let me have 

My ears, eyes, palate, nose, and touch, at once 

t That the Globe. Ac— The Globe, the Phcenix, the For- 
tune, the lUackfiiar.s the Red Bull, and Bear Garden, 
were names of several play-houses then in being. 



THOMAS RANDOLPH. 



193 



Enjoy their happiness. Lay me in a bed 
Made of a summer's cloud ; to my embraces 
Give me a Venus hardly yet fifteen, 
Fresh, plump, and active — she that Mars enjoy'd 
Is grown too stale; and then at the same instant 
My touch is pleased, I would delight my sight 
With pictures of Diana and her nymphs 
Naked and bathing, drawn by some Apelles; 
By them some of our fairest virgins stand, 
That I may see whether 'tis art or nature 
Which heightens most my blood and appetite. 
Nor cease I here : give me the seven orbs. 
To charm my ears with their celestial lutes. 
To which the angels that do move those spheres 
Shall sing some am'rous ditty. Nor yet here 
Fix I my bounds : the sun himself shall fire 
The phu?nix nest to make me a perfume. 
While I do eat the bird, and eternally 
Quaff off eternal nectar ! These, single, are 
But torments; but together, O together. 
Each is a paradise ! Having got such objects 
To please the sense.Oj give me senses too 
Fit to receive those objects ; give me, therefore. 
An eagle's eye, a blood-hound's curious smell, 
A stag's quick hearmg ; let my feeling be 
As subtle as the spider's, and my taste 
Sharp as a squirrel's — then I'll read the Alcoran, 
And what delights that promises in future, 
I'll practise in the present. 



COLAX, THE FLATTERER, 



FROM THE SAME. 

JcolaslKS. Then let's go drink a while. 

^nuisihetus, 'Tis too much labour. Happy 
That never drinks ! . . . [Tantalus, 

Colax. Sir, I commend this temperance. Your 
Is able to contemn these petty baits, [arm'd soul 
These slight temptations, which we title pleasures, 
That are indeed but names. Heaven itself knows 
No such like thing. The stars nor eat, nor drink, 
Nor lie with one another, and you imitate 
Those glorious bodies ; by which noble abstinence 
You gain the name of moderate, chaste, and sober, 
While this effeminate gets the infamous terms 
Of glutton, drunkard, and adulterer; 
Pleasures that are not man's, as man is man, 
But as his nature sympathies with beasts. 
Y'ou shall be the third Cato — this grave look 

And rigid eyebrow will become a censor 

But I will fit you with an object, Sir, 

My noble Anaisthetus, that will please you; 

It is a looking-glass, wherein at once 

You may see all the dismal groves and caves. 

The horrid vaults, dark cells, and banen deserts. 

With what in hell itself can dismal be !. 

Atiaislh. This is, indeed, a prospect fit for me. 

lExit. 

Arolas. He cannot see a stock or stone, but pre- 
He wishes to be turn'd to one of those. [sently 
I have another humour — I cannot see 
A fat voluptuous sow with full delight 
Wallow in dirt, but I do wish myself 
25 



Transform'd into that blessed epicure ; 

Or when I view the hot salacious sparrow, . . . 

I wish myself that little bird of love. 

Colax. It shows you a man of soft moving clay 
Not made of flint. Nature has been bountiful 
To provide pleasures, and shall we be niggards 
At plentiful boards 1 He's a discourteous guest 
That will observe a diet at a feast. 
When Nature thought the earth alone too little 
To find us meat, and therefore stored the air 
With winged creatures ; not contented yet, 
She made the water fruitful to delight us ! 
Nay, I believe the other element too 
Doth nurse some curious dainty for man's food. 
If we would use the skill to catch the salamander. 
Did she do this to have us eat with temperance ! 
Or when she gave so many different odours 
Of spices, unguents, and all sorts of flowers, 
She cried not, •' Stop your noses." Would she 
So sweet a choir of wing'd musicians, [give us 
To have us deaf] or when she placed us here — 
Here in a paradise, where such pleasing prospects, 
So many ravishing colours, entice the eye, 
Was it to have us winkl When she bestow'd 
So powerful faces, such commanding beauties, 
On many glorious nymphs, was it to say, 
Be chaste and continent 7 Not to enjoy 
All pleasures, and at full, were to make Nature 
Guilty of that she ne'er was guilty ot^ — 
A vanity in her works. 



COLAX TO PHILOTIMIA, OR THE PROUD LADY. 

FROM THE SAME. 

Colax. Madam Superbia, 
You're studying the lady's library, 
The looking-glass : 'tis well, so great a beauty 
Must have her ornaments ; nature adorns 
The peacock's tail with stars ; 'tis she arrays 
The bird of paradise in all her plumes. 
She decks the fields with various flowers ; 'tis she 
Spangled the heavens with all their glorious lights ; 
She spotted th' ermine's skin, and arm'd the fish 
In silver mail : but man she sent forth naked — 
Not that he should remain so — but that he. 
Endued with reason, should adorn himself 
With every one of these. To silk-worm is 
Only man's spinster, else we might suspect 
That she esteem'd the painted butterfly 
Above her master-piece; you are the image 
Of that bright goddess, therefore wear the jewels 
Of all the East — let the Red Sea be ransack'd 
To make you glitter ! 



THE PRAISE OF WOMAN. 

FROM HI8 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

He is a parricide to his mother's name. 
And with an hnpious hand murders her fame. 
That wrongs the praise of women ; that dares write 
Libels on saints, or with foul ink requite 
The milk they lent us ! Better sex ! command 
To your defence my more rehgious hand. 
At sword or pen ; yours was the nobler birth. 
For you of man were made, man but of earth — 
K 



194 



RICHARD CORBET. 



The sun of dust ; and though your sin did breed 
His fall, again you raised him in your seed. 
Adam, in 's sleep, again full loss sustain'd, 
That for one rib a better half regain'd. 
Who, had he not your blest creation seen 
In Paradise an anchorite had been. 
Why in this work did the creation rest, 
But that Eternal Providence thought you best 
Of all his six days' labour 1 Beasts should do 
Homage to man, but man shall wait on you ; 
You are of comelier sight, of daintier touch, 
A lender flesh, and colour bright, and such 
As Parians see in marble ; skin more fair. 
More glorious head, and far more glorious hair; 
Eyes full of grace and quickness ; purer roses 
Blush in your cheeks, a milder white composes 
Your stately fronts; yourbreath,more sweet than his. 
Breathes spice, and nectar drops at every kiss. . . . 



If, then, in bodies where the souls do dwell. 

You better us, do then our souls excel 1 

No. . . . 

Boast we of knowledge, you are more than we, 

You were the first ventured to pluck the tree ; 

And that more rhetoric in your tongues do 

lie, 
Let him dispute against that dares deny 
Your least commands ; and not persuaded be 
"With Samson's strength and David's piety, 

To be your willing captives 

Thus, perfect creatures, if detraction rise 
Against your sex, dispute but with your eyes, 
Your hand, your lip, your brow, there will be 

sent 
So subtle and so strong an argument. 
Will teach the stoic his affections too. 
And call the cynic from his tub to woo. 



RICHARD CORBET. 

[Born, 1582 

The anecdotes of this facetious b'sliop, quoted 
by Headley from the Aubrey MSS. would fill 
several pages of a jest-book. It is more to his 
honour to be told, that though entirely hostile in 
his principles to the Puritans, he frequently soft- 
ened, with his humane and characteristic plea- 



Died, 1635.] 

santry, the furious orders against them which 
Laud enjoined him to execute. On the whole 
he does credit to the literary patronage of James, 
who made him dean of Christ's Church, and suc- 
cessively bishop of Oxford and Norwich. 



DR. CORBErS JOURNEY INTO FRANCE. 
I WENT from England into France, 
Nor yet to learn to cringe nor dance. 
Nor yet to ride nor fence ; 
Nor did I go like one of those 
That do return with half a nose, 
They carried from hence. 

But I to Paris rode along. 

Much like John Dory in the song. 

Upon a holy tide ; 

I on an ambling nag did jet, 

(I trust he is not paid for yet,) 

And spurr'd him on each side. 

And to St. Denis fast we came. 
To see the sights of Notre Dame, 
(The man that shows them snaffles,) 
Where who is apt for to believe. 
May see our Lady's right-arm sleeve, 
And eke her old 



Her breast, her milk, her very gown 
That she did wear in Bethlehem town. 
When in the inn she lay ; 
Yet all the world knows that's a fable. 
For so good clothes ne'er lay in stable. 
Upon a lock of hay. 

No carpenter could by his trade 

Gain so much coin as to have made 

A gown of so rich stufT; 

Yet they, poor souls, think for their credit. 

That they believe old Joseph did it, 

'Cause he deserv'd enough. 



There is one of the cross's nails. 
Which whoso sees his bonnet vails, 
And, if he will, may kneel ; 
Some say 'twas false, 'twas never so. 
Yet, feeling it, thus much I know. 
It is as true as steel. 

There is a lantern which the Jews, 
When Judas led them forth, did use. 
It weighs my weight down right; 
But to believe it, you must think 
The Jews did put a candle in't. 
And then 'twas very light. 

There's one saint there hath lost his nose. 

Another 's head, but not his toes. 

His elbow and his thumb ; 

But when that we had seen the rags, 

We went to ih' inn and took our nags, 

And so away did come. 

We came to Paris, on the Seine, 
'Tis wondrous fair, 'tis nothing clean, 
'Tis Europe's greatest town ; 
How strong it is I need not tell it. 
For all the world may easily smell it. 
That walk it up and down. 

There many strange things are to see, 

The palace and great gallery. 

The Place Royal doth excel. 

The New Bridge, and the statues there, 

At Notre Datne St. Q. Pater. 

The steeple bears the bell. 



RICHARD CORBET. 



1J5 



For learning the University, 
And for old clothes the Frippery, 
The house the queen did build. 
St. Innocence, whose earth devours 
Dead corpse in four and twenty hours. 
And there the king was kill'd. 

The Bast le and St. Denis street, 
The Shafflenist like London Fleet, 
The Arsenal no toy ; 
But if you'll see the prettiest thing. 
Go to the court and see the king, 
O 'tis a hopeful boy ! 

He is, of all his dukes and peers. 
Reverenced for much wit at 's years, 
IS'or must you think it much; 
For he with little switch doth play. 
And make fine dirty pies of clay, 
O, never king made such ! 

A bird that can but kill a fly. 

Or prate, doth please his majesty, 

'Tis known to every one; 

The Duke of Guise gave him a parrot, 

And he had twenty cannons for it, 

For his new galleon. 

that I e'er might have the hap 
To get the bird which in the map 
Is call'd the Indian ruck ! 

I'd give it him, and hope to be 
As rich as Guise or Living, 
Or else I had ill-luck. 

Birds round about his chamber stand. 
And he them feeds with his own hand, 
'Tis his humility ; 
And if they do want any thing, 
They need but whistle for their king, 
And he comes presently. 

But now, then, for these parts he must 

Be enstiled Lewis the Just, 

Great Henry's lawful heir; 

When to his stile to add more words. 

They'd better call him King of Birds, 

Than of the great Navarre. 

He hath besides a pretty quirk. 
Taught him by nature, how to work 
In iron with much ease; 
Sometimes to the forge he goes, 
There he knocks and there he blows, 
And makes both locks and keys ; 

Which puts a doubt in every one, 
M'hether he be Mars or Vulcan's son. 
Some few believe his mother; 
But let them all say what they will, 

1 came resolved, and so think still, 
As much th' one as th' other. 

The people too dislike the youth, 
Alleging reasons, for, in truth. 
Mothers should honour'd be; 
Yet others say, he loves her rather 
As well as eie she loved his father. 
And that's notoriously 



His queen,* a pretty little wench. 
Was born in Spain, speaks little French, 
She's ne'er like to be mother; 
For her incestuous house could not 
Have children which were not begot 
By uncle or by brother. 

Nor why should Lewis, being so just. 
Content himself to take his lust 
With his Lucina's mate. 
And suffer his little pretty queen. 
From all her race that yet hath been. 
So to degenerate 1 

'Twere charity for to be known 
To love others' children as his own, 
And why ? it is no shame. 
Unless that he would greater be 
Than was his father Henery, 
Who, men thought, did the same. 



THE FAIRIES' FAREWELL. 
Farewell, rewards and Fairies ! 



Good housewives 



now you may gay ; 



For now foul sluts in dairies. 

Do fare as well as they : 

And though they sweep their hearths no less 

Than maids were wont to do. 

Yet who of late for cleanliness 

Finds sixpence in her shoe ] 

Lament, lament, old abbeys. 

The fairies lost command ; 

They did but change priests' babies, 

But some have changed your land : 

And all your children stol'n from thence 

Are now grown Puritans, 

Who live as changelings ever since, 

For love of your domains. 

At morning and at evening both 

You merry were and glad. 

So little care of sleep and sloth. 

These pretty ladies had. 

When J'oin came home from labour. 

Or Ciss to milking rose. 

Then merrily went their tabor. 

And nimbly went their toes. 

Witness those rings and roundelays 

Of theirs, which yet remain; 

Were footed in Queen Mary's days 

On many a grassy plain. 

But since of late Elizabeth 

And later James came in ; 

They never danced on any heath, 

As when the time hath bin. 

By which we note the fairies 

Were of the old profiession: 

Their songs were Ave Maries, 

Their dances were procession. 

But now, alas! they all are dead, 

Or gone beyond the seas, 

Or larther tor religion fled. 

Or else they take their ease 



f* Anne of Austria. — C.) 



THOMAS MIDDLETON. 



The dates of this author's birth and death are 
both unknown, though his Uving reputation, as 
the hterary associate of Jonson, Fletcher, Mas- 
singer, Dekker, and Rowley, must have been con- 
siderable. If Oldys be correct,* he was alive 
after November, 1627. Middleton was appointed 
chronologer to the city of London"]" in 1620, and 
in 1624 was cited before the privy-council, as 
author of The Game of Chess. The verses of 
Sir W. Lower, quoted by Oldys, allude to the 
poet's white locks, so that he was probably born 
as early as the middle of the sixteenth century .J 
His tragicomedy, " The Witch," according to Mr. 
Malone, was written anterior to Macbeth, and 
suggested to Shakspeare the witchcraft scenery in 



,41h July, 1627?] 

the latter play. The songs beginning " Come 
away," &c., and " Black Spirits," &c., of which 
only the first two words are printed in Macbeth, 
are found in the Witch. Independent of having 
afforded a hint to Shakspeare, Middleton's repu- 
tation cannot be rated highly for the pieces to 
which his name is exclusively attached. His 
principal efforts were in comedy, where he Heals 
profusely in grossness and buffoonery. The 
cheats and debaucheries of the town are his 
favourite sources of comic intrigue. With a sin- 
gular effort at the union of the sublime and fami- 
liar, he introduces, in one of his coarse drafts of 
London vice, an infernal spirit prompting a coun- 
try gentleman to the seduction of a citizen's wife.§ 



LEANTIO APPROACHING HIS HOME. 

FEOM THE TRAGEDY OF "WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN." 

How near I am now to a happiness 
That earth exceeds not ! not another like it. 
The treasures of the deep are not so precious 
As are the conceal'd comforts of a man 
Lock'd up in woman's love. I scent the air 
Of blessings, when I come but near the house. 
W^hat a delicious breath marriage sends forth, 
The violet bed's not sweeter ! Honest wedlock 
Is like a banqueting house built in a garden, 
On which the spring's chaste flowers take delight 
To cast their modest odours ; when base lust, 
With all her powders, paintings, and best pride, 
Is but a fair house built by a ditch side. 

Now for a welcome 

Able to draw men's envies upon man ; 
A kiss, now, that will hang upon my lip 
As sweet as morning dew upon a rose. 
And full as long. 

LEANTIO'S AGONY FOR THE DESERTION OF HTS 
-WIVE. 

FROM THE SAME. 

Leantio, a man of humble fortune, has married a beauti- 
ful wife, who is basely seduced by the Duke of ii'lorence. 
The duke, with refined cruelty, invites them hoth to a 
feast, where he lavishes his undisguised admiration on 
his mistress. The scene displays the feelings of Leantio, 
restrained by ceremony and fear, under the insulting 
hospitality, at the conclusion of which he is left alone 
with Livia, a lady of the court, who has fallen in love 
with him, and wishes to attach his affections. 

Leantio. ( Without noticing Lima.) O hast thou 
left me then, Bianca, utterly ] 
O Bianca, now I miss thee ! Oh ! return. 
And save the faith of woman. I ne'er felt 
The loss of thee till now : 'tis an affliction 
Of greater weight than youth was made to bear ; 
As if a punishment of after life 



* MS. notes on Langbaine. 

[t Or city poet. Jonsou and Quarles filled the office after 
Middleton, which expired with ElJianah Settle, 17-'3— I. — C] 

[X The verses in question I believe to b<- a forgery of 
Chetwood.— Dyce's Middleton, vol. i. p. xiii.— 0.1 
196 



Were fall'n upon man here, so new it is 
To flesh and blood ; so strange, so insupportable ; 
A torment even mistook, as if a body 
Whose death were drowning, must needs there- 
fore suffer it 
In scalding oil. 

Livia. Sweet sir ! 

Lean. ( Without noticing her.) As long as mine 
I half enjoy'd thee. [eye saw thee, 

Liv. Sir ! 

Lean. ( Without noticing her.) Canst thou forget 
The dear pains my love took ] how it has watch'd 
Whole nights together, in all weathers, for thee, 
Yet stood in heart more merry than the tempest 
That sung about mine ears,like dangerous flatterers. 
That can set all their mischiefs to sweet tunes, 
And then received thee from thy tathel-'s window. 
Into these arms, at midnight ; when we embraced 
As if we had been statues only made for't. 
To show art's life, so silent were our comforts ; 
And kiss'd as if our lips had grown together. 

Liv. This makes me madder to enjoy him now. 

Lean. ( IVilhout noticing her.) Canst thou forget 
all this, and better joys 
That we met after this, which then new kisses 
Took pride to praise ] 

Liv. I shall grqw madder yet :• — Sir ! 

Lean. {Without noticing her.) This cannot be 
but of some close bawd's working : — 
Cry mercy, lady ! What would you say to me 1 
My sorrow makes me so unmannerly, 
So comfort bless me, I had quite forgot you. 

Lw. Nothing, but e'en in pity to that passion 
Would give your grief good counsel. 

Lean. Marry, and welcome, lady, 
It never could come better. 

Liv. Then first, sir. 
To make away all your good thoughts at once of her, 
Know, most assuredly, she is a strumpet. 



[§ Middleton's dramatic works, since this was written, 
have been collected by l?ev. A. Dyce, whose contributions 
to Knglish literary history are frequently quoted ia this 
volume. — G.] 



THOMAS MIDDLETON. 



197 



Leon. Ha ! most assuredly ? Speak not a thing 
So vile so certainly, leave it more doubtful. 

Liv. Then I must leave all truth, and spare my 
knowledge, 
A sin which I too lately found and wept for. 

Lean. Found you it 1 

Liv. Ay, with wet eyes. 

Lean. Oh, perjurious friendship ! 

Lb^ You miss'd your fortunes when you met 
with her, sir. 
Young gentlemen, that only love for beauty, 
They love not wisely ; such a marriage rather 
Proves the destruction of affection ; 
It brings on want, and want's the key of whoredom. 
I think you'd small means with her ] 

Lean. Oh, not any, lady. [sir, 

Liv. Alas, poor gentleman ! what mean'st thou. 
Quite to undo thyself with thine own kind heart 1 
Thou art too good and pitiful to woman : 
Marry, sir, thank thy stars for this bless'd fortune, 
That rids the summer of thy youth so well 
From many beggars, that had lain a sunning 
In thy beams only else, till thou hadst wasted 
The whole days of thy life in heat and labour. 
What would you say now to a creature found 
As pitiful to you, and as it were 
E'en sent on purpose from the whole sex general, 
To requite all that kindness you have shown to't 1 

Lean. What's that, madam \ 

Liv. ]\ay, a gentlewoman, and one able 
To reward good things ; ay, and bears a con- 
science to't : 
Couldst thou love such a one, that (blow all fortunes) 
Would never see thee want ] 
Nay more, maintain thee to thine enemy's envy, 
And shalt not spend a care for't, stir a thought, 
IS'or break a sleep ? unless love's music waked thee, 
Nor storm of fortune should: look upon me, 
And know that woman. 

Lean. Oh, my life's wealth, Bianca! [out"? 

Liv. Still with her name ] will nothing wear it 
That deep sigh went but for a strumpet, sir. 

Lean. It can go for no other that loves me. 

Liv. {Jiside) He's vex'd in mind ; I came too 
soon to him : 
Where's my discretion now, my skill,my judgment] 
I'm cunning in all arts but my own, love. 
'Tis as unseasonable to tempt him now 
So soon, as [for] a widow to be courted 
Following her husband's corse ; or to make bargain 
By the grave side, and take a young man there : 
Her strange departure stands like a hearse yet 
Before his eyes ; which time will take down shortly. 

[Exit. 

Lean. Is she my wife till death, yet no more 
mine ! [for ! 

That's a hard measure : then what's marriage good 
Methinks by right I should not now be living. 
And then 'twere all well. What a happiness 
Had I been made of had I never seen her; 
For nothing makes man's loss grievous to him. 
But knowledge of the worth of what he loses; 
For what he never had, he never misses : 
She's gone tor ever, utterly ; there is 
A.S much redemption of a soul from hell, 



As a fiiir woman's body from his palace. 

Why should my love last longer than her truth? 

What is there good in woman to be loved, 

When only that which makes her «o has left her ^ 

I cannot love her now, but I must l«ke 

Her sin, and my own shame too, and be guilty 

Of law's breach with her, and mine own abusing ; 

All which were monstrous ! then my safest course 

For health of mind and body, is to turn 

My heart, and hate her, most extremely hate her ; 

I have no other way : those virtuous powers 

Which were chaste witnesses of both our troths, 

Can witness she breaks first ! 



SCENE FROM "THE ROARING GIRL." 

Mrs. Gallipot, the apothecary's wift^. having received alet- 
tiT fioui In r friend Laxton tliat he is in want of money, 
thus bethinks her how to raise it. 

Alas, poor gentleman ! troth, I pity him. 
How shall I raise this money ] thirty pound ] 
'Tis 30, sure, a 3 before an ; 
I know his 3's too well. My childbed linen. 
Shall I pawn that for him ] then, if my mark 
Be known, I am undone ; it may be thought 
My husband's bankrupt : which way shall I turn? 
Laxton, betwixt my own fears and thy wants 
I'm like a needle 'twixt two adamants. 
Enter Mr. Galupot hastily. 

Mr. G. What letter's thaf? I'll see't. 

[She tears the letter. 

Mrs. G. Oh ! would thou hadst no eyes to see 
the downfall 
Of me and of thyself — I'm for ever, ever undone ! 

Mr. G. What ails my Prue 7 What paper's 
that thou tear'st ! 

Mrs. G. Would I could tear 
My very heart in pieces ! for my soul 
Lies on the rack of shame, that tortures me 
Beyond a woman's sutlering. 

lUr. G. What means this? [down, 

Mrs. G. Had you no other vengeance to throw 
But even in height of all my joys 

31r. G. Dear woman ! 

Mrs. G. When the full sea ofpleasure and delight 
Seem'd to flow over me — 

Mr. G. As thou desirest 
To keep me out of Bedlam,tell what troubles thee. — 
Is not thy child at nurse taH'n sick or dead 1 

Mrs. G. Oh, no ! [houses, 

3Jr. G. Heavens bless me ! — Are my barns and 
Yonder at Hockley Hole, consumed with fire ! — 
I can build more, sweet Prue. 

Mrs. G. 'Tis worse ! 'tis worse ! 

Mr. G. My factor broke ? or is the Jonas sunk ? 

Mrs. G. Vv'ould all we had were swallovv'd ir 
the waves, 
Rather than both should be the scorn of slaves ! 

Mr. G. I'm at my wit's end. 

l\jrs. G. O, my dear husband ! 
Where once I thought myself a fixed star. 
Placed only in the heaven ot thine arms, 
I fear now I shall prove a wanderer 
Laxton ! Laxton ! is it then my fat' 
To be by thee o'erthrown .' 



1H8 



THOMAS MIDDLETON. 



Mr. G. Defend me, wisdom, 
From falling into phrensy ! On my knees, 
Sweet Prue, speak — what's that Laxton, who so 
Lies on thy bosom ? [heavy 

Mrs. G. I shall sure run mad ! 

Mr. G. I shall run mad for company then : 
speak to niC' — • 
I'm Gallipot, thy husband, Prue — why, Prue, 
Art sick in conscience for some villanous deed 
Thou wert about to act T — didgt mean to rob mel 
Tush, I forgive thee. — Hast thou on my bed 
Thrust my soft pillow under another's head ? — 
I'll wink at all faults, Prue — 'Las ! that's no more 
Than what some neighbours near thee have done 

before. 
Sweet honey — Prue — what's that Laxton] 

Mrs. G. Oh ! 

Mr. G. Out with him. 

Mrs. G. Oh ! he — he's born to be my undoer ! 
This hand,which thou call'st thine,to himwas given; 
To him was I made sure i' the sight of heaven. 

Mr. G. I never heard this — thunder ! 

Mrs. G. Yes, yes — before 
I was to thee contracted, to him I swore. 
Since last I saw him twelve months three times old 
The moon hath drawn through her light silver bow; 
But o'er the seas he went, and it was said — 
But rumours lies — that he in France was dead: 
But he's alive — oh, he's alive ! — he sent 
That letter to me, which in rage I rent, 
Swearing, with oaths most damnably, to have me, 
Or tear me from this bosom.^Oh, heavens save me ! 

Mr. G. My heart will break — Shamed and un- 
done for ever ! 

Mrs. G. So black a day, poor wretch, went o'er 
thee never. 

Mr. G. If thou shouldst wrestle with him at 
the law, 
Thou'rt sure to fall ; no odd slight, no prevention. 
I'll 'ell him th' art with child. 

M s. G. rjmph. 

Mr G. Or give out, that one of my men was 
*.a'en abed with thee. 

Mrs. G. Worse and worse still ; 
You embrace a mischief to prevent an ill. 

Mr. G. I'll buy thee of him — stop his mouth 
with gold- - 
Think' it thou 'twi'l do? 

Mrs. G. Oh me heavens grant it would ! 
Yet now my senses are set more in tune ; 
He writ, as I remember in his letter. 
That he, in riding up and down, had spent. 
Ere he could find me, thirty pound.— Send that; 
Stand not on thirty with hun. 

Mr. G. Forty, Prue — say thou the word 'tis done. 
We venture lives for wealth, but must do more 
To keep our wives. — Thirty or forty, Prue ] 

Mrs. G. Thirty, good sweet ! 
Of an ill bargain let's save what we can ; 
I'll pay it him with tears. He was a man, 
When first I knew him, of a meek spirit; 
All goodness is not yet dried up, I hope. [all ; 

Mr. G. He shall have thirty pound, let that stop 
Love's sweets taste best when we have drunk 
down gall. 



FATHERS COMPAUING SONS. 
BENEFIT OF IMPRISONMENT TO A AVILD YOUTH. 

FROM THE SAME. 



Sir Dav. My son Jack Dapper, then, shall run 
All in one pasture. [with him, 

Sir Mex. Proves your son bad too, sir 1 [tian 

Sir Duv. As villany can make him : your ^bas- 
Dotes but on one drab, mine on a thousand. 

A noise of fiddlers, tobacco, wine, and a , 

A mercer, that will let him take up more 

Dice, and a water-spaniel with a duck. — Oh, 
Bring him a bed with these when his purse gingles 
Roaring boys follow at his tail, fencers and ningles, 
(Beasts Adam ne'er gave name to ;) these horse- 
leeches suck 
My son, till he being drawn dry, they all live on 

Sir Jlex. Tobacco 1 [smoke. 

Sir Dav. Right sir ; but I have in my brain 
A windmill going that shall grind to dust 
The follies of my son, and make him wise 
Or a stark fool. — Pray lend me your advice. 

Bo:h. That shall you, good Sir Davy. 

Sir Duv. Here's the springe 
That's set to catch this woodcock in — An action, 
In a false name, unknown to him, is enter'd 
r the Counter to arrest Jack Dapper. 

Eoh. Ha, ha, he! [himi 

Sir Duv. Think you the Counter cannot break 

Sir .ilex. Break him ] yes, and break his heart 
too, if he lie there long. 

Sir Duv. I'll make him sing a counter-tenor, sure. 

Sir Jllex. No way to tame him like it: there 
shall he learn 
What money is indeed, and how to spend it. 

Sir Duv. He's bridled there. 

Sir Jikx. Ay, yet knows not how to mend it. 
Bedlam cures not more madmen in a year 
Than one of the Counters does. Men pay more dear 
There for their wit than anywhere. A Counter ! 
Why, 'tis an university. — Who not sees] 
As scholars there, so here men take degrees, 
And follow the same studies, all alike. 
Scholars learn first logic and rhetoric, 
So does a prisoner ; with fine honied speech 
At his first coming in, he doth persuade, beseech 
He may be lodged — .... 
To lie in a dean chamber. .... 
But when he has no money, then does he try. 
By subtle logic and quaint sophistry, 
To make the keepers trust him. 

Sir .Mum. Say they do. 

Sir Mex. Then lie's a graduate. 

Sir Dav. Say they trust him not. 

Sir Alex. Then is he held a freshman and a sot, 
And never shall commence, but being still barr'd, 
Be expulsed from the master's side to the Two- 
Or else i' the Holebeg placed. [penny ward, 

Sir M. When then, I pray, proceeds a prisoner ] 

Sir Alex. When, money being the theme, 
He can dispute with his hard creditors' hearts. 
And get out clear, he's then a master of arts. 
Sir Davy, send your son to Wood-street college ; 
A gentleman can nowhere get more knowledge. 



CHARLES FITZGEFFREY. 



190 



Sir Diw. These gallants study hard. 
Sir Jlex. True, to get money. 
Sir Duv. Lies by the heels, i'faith ! thanks — 
thanks — I ha' sent 
For a couple of bears shall paw him. 



DEVOTION TO LOVE. 

FROM THE PLAT OP "BLURT, MASTER-CONSTABLE." 

O, HAPPY persecution, I embrace thee 

With an unfetter'd soul ; so sweet a thing 

It is to sigh upon the rack of love. 

Where each calamity is groaning witness 

Of the poor martyr's faith. I never heard 

Of any true aflection but 'twas nipt 

With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats 

The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose. 

Love, bred on earth, is often nursed in hell ; 

By rote it reads woe ere it learn to spell 

W'hen I call back my vows to Violetta, 

May I then slip into an obscure grave. 

Whose mould, unpress'd with stony monument 

Dwelling in open air, may drink the tears 

Of the inconstant clouds to rot me soon ! . . . . 

He that truly loves, 
Burns out the day in idle fantasies ; 
And when the lamb, bleating, doth bid good night 
Unto the closing day, then tears begin 
To keep quick time unto the owl, whose voice 
Shrieks like the bell-man in the lover's ear. 
Love's eye the jewel of sleep, oh, seldom wears ! 
The early lark is waken'd from her bed. 
Being only by love's pains disquieted ; 
But, singing in the morning's ear, she weeps. 
Being deep in love, at lovers' broken sleeps : 
But say, a golden slumber chance to tie. 
With silken strings, the cover of love's eye, 
Then dreams, magician-like, mocking present 
Pleasures, whose fading, leaves more discontent. 

INDIGNATION AT THE SALE OF A WIFE'S 
HONOUR. 

FROM " THE PHCEXIX." 

Of all the deeds yet this strikes the deepest wound 

Into my apprehension. 

Reverend and honourable matrimony, 

Mother of lawful sweets, unshamed mornings, 

Both pleasant and legitimately fruitful,without thee 



All the whole world were soiled bastardy : 
Thou art the only and the greatest form 
That put'st a ditierenae betwi.xt our desires 
And the disorder'd appetites of beasts. 

But, if chaste and honest, 

There is another devil that haunts marriage, 
(None fondly loves but knows it,) jealousy. 
That wedlock's yellow sickness, 
That whispering separation every minute. 
And thus the curse takes his effect or progress. 
The most of men, in their first sudden furies. 
Rail at the narrow bounds of marriage. 
And call't a prison ; then it is most just 
That the disease of the prison, jealousy. 
Should thus affect 'em — but, oh ! here I'm fix'd 
To make sale of a wife ! monstrous and foul ! 
An act abhorr'd in nature, cold in soul ! 



LAW. 



FROM THE SAME. 

Thou angel sent amongst us, sober Law, 

Made with meek eyes, persuading action ; 

No loud immodest tongue — voiced like a virgin. 

And as chaste from sale. 

Save only to be heard, but not to rail — 

How has abuse deform'd thee to all eyes ! 

Yet why so rashly for one's villain's fault 

Do I arraign whole man ] Admired Law ! 

Thy upper parts must needs be wholly pure 

And incorruptible — th' are grave and wise ; 

'Tis but the dross beneath them, and the clouds 

That get between thy glory and their praise. 

That make the visible and foul eclipse ; 

For those that are near to thee are upright, 

As noble in their conscience as their birih ; 

Know that damnation is in every bribe. 

And rarely put it fiom them — rate the presenters 

And scourge 'em with five years' imprisonment 

For offering but to tempt 'em : 

This is true justice, exercised and used ; 

Woe to the giver, when the bribe's refused. 

'Tis not their will to have law worse than war. 

Where still the poorest die first. 

To send a man without a sheet to his grave. 

Or bury him in his papers ; 

'Tis not their mind it should be, nor to have 

A suit hang longer than a man in chains, 

Let him be ne'er so fasten'd. 



CHARLES FITZGEFFREY, 

[Died, 1636.] 

Charles Fitzgeffrey was rector of the parish of St. Dominic, in Cornwall. 



TO POSTERITY. 

FROM ENGLAND'S PABNASSD8. 1600. 

Daughter of Time, sincere Posterity, 
Always new-born, yet no man knows thy birth. 
The arbitress of pure sincerity, 
Y'et changeable (like Proteus) on the earth, 
Soznetime in plenty, sometime join'd with 
dearth : 



Always to come, yet always present here. 
Whom all run after, none come after near. 
Unpartial judge of all, save present state. 
Truth's idioma of the things are past. 
But still pursuing present things with hate, 
And more injurious at the first than last, 
Preserving others, while thine own do waste , 
True treasurer of all antiquity. 
Whom all desire, yet never one could see. 



200 



RICHARD NICCOLS. 



FROM FITZQEFFREY'S LIFE OF SIR FRANCIS 
DRAKE. 1596. 

Look how the industrious bee in fi-agrant May, 
When Flora gilds the earth with golden flowers 
Inveloped in her sweet perfumed array, 
Doth leave his honey-limed delicious bowers, 
More richly wrought than prince's stately towers, 
Waving his silken wings amid the air, 
And to the verdant gardens makes repair. 

First falls he on a branch of sugar'd thyme. 
Then from the marygold he sucks the sweet, 



And then the mint, and then the rose doth chmb, 
Then on the budding rosemary doth Hght, 
Till with sweet treasure having charged his feet, 
Late in the evening home he turns again. 
Thus profit is the guerdon of his pain. 
So in the May-tide of his summer age 
Valour enmoved the mind of vent'rous Drake 
To lay his life with winds and waves in gage, 
And bold and hard adventures t' undertake, 
Leaving his country for his country's sake ; 
Loathing the life that cowardice doth stain, 
Preferring death, if death might honour gain 



The plan of the Mirror for Magistrates, begun 
by Ferrers and Sackville, was followed up by 
Churchyard, Phayer, Higgins, Drayton, and many 
others. The last contributor of any note was 
Niccols, in 1610, in his Winter Night's Vision. 
Niccols was the author of the " Cuckow," written 



RICHARD NICCOLS. 

[Died. 1581.] 

in imitation of Drayton's " Owl," and several 



poems of temporary popularity, and of a drama, 
entitled The Twynne's Tragedy. He was » Lon- 
doner, and having studied (says Wood) at Oxford, 
obtained some employment worthy of his faculties ; 
but of what kind, we are left to conjecture. 



FROM THE LEGEND OF ROBERT DUKE OF 
NORMANDY. 

Robert, Duke of Normandy, elde.st son of William the 
Conquei'or, on his return from the Crusades was im- 
pri.onned by Henry 1. in Cardiff Castle, lie thus de- 
scribes a walk with his keeper, previous to bis eyes 
being put out. 

As bird in cage debarr'd the use of wings, 
Her captived life as nature's chiefest wrong. 
In doleful ditty sadly sits and sings, 
And mourns her thralled liberty so long, 
Till breath be spent in many a sithful song : 
So here captived I many days did spend 
In sorrow's plaint, till death my days did end. 

Where as a prisoner though I did remain ; 
Yet did my brother grant this liberty. 
To quell the common speech, which did complain 
On my distress, and on his tyranny, 
That in his parks and forests joining by, 
When I did please I to and fro might go, 
W^hich in the end was cause of all my woe. 

For on a time, when as Aurora bright 
Began to scale heaven's steepy battlement, 
And to the world disclose her cheerful light, 
As was my wont, I with my keeper went 
To put away my sorrow's discontent : 
Thereby to ease me of my captive care. 
And solace my sad thoughts in th' open Eiir. 

Wand'ring through forest wide, at length we gain 
A steep cloud-kissing rock, whose horned crown 
With proud imperial look beholds the main, 
Where Severn's dangerous waves run rolling down. 
From th' Holmes into the seas, by Carditl" town. 
Whose quick-devouring sands so dangerous been 
To those that wander Amphitrite's green : 

As there we stood, the country round we eyed 
To view the workmanship of nature's hand, 
There stooil a mountain, from whose weeping side 



A brook breaks forth into the low-lying land, 
Here lies a plain, and there a wood doth stand, 

Herepastures,rneads,corn-fields, a vale do cro'vn. 

A castle here shoots up, and there a town. 

Here one with angle o'er a silver stream 
With baneful bait the nibbling fish doth feed ; 
There in a plough'd-land, with liis painful team, 
The ploughman sweats,in hope for labour's meed . . 
Here sits a goatherd on a craggy rock, 
And there in shade a shepherd with his flock 

The sweet delight of such a rare prospect 
Might yield content unto a careful eye ; 
Yet down the rock descending in neglect 
Of such delight, the sun now mounting high, 
I sought the shade in vale, which low did lie, 
Where we reposed us on a green-wood side 
A'front the which a silver stream did glide. 

There dwelt sweet Philomel, who never more 
May bide the abode of man's society. 
Lest that some sterner Tereus than before. 
Who cropt the flower of her virginity, 
'Gainst her should plot some second villany ; 

W' hose doleful tunes to mind did cause me call 

The woful story of her former fall. 

The redbreast, who in bush fast by did stand 
As partner of her woes, his part did ply. 
For that the gifts, with which Autumnus' hand 
Had graced the earth, by winter's wrath should die. 
From whose cold cheeks bleak blasts began to fly. 
Which made me think upon my summer past 
And winter's woes, which all my life should last. 

My keeper, with compassion moved to see 
How grief's impulsions in my breast did beat, [he, 
Thus silence broke: "Would God (my Lord,) quoth 
This pleasant land, which nature's hand hath st^t 
Before your eyes, might cause you to forget 
Your discontent, the object of the eye 
Ofttimes gives ease to woes which inwaid Ve. 



BEN JONSON. 



201 



« Behold upon that mountain's top so steep, 
Which seems to pierce the clouds and kiss the sky, 
How the gray shepherd drives his flock of 

sheep 
Down to the vale, and how on rocks fast by 
The goats frisk to and fio for jollity; 

Give ear likewise unto these birds' sweet songs, 
And let them cause you to forget your wrongs." 

To this I made reply : " Fond man," said I, 
"What under heaven can slack th' increasing 

woe, 
Which in my grieved heart doth hidden lie 1 
Of choice delight what object canst thou show, 
But from the sight of it fresh grief doth growl 

What thou didst whilome point at to behold,. 

The same the sum of sorrow doth enfold, 

" That gray-coat shepherd, whom from far we 

see, 
I liken unto thee, and those his sheep 
Unto my wretched self compared may be : 



And though that careful pastor will not sleep, 
When he from ravenous wolves his flock should 
keep; 
Yet here, alas ! in thrall thou keepest me, 
Until that wolf, my brother, hungry be. 

" Those shag-hair'd goats upon the craggy hill, 
Which thou didst show, see how they frisk and play, 
And everywhere do run about at will : 
Yea, when the lion marks them for his prey. 
They over hills and rocks can fly away : 
But when that lion fell shall follow me 
To shed my blood, O whither shall I flee? 

"Those sweet-voiced birds, whose airs thou dost 

commend. 
To which the echoing woods return reply, 
Though thee they please, yet me they do oflfend : 
For when I see how they do mount on high, 
Waving their outstretch'd wings at liberty. 
Then do I think how bird-like in a cage 
My life I lead, and grief can never suage." 



BEN JONSON. 



[Born, 1574 

Till Mr. Gilchrist and Mr. Giflx)rd stood for- 
ward in defence of this poet's memory, it had be- 
come an established article of literary faith that 
his personal character was a compound of spleen, 
surliness, and ingratitude. The proofs of this 
have been weighed and found wanting. It is 
true that he had lofty notions of himself, was 
proud even to arrogance in his defiance of cen- 
sure, and in the warmth of his own praises of 
himself was scarcely surpassed by his most zealous 
• admirers; but many fine traits of honour and af- 
fection are likewise observable in the portrait of 
his character, and the charges of malice and jea- 
lousy that have been heaped on his name for a 
hundred years turn out to be without foundation. 
In the quarrel with Marston and Dekker his cul- 
pability is by no means evident. He did not re- 
ceive benefits from Shakspeare, and did not sneer 
at him in the passages that have been taken to 
prove his ingratitude ; and instead of envying 
that great poet, he gave him his noblest praise ; 
nor did he trample on his contemporaries, but 
liberally commended them.* With regard to 
Inigo Jones, with whom he quarrelled, it appears 
to have been Jonson's intention to have con- 
signed his satires on that eminent man to ob- 
livion ; but their enmity, as his editor has shown, 
begin upon the part of the architect, who, when 
the poet was poor and bedridden, meanly re- 
sented the fancied affront of Jonson's name being 
put before his own to a masque which they had 
jointly prepared, and used his influence to do him 
an injury at court.! As to Jonson's envying 

* The nai)ie.-< of SUiikspeare, Draytou, Doum-. Chapman, 
Fletcher, Beaumont, May, aud Jlrowiie, which almost ex- 
bau.-it the poetical catalogue of thii time, are the separate 
■tiid distinct subjects of liis praise. Uis uukiuduess to 
Oauiel .teem.'f to be the only exception. 

f [Their enmity be^fan in the very early part of their 

souuuctiou; for lu the complete, copy of Uiammoud'alifutes 

2t) 



Shakspeare, men, otherwise candid and laborious 
in the search of truth, seem to have had the curse 
of the Philistines imposed on their understand- 
ings and charities the moment they approached 
the subject. The fame of Shakspeare himself 
became an heirloom of traditionary calumnies 
against the memory of Jonson ; the fancied relics 
of his envy were regarded as so many pious do- 
nations at the shrine of the greater j)oet, whose 
admirers thought they could not .dig too deeply 
for trophies of his glory among the ruins of his 
imaginary rival's reputation. If such inquirers 
as Reed and Malone went wnrong upon this sub- 
ject, it is too severe to blame the herd of literary 
labourers for plodding in their footsteps ; but it 
must excite regret as well as wonder that a man 
of pre-eminent living genius J should have been 
one of those 

quos de tramite recto 
Impla sacrikgce Jiexil coatayio turbce, 

and should have gravely drawn down Jonson to 
a parallel with Shadwell, for their common traits 
of low socieiy, vulgar dialect, and intemperance. 
Jonson's low society comprehended such men as 
Selden, Camden, and Gary. Shadwell (if we 
may trust to Rochester's account of him) was 
probably rather profligate than vulgar; while 
either of Jonson's vulgarity or indecency in his 
recorded conversations there is not a trace. Bui 
they both wore great-coats — Jonson drank canary, 
and Shadwell swallowed opium. " There is a nva 
ill Muedon, and there is, moreover, a river at Man- 
rnouili." 

there are several allusions to this hostility. Inigo had 
the best rotaliatioa in life; but Joasoa has it now, aud 
for ever — C] 

X [Sir Walter Srott. See Gifford's Ben Jonson, vol. i. p. 
clx.\xi., and Scott's replies in Misc. J^-ose irur/cs, voi 1. 
p. 227, and vol. vii. p. 374— a82.— C.] 



202 



BEN JONSON. 



The ^anilfather of Ben Jonson was originally 
of Annandale, in Si;otland, from whence he re- 
moved to Carlisle, and was subsequently m the 
service of Henry VIII. The poet's father, who 
lost his estate under the persecution of Queen 
Mary, and was afterwards a preacher, died a 
month before Benjamin's birth, and his widow 
married a master bricklayer of the name of Fow- 
ler. Benjamin, through the kindness of a friend, 
was educated at Westminster, and obtained an 
exhibition to Cambridge; but it proved insuffi- 
cient for his support. He therefore returned from 
the university to his father-in-law's house and 
humble occupation; but disliking the latter, as 
may be well conceived, he repaired as a volunteer 
to the army in Flanders, and in the campaign 
which he served there distinguished h.mself, 
though yet a stripling, by killing an enemy in 
single combat, in the presence of both armies. 
From thence he came back to England, and betook 
himself to the stage for support ; at first, probably, 
as an actor, though undoubtedly very early as a 
writer. At this period he was engaged in a second 
single combat, which threatened to terminate more 
disastrously than the former ; for having been chal- 
lenged by some player to fight a duel with the 
sword, he killed his adversary indeed, but was 
severely wounded in the encounter, and thrown 
into prison for murder. There the assiduities of 
a catholic priest made him a convert to popery, 
and the miseries of a jail were increased to him 
by the visitation of spies ; sent, no doubt, in con- 
sequence of his change to a faith of which the 
bare name was at that time nearly synonymous 
with the suspicion of treason. He was liberated 
however, after a short imprisonment, without a 
^rial. At the distance of twelve years, he was 
restored to the bosom of his mother church. 
Soon after his release, he thought proper to marry, 
iilthough his circumstances were far from promis- 
ing, and he was only in his twentieth year. In 
his tvv'o-and-lwentieth year he rose to considerable 
jiopulanty, by the comedy of " Every Man in his 
Humour," which, two years after, liejaine a still 
higher favourite with the public, when the scene 
and names were shifted from Italy to England, in 
order to suit the manners of the piece, which had 
all along been native. It is at this renovated ap- 
jiearance of his play (1598) that his fancied obli- 
gations to Shakspeare for drawing him out of 
obscurity have been dated ; but it is at this time 
that he is pointed out by Meres as one of the most 
distinguished writers of the age. 

The fame of his •' Every Man out of his Humour" 
drew Queen Elizabeth to its representation, whose 
early encouragement of his genius is commemo- 
rated by Lord Falkland. It was a fame, however, 
which, according to his own account, had already 
exposed him to envy — Marston and Dekker did 
him this homage. He lashed them in his Cyn- 
thia's Revels, an<' anticipated their revenge in the 
Poetaster. Jonson's superiority in the contest 
can scarcely be questioned ; but the Poetaster 
drew down other enemies on its author than tiiose 
with whom he was at war. His satire alluded to 



the follies of soldiers and the faults of lawvera. 
The former were easily pacified, but the lawyers 
adhered to him with their wonted tenacity ; and 
it became necessary for the poet to clear himself 
before the lord chief justice. In our own days, 
the fretfulness of resenting professional deris.ou 
has been deemed unbecoming even the magna- 
nimity of tailors. 

Another proof of the slavish subjection of the 
stage in those times is to be found soon al'tei the 
accession of King James, when the authors of 
Eastward Hoe were committed to prison for some 
satirical reflections on the Scotch nat.on, which 
that comedy contained. Only Marston and Chap- 
man, who had framed the offensive passages, were 
seized; but Jonson, who had taken a share in 
some other part of the composition, conceived 
himself bound in honour to participate their fate, 
and voluntarily accompanied them to prison. It 
was on this occasion that his mother, dei^'eived by 
the rumour of a barbarous punishment being in- 
tended for her son, prepared a lusty poison, which 
she meant to have given him, and to have drunk 
along with him. This was maintaining in earn- 
est the consanguinity of heroism and genius. 

The imagined insult to the sovereign being 
appeased, James's accession proved, altogether, a 
fortunate epoch in Jonson's history. A pea.-caiile 
reign gave encouragement to the arts and festivi- 
ties of peace ; and in those festivities, not yet de- 
graded to mere sound and show, poetry still main- 
tained the honours of her primogeniture among 
the arts. Jonson was therefore congenially em- 
ployed, and liberally rewarded, in the preparation 
of those masques tor the court which filled up the 
intervals of his more properly dramatic labours, 
and which allowed him room for classical imper- 
sonations, and lyrical trances of fancy, that would 
not have suited the business of the ordinary stage. 
The recept.on of his Sejanus, in 1603, was at first 
unfavourable ; but it was remodelled, and again 
presented with better success, and kept possession 
of the theatre for a considerable time. Whatever 
this tragedy may want in the agitating power of 
poetry, it has a strength and dramatic skdl that 
might have secured it, at least, from the petulant 
contempt with which it has been too often spoken 
of. Though collected from the dead languages, 
it is not a l.feless mass of antiquity, but the work 
of a severe and strong imagination, compelling 
shapes of truth and consistency to rise in dra- 
matic order from the fragments of Roman elo- 
quence and history ; and an air not only of life 
but of grandeur is given to those curiously ad- 
justed materials. The arraignment of Caius 8ilius 
before Tiberius is a great and poetical cartoon of 
Roman characters; and if Jonson has translated 
from Tacitus, who would not thank him for em- 
bodying the pathos of history in such lines as 
these, descriptive of Germanicus ^ 

that man ! 
If there were seeds of the olU virtue left, 

They lived iu him 

What his funerals laek'd 
In imaiTPS and pump, they hail supplied 
With houourable sorrow. Soldiers' sadness, 



BEN JONSON. 



20R 



A kiud of silent mourninp; such as men 

Who kuow no U-ais, bul from their captives, use 

To show in KO great losses. 

By his three succeeding plays, Volpone, (in 
1605,) the Silent Woman, (in 1609.) and the 
Alchemist, (in 1610,) Jonson's reputation in the 
comic drama rose to a pitch which neither his 
own or any other pen could well be expected to 
surpass. The tragedy of Gat.hne apjieared in 
1611, prefaced by an address to the Ordinary 
Reader, as remarkable for the strength of its 
style as lor the contempt of popular judgments 
which it breathes. Such an appeal from ordinary 
to extraordinary readers ought at least to have 
been made without insolence ; as the ditt'erence 
between the lew and the many, in matters of criti- 
cism, lies more in the power of explaining their 
sources of pleasure than in enjoying them. Cati- 
line, it is true, from its classical sources, was 
chiefly to be judged of by classical readers ; but 
its author should have still remembered, that po- 
pular ieeling is the great basis of dramatic fame. 
Jonson lived to alter his tone to tlie public, and 
the lateness of his humility must have made it 
more mortifying. The haughty preface, however, 
disappeared from later editions of the play, while 
its better apology remained in the high delinea- 
tion of Cicero's character, and in passages of 
Roman eloquence which it contains; above all, in 
the concluding speech of Petrcius. It is said, on 
Lord Dorset's authority, to have been Jonson's 
favourite production. 

In 16ia he made a short trip to the Continent, 
and, being in Pans, was introduced to the Cardi- 
nal du l^erron, who, in compliment to his learn- 
ing, showed hiin his translation of Virgil. Ben, 
according to bruinmond's anecdotes, told the car- 
dinal that it was nought: a criticism, by all ac- 
counts, as just as it was brief. 

Uf his two next pieces, Bartholomew Fair, (in 
1614,) and the Devil is an Ass, (in 1616,) the 
former was scarcely a decline from the zenith of 
his comic excellence, the latter certainly was : if 
it was meant to ridicule superstition, it etiected 
its object by a singular process of introducing a 
devil upon the stage. After tnis he made a long 
secession of nine years from the theatre, during 
which he composed some of his hnest masques 
for the court, and some of those works which were 
irrecoverably lost in the hre that consumed his 
study. Meanwhile he received from his sovereign 
a pension of one hundred marks, which, in cour- 
tesy, has been called making him poet laureat. 
The title, till then gratuitously assumed, has been 
Since appropriated to his successors in the pension. 

'1 he poet'sjourney to Scotland (1619) awakens 
many pleasing recollections, when we conceive 
him ant.cipatmg las welcome among a people who 
might be proud of a share in his ancestry, and 
setting out, with manly strength, on a journey of 

[* 'The furious invective of GifforJ against Drummond 
for l.aniig wnUi'ii private nieuioranUa I'C his coiiver.-a- 
tiuiis with lieu Jiiii.-ou, which he UiU not j-ublish, and 
wh.ch, lor aught we know, were pi-rl ctiy tkithful, is ab- 
surd. Any o.ii; el-c would h.ive b.eii lliaukfiii for >o uiucli 
'ilerary aueciiote.'' — llALLAii, Lit. Hist., vol. ui. p. 505.^-C.J 



four hundred miles, on foot. We are assured, 
by one who saw him in Scotland, that he was 
treated with respect and atlection among the no- 
bility and gentry ; nor was the romantic scenery 
of Scotland lost upon his fancy. From the poem 
which he meditated on Lochlomond, it is seen that 
he looked on it with a poet's eye. But, unhap- 
pily, the meagre anecdotes of Drummond have 
made this event of his life too prominent by the 
over-importance which have been attached to them. 
Drummond, a smooth and sober gentleman, seoms 
to have disliked .lonson's indulgence in that con- 
viviality which Ben had shared with his Fletcher 
and Shakspeare at the Mermaid. In consequence 
of those anecdotes, Jonson's memory has been 
damned for brutality, and Drummond's for per- 
fidy. Jonson drank freely at Hawthornden, and 
talked big — things neither incredible nor unpar- 
donable. Drummond's perfidy amounted to writ- 
ing a letter, beginning " Sir," with one very kind 
sentence in it, to the man whom he had described 
unfavourably in a private memorandum, which 
he never meant for publication. As to Drum- 
mond's decoying Jonson under his roof with any 
premeditated design on his reputation, no one 
can seriously believe it.* 

By the continued kindness of King James, our 
poet was, some years after, [Sept. 1621,] pre- 
sented with the reversionary grant of the master- 
ship of the revels, but from which he derived no 
advantage, as the incumbent. Sir John Astley, 
survived him. It fell, however, to the poet's son, 
by the permission of Charles I.f King James, 
in the contemplation of his laureat's speedy ac- 
cession to this oliice, was desirous of conferrhig 
on him the rank of knighthood ; but Jonson was 
unwilling to accept the distinction, and prevailed 
on some of his friends about the court to dissuade 
the monarch from his purpose. After the death 
of his patron James, necessity brought him again 
upon the theatre, and he produced the Staple of 
News, a comedy of no ordinary merit. Two 
evils were at this time rapidly gaining on him, 
" Disease and poverty, fell pair. 

He was attacked by the palsy in 1625, and had 
also a tendency to dropsy, together with a scor- 
butic atlection inherent from his youth, which 
pressed u]ion the decaying powers of his consti- 
tution. From the first stroke of the palsy he 
gradually recovered so far as to be able to write, 
in the following year, the antimasque of Sophiel. 
For the three succeeding years his biographer 
suspects that the court had ceased to call upon 
him for his customary contributions, a ciicuin- 
stance which must have aggravated his poveity ; 
and his salary, it appears, was irregularly paid. 
Meanwhile his infirmities increased, and he was 
unable to leave his room. In these circumstances 
he produced his JN'ew Inn, a comedy that was 

[t This is not quite niirrect: the son died in 1635, Hon 
hiiuself in lO.iT, and Astley a year or so after. Astley 
thus survived llie tin her. to whom the rever-iion had lieen 
granted, aud the sou. to whoui the transfer had been made. 
S.'e UiiFuKi), p. cxliv. aud Colli. R's Anna s. vul. ii. p. b9. 
Sir Henry Herbert was Astley's successir — C] 



204 



BEN JONSON. 



driven from the stage with violent hostility.* 
The epilogue to this piece forms a melancholy 
contrast to the tone of his former addresses to the 
audience. He " whom the morning saw so great 
and high,"t was now so humble as to speak of 
his "famt and faultering tongue, and of his brain 
set round with pain." An allusion to the king 
and queen in the same epilogue awoke the slum- 
bering kindness of Charles, who instantly sent 
him 100/. and, in compliance with the poet's re- 
quest, also converted the 100 marks of his salary 
into pounds, and added, of his own accord, a 
yearly tierce of canary, Jonson's favourite wine. 
His majesty's injunctions for the preparation of 
masques for the court were also renewed till they 
were discontinued at the suggestion of Inigo 
Jones, who preferred the assistance of one Aure- 
lian Townsend to that of Jonson, in the furnish- 
ing of those entertainments. His means of sub- 
sistence were now, perhaps, both precariously 
supplied and imprudently expended. The city, 
m 1631, from whom he had always received a 
yearly allowance of 100 nobles, by way of secur- 
kig his assistance iu their pageants, withdrew 
their pension.^ He was compelled by poverty 
to supplicate the Lord Treasurer Weston for re- 
lief. On the rumour of his necessities, assistance 
came to him from various quarters, and from none 
more liberally than from the Earl of Newcastle. 
On these and other timely bounties his sickly 
existence was propped up to accomplish two 
more comedies, the Magnetic Lady, which ap- 
peared in 1632, and the Tale of a Tub, which 
came out in the following year. In the last of 
these, the last, indeed, of his dramatic career, he 



endeavoured to introduce some ridicule on Inigo 
Jones, through the machinery of a puppet-show. 
Jones had distinguished himself at the represen- 
tation of the Magnetic Lady, by his boisterous 
derision. The attempt at retaliation was more 
natural than dignified ; but the court prevented 
it, and witnessed the representation of the play 
at Whitehall with coldness. Whatever humour 
its manners contain, was such as courtiers were 
not likely to understand. 

In the spring of 1633 Charles visited Scotland, 
and on the road was entertained by the Earl of 
Newcastle with all the luxury and pageantry of 
loyal hospitality. To grace the entertainment, 
Jonson sent, in grateful obedience to his bene- 
factor the Earl, a little interlude, entitled Love's 
Welcome at Welbeck, and another of the same 
kind for the king and queen's reception at Bol- 
sover. In despatching the former of these to his 
noble patron, the poet alludes to his past boun- 
ties, which had " fallen, like the dew of heaven, 
on his necessities." 

In his unlinished pastoral drama of the Sad 
Shepherd, his biographer traces one bright and 
sunny ray that broke through the gloom of his 
setting days. Amongst his papers were found 
the plot and opening of a domestic tragedy on the 
story of Mortimer, Earl of March, together with 
the Discoveries, and Grammar of the English 
Tongue ; works containing, no doubt, the philo- 
logical and critical reflections of more vigorous 
years, but which, it is probable that he must 
have continued to write till he was near his dis- 
solution. That event took place on the 6th of 
August, 1637. 



SPEECH OF MAI A. 

IN "THE PENATES." 

Maia. If all the pleasures were distill'd 
Of every flower in every field, 
And all that Hybla's hives do yield, 
Were into one broad mazer hll'd; 
If, thereto, added all the gums, 
And spice that from Fanchaia comes, 
The odour that Hydaspes lends, 
Or Phtenix proves belbre she ends ; 
If all the air my Flora drew. 
Or spirit that Zephyre ever blew ; 
Were put therein; and all the dew 
That every rosy morning knew ; 
Yet all diflused upon this bovver, 
To make one sweet detaining hour, 



[* Jon.son took his revenge upon the town, in his well- 
known otle upon this occasion, wliicli showed that tlie tires 
of poetic paSAiou were by no means dead iu liiiu: 

Come, leave the loathed stage, 

And the more loath^ome age! 
Where Pride and Impudence, lU faction knit, 

Usurp the chair of witl 
Indicliug and arraigning every day 

Somctliiug they call a play. 
Let iheir fastidious, vain 
Commission of the brain 
Burn on and rage, sweat, censure and condemn ; 
Z'ltey wrre nut nutdej'or Ihee, less tlumjvr them,,,. , 



Were much too little for the grace. 
And honour, you vouchsafe the place. 
But if you please to come again. 
We vow, we will not then with vain 
And empty pastimes entertain 
Your so desired, though grieved pain. 
For we will have the wanton fawns, 
That frisking skip about the lawns, 
The Panisks, and the Sylvans rude, 
Satyrs, and all that multitude, 
To dance their wilder rounds about. 
And cleave the air, with many a shout. 
As they would hunt poor Echo out 
Of yonder valley, who doth flout 
Their rustic noise. To visit whom 
You shall behold whole bevies come 



Leave things so prostitute, 
And take the Alcaic hue; 
Or tliini- own llorac-e, or Anacreon's lyre; 

Warm thee hy I'mdai's tiie : 
And ihougli thy mrve.- beslirunk, and blood be cold. 

hre year.- h.ive maile thee old, 
Strike that di.-dainful heat 
Throughout, to their defeat 
As curious IboKs, and envious of thy strain, 
Way, blushing, swear, no palsy's in ihy brain! — G.] 
t Stsjanus. 

\X •• Yesterday the barbarous Court of Alde?men have 
wiilidrawn. their chanulerly pension for veijuiee and 
mustard, &66. ti. S.' — Jimsim to Vit E .H"/ Ni-wmMk. anh 
l)tc. 1031. It was, however, soon restored. — C.J 




^^ 



Ci^ay 



3 Lippn lc oti, ^ Co Ptulad ' 



BEN JONSON. 



205 



Of gaudy nymphs, whose tender calls 
Well-tuned unto the many falls 
Of sweet, and several sliding rills, 
That stream from tops of those less hills, 
Sound like so many silver quills, 
When Zephyre them with music fills. 
For these, Favonius here shall blow 
New flowers, which you shall see to grow, 
Of which each hand a part shall take. 
And, for your heads, fresh garlands make. 
Wherewith, whilst they your temples round. 
An air of several birds shall sound 
An lo Paean, that shall drown 
The acclamations, at your crown. — 
A 11 this, and more than I have gift of saying. 
May vows, so you will oft come here a-maying. 



FROM THE CELEBRATION OF CIIARIS. 

Of your trouble, Ben, to ease me, 
I will tell what man would please me. 
I would have him, if I could, 
Noble ; or of greater blood : 
Titles, I confess, do take me, 
And a woman God did make me ; 
French to boot, at least in fashion. 
And his manners of that nation. 

Young Fd have him too, and fair. 
Yet a man ; with crisped hair. 
Cast in thousand snares and rings, 
For love's fingers, and his wings : 
Chestnut colour, or more slack, 
Gold, upon a ground of black. 
Venus and Minerva's eyes. 
For he must look wanton-wise. 

Eyebrows bent, like Cupid's bow. 
Front, an ample field of snow; 
Even nose, and cheek withal, 
Smooth as is the billiard-ball : 
Chin as woolly as the peach ; 
And his lips should kissing teach, 
Till he cherish'd too much beard, 
And made Love or me afeard. 

He should have a hand as soft 
As the down, and show it oft ; 
Skin as smooth as any rush, 
And so thin to see a blush 
Rising through it. ere it came ; 
All his blood should be a flame, 
Quickly fired, as in beginners 
In love's school, and yet no sinners. 

'Twere too long to speak of all ; 
What we harmony do call, 
In a body should be there. 
Well he should his clothes, too, wear. 
Yet no tailor help to make him ; 
Drest, you still for man should take him. 
And not think he'd eat a stake. 
Or were set up in a brake. 

Valiant he should be as fire, 
Showing danger more than ire. 



* ["Pembrok and hi.i Lady discourping, the Earl said, 
The woeuien were men's shadowes, and she maintained 
them. Both appealing to Jonson, he affirmed it true, for 



Bounteous as the clouds to earth, 
And as honest as his birth ; 
All his actions to be such. 
As to do no thing too much : 
Nor o'er-praise, nor yet condemn, 
Nor out-value, nor contemn ; 
Nor do wrongs, nor wrongs receive, 
Nor tie knots, nor knots unweave; 
And from baseness to be free. 
As he durst love truth and me. 
Such a man, with every part, 
I could give my very heart ; 
But of one if short he came, 
I can rest me where I am. 



SONG. 

FROM "THE FOREST." 

Follow a shadow, it still flies you ; 

Seem to fly it, it will pursue : 
So court a mistress, she denies you ; 

Let her alone, she will court you. 
Say are not women truly, then, 
Styled but the shadows of us men 1 

At morn and even shades are longest ; 

At noon they are or short, or none : 
So men at weakest, they are strongest, 

But grant us perfect, they're not known. 
Say are not women truly, then. 
Styled but the shadows of us meni* 



SONO TO CELIA. 

FROM THE SAME. 

Drink to me, only with thine eyes. 

And I will pledge with mine ; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 

And I'll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise. 

Doth ask a drink divine : 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 

I would not change for thine. 
I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 

Not so much honouring thee, 
As giving it a hope, that there 

It could not wither'd be. 
But thou thereon didst only breathe. 

And sent'st it back to me : 
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, 

Not of itself, but thee. 



TO CELIA. 

FROM THE S.iME. 

Kiss me, sweet ! the wary lover 

Can your favours keep, and cover. 

When the common courting jay 

All your bounties will betray. 

Kiss again : no creature comes. 

Kiss, and score up wealthy sums 

On my lips thus hardly sundred. 

While you breathe. First give a hundred, 



which my Lady gave a pennance to prove it in verse; 
hence his epigram." — DiivuMoyD' a Informations, Arch.Scot 
iv. 95.— C.J 



BEN JONSON. 



Then a thousand, then another 

Hundred, then unto the other 

Add a thousand, and so more : 

'J'ill you equal with the store, 

All the grass that Runiney yields, 

Or the sands in Chelsea Helds, 

Or the drops in silver Thames, 

Or the stars that gild his streams, 

In the silent summer-nights. 

When youths ply their stolen delights ; 

'J'hat the curious may not know 

How to tell 'em as they flow, 

And the envious, when they find 

What their number is, be pined. 



SONG OF NIGHT. 

IN THE MASQUE OP "THE VISION OP DELIGHT." 

Break, Phant'sie, from thy cave of cloud, 

And spread thy purple wings; 
Now all thy figures are allow'd. 

And various shapes of things; 
Create of airy forms a stream. 
It must have blood, and nought of phlegm; 
And though it be a waking dream, 

Cho, Yet let it like an odour rise 
To all the senses here. 
And fall like sleep upon their eyes, 
Or music in their ear. 



CHORUS. 

IN THE SAME. 

In curious knots and mazes so, 
The Spring at first was taught to go ; 
And Zephyr, when he came to woo 
His Flora, had their motions too : 
And thence did Venus learn to lead 
The Idalian brawls, and so to tread 
As if the wind, not she, did walk ; 
Nor prest a flower, nor bow'd a stalk. 



SONG OF IIKSPETIUS. 

IN "CYNTHIA'S REVELS." 

Queen, and huntress, chaste and fair, 
Now the sun is laid to sleep. 
Seated in thy silver chair, 
State in wonted manner keep: 
Hesperus entreats thy light. 
Goddess, excellently bright. 

Earth, let not thy envious shade 

Dare itself to interpose ; 

Cynthia's shining orb was made 

Heaven to clear, when day did close : 
Bless us then with wished sight, 
Goddess excellently bright. 

Lay thy bow of pearl apart. 

And thy crystal shining quiver; 

Give unto the flying hart 

Sp;ice to breathe, how short soever : 
Thou that makest a day of night, 
Goddess excellently bright. 



SONG. 

IN "THE MASQUE OP BEAUTY." 

So Beauty on the waters stood. 
When Love had sever'd earth from flood ! 
So when he paiteJ air firom fire. 
He did with concord all inspire ! 
And then a motion he them taught. 
That elder than himself was thought. 
Which thought was, yet, the child of earth, 
For Love is elder than his birth. 

SONG. 
Oh do not wanton with those eyes, 

Lest I be sick with seeing; 
Nor cast them down, but let them rise. 

Lest shame destroy their being. 
be not angry with those fires. 

For then their threats will kill me ; 
Nor look too kind on my desires. 

For then my hopes will spill me. 
do not steep them in thy tears. 

For so will sorrow slay me ; 
Nor spread them as distract with fears ; 

Mine own enough betray me. 



SONG. 

IN "THE SILENT WOMAN." 

Sttll to be neat, still to be drest. 
As you were going to a feast ; 
Still to be powder'd, still perfumed : 
Lady, it is to be presumed. 
Though art's hid causes are not found, 
All is not sweet, all is not sound. 
Give me a look, give me a face, 
That makes simplicity a grace: 
Kobes loosely flowing, hair as free : 
Such sweet neglect more taketh me. 
Than all the adulteries of art ; 
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. 

EPlT.IPtl ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE 
Underneath this sable herse 
Lies the subject of all verse, 
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother; 
Death ! ere thou hast slain another. 
Learn 'd and fair, and good as she. 
Time shall throw a dart at thee ! 



EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH L. 11. 
Wodld'st thou hear what man can say 
In a little 1 reader, stay. 

Underneath this stone doth lie 
As much beauty as could die : 
Which in lile did harbour give 
To more virtue than doth live. 

If at all she had a fault. 
Leave it buried in this vault. 
One name was Elizabeth, 
The other let it sleep with death : 
Fitter, where it died, to tell, 
Than that it lived at all. Farewell ! 



BEN JONSON. 



207 



A NYMPH'S PASSION. 

I LOVE, and he loves me again, 

Yet dare I not tell who ; 
For if the nymphs should know my swain, 
I liear they'd love him too; 
Yet if he be not known, 
The pleasure is as good as none, 
For that's a narrow joy is but our own. 

I'll tell, that if they be not glad, 

They yet may envy me ; 
But then if 1 grow jealous mad, 
And of them pitied be. 
It were a plague 'bove scorn : 
And yet it cannot be forborn. 
Unless my heart would, as my thought, be torn. 

He is, if they can find him, fair, 

And fiesh and fragrant too. 
As sunmier's sky, or purged air, 
And looks as lilies do 

That are this morning blown ; 
Yet, yet I doubt he is not known. 
And fear much more, that more of him be shown. 

But he hath eyes so round, and bright. 

As make away my doubt, 
"Where Love may all his torches light, 
Though hate had put them out : 
But then, t' increase my fears. 
What nymph soe'er his voice but hears, 
"Will be my rival, though she have but eais. 

ril tell no more, and yet I love, 

And he loves me ; yet no 
One unbecoming thought doth move 
From either heart, I know ; 
But so exempt from blame, 
As it would be to each a fame. 
If love or fear would let me tell his name. 



THF, PICTURE OF THE BODT. 
Sitting, and ready to be drawn, 
"What makes these velvets, silks, and lawn. 
Embroideries, feathers, fringes, lace, 
"Where every limb takes like a face 1 

iScnd these suspected helps to aid 
Some form del'ective, or decay'd ; 
This beauty, without falsehood fair. 
Needs nought to clothe it but the air. 

Yet something to the painter's view, 
Were fitly interposed ; so new : 
He shall, if he can understand, 
Work by my fancy, with his hand. 

Draw first a cloud, all save her neck, 
And, out of that, make day to break ; 
Till like her face it do appear, 
\nd men may think ail light rose there. 

Then let the beams of that disperse 
The cloud, and show the universe: 
But at such distance, as the eye 
May rathe yet adore, than spy. 



ON LUCY, COUNTESS OF BEDFORD. 

FROM HIS EPIGRAMS. 

This morning, timely rapt with holy fire, 

I thought to form unto my zealous Muse, 
"What kind of creature I could most desire. 

To honour, serve, and love; as poets use. 
I meant to make her fair, and free, and wise. 

Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great; 
I meant the day-star should not brighter rise, 

Nor lend like influence from his lucent seat. 
I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet. 

Hating that solemn vice of greatness, pride; 
I meant each softest virtue there should meet. 

Fit in that softer bosom to reside. 
Only a learned, and a manly soul 

I purposed her ; that should, with even powers, 
The rock, the spindle, and the sheers control 

Of Destiny, and spin her own free hours. 
Such when I meant to feign, and wish'd to see, 
My Muse bade, Bedford write, and that was she ! 



FROM «TIIE FOX." 

VotPONE. aided by liis servant Mosca, oheating the visit- 
ants who bring hiui presents, each in the hope of being 
his heir. 

Vol}). Good morning to the day ; and next, my 

gold !— 
Open the dhrine, that I may see my saint. 

[Mosca wUlidraws the curtain, and discovers 
jjUes of gold, pliile, Jewels, <£c. 
Hail the world's soul, and mine ! more glad than is 
The teeming earth to see the long'd-for sun 
Peep through the horns of the celestial Ram, 
Am I, to view thy splendour darkening his; 
That lying here, amongst my other hoards, 
Show'st like a flame by night, or like the day 
Struck out of chaos, when all darkness fled 
Unto the centre. O thou son of Sol, 
But brighter than thy father, let me kiss, 
"With adoration, thee, and every relic 
Of sacred treasure in this blessed room. 
Well did wise poets, by thy glorious name. 
Title that age which they would have the best; 
Thou being the best of things, and far transcending 
All style of joy, in children, parents, friends. 
Or any other waking dream on earth : 
Thy looks when they to Venus did ascribe. 
They should have given her twenty thousand 

Cupids; 
Such are thy beauties and our loves ! Dear saint. 
Riches, the dumb god, that givest all men tongues. 
That canst do nought, and yet makest men do all 

things ; 
The price of souls ; even hell, with thee to boot, 
Is made worth heaven. Thou art virtue, fame. 
Honour, and all things else. Who can get thee, 

He shall be nolile, valiant, honest, wise 

Mos. And what he will, sir. Riches are in fortune 
A greater good than wisdom is in nature. 

I'o.p. 'I'rue, my beloved Mosca. Yet 1 glury 
More in the cunning purchase of my wealth. 
Than in the glad possession, since I gain 
No common way ; I use no trade, no venture. 
I wound no earth with ploughshares, fat no bf.a-t* 



208 



BEN JONSON. 



To feed the shambles ; have no mills for iron, 
Oil, corn, or men, to grind them into powder : 
I blow no subtle glass, expose no ships 
To threat'nings of the furrow-faced sea : 
I turn no moneys in the public bank, 
Nor usure private. 

3Jos. No, sir, nor devour 
Soft prodigals. You shall have some will swallow 
A melting heir as glibly as your Dutch 
Will pills of butter, and ne'er purge for it ; 
Tear forth the fathers of poor families 
Out of their beds, and coffin them alive 
In some kind clasping prison, where their bones 
May be forth-coming, when the flesh is rotten : 
But your sweet nature doth abhor these courses: 
You lothe the widow's or the orphan's tears 
Should wash your pavements, or their piteous cries 
Ring in your roofs, and beat the air for vengeance. 

Volp. Right, Mosca ; I do lothe it. 

31os. And besides, sir. 
You are not like the thresher that doth stand 
With a huge flail, watching a heap of corn, 
And, hungry, dares not taste the smallest grain, 
But feeds on mallows, and such bitter herbs ; 
Nor like the merchant, who hath fiU'd his vaults 
With Romagnia, and rich Candian wines. 
Yet drinks the lees of Lombard's vinegar ; 
Vou will lie not in straw, whilst moths and worms 
Feed on your sumptuous hangings and soft beds ; 
You know the use of riches, and dare give now 
From that bright heap, to me, your poor observer, 
Or to your dwarf, or your hermaphrodite, 
Your eunuch, or what other household trifle 
Your pleasure allows maintenance 

Volp. Hold thee, Mosca, [Gives Mm money. 

Take of my hand ; thou strikest on truth in all, 
And they are envious term thee parasite. 
Call forth my ("tvarf, my eunuch, and my fool. 
And let them make me sport. \_Exu Mos.] What 

should I do. 
But cocker up my genius, and live free 
To all delights my fortune calls me to 1 
I have no wife, no parent, child, ally. 
To give my substance to ; but whom I make 
Must be my heir ; and this makes men observe me : 
This draws new clients daily to my house, 
Women and men of every sex and age, 
That bring me presents, send me plate, coin, jewels, 
\A"ith hope that when I die (which they expect 
I]ach greedy minute) it shall then return 
Ten-fold upon them ; whilst some, covetous 
Above the rest, seek to engross me whole. 
And counterwork the one unto the other. 
Contend in gifts, as they would seem in love : 
All which I sufler, playing with their hopes, 
And am content to coin them into profit. 
And look upon their kindness, and take more. 
And look on that ; still bearing them in hand, 
Letting the cherry knock against their lips, 
\nd draw it by their mouths, and back again.— 
How now ! . . , . 

Mos. 'Tis signior Voltore, the advocate ; 
I know him by his knock. 

Volp. Fetch me my gown, 
Mv furs,and night-caps ; say,my couch is changing ; 



And let them entertain himself awhile 

Without i' the gallery. \_Exil Mo.sca.J Now, now, 

my clients 
Begin their visitation ! Vulture, kite. 
Raven, and gorcrow, all my birds of prey. 
That think me turning carcass, now they come ; 
I am not for them yet. — 

Ke-enter Mosca, with the gmoru, rfc. 

How now, the news 1 

Mos. A piece of plate, sir. 

Volp. Of what bigness 1 

Mos. Huge, 
Massy, and antique, with your name inscribed, 
And arms engraven. 

Volp. Good ! and not a fox 
Stretch'd on the earth, with fine delusive sleights. 
Mocking a gaping crow 1 ha, Mosca ! 

Mos. Sharp, sir. 

Volp. Give me my furs. [Puts on ?iis sick dress.] 
Why dost thou laugh so, man 1 

Mos. I cannot choose, sir, when I apprehend 
What thoughts he has without now, as he walks : 
That this might be the last gift he should give ; 
That this would fetch you; if you died to-day. 
And gave him all, what he should be to-morrow; 
What large return would come of all his ventures ; 
How he should worship'd be, and reverenced ; 
Ride with his furs, and foot-cloths; waited on 
By herds of fools, and clients ; have clear way 
Made for his mule, as letter'd as himself; 
Be call'd the great and learned advocate : 
And then concludes, there's nought impossible. 

Volp. Yes, to be learned, Mosca. 

Mos. O, no : rich 
Imphes it. Hood an ass with reverend purple, 
So you can hide his two ambitious ears, 
And he shall pass for a cathedral doctor. 

Volp. My caps, my caps, good Mosca. Fetch 
him in. 

3Ios. Stay, sir ; your ointment for your eyes. 

Volp. That's true; 
Despatch, despatch : I long to have possession 
Of my new present. 

Mos. That, and thousands more, 
I hope to see you lord of. 

Volp. Thanks, kind Mosca. 

Mos. And that, whCn I am lost in blended dust, 
And hundred such as I am, in succession 

Volp. Nay, that were too much, Mosca. 

Mos. You shall live. 
Still, to delude these harpies. 

Volp. Loving Mosca ! 
'Tis well : my pillow now, and let him enter. 

[ExU Mosca. 
Now, my feign'd cough, my phthisic, and my gout, 
My apoplexy, palsy, and catarrhs. 
Help, with your forced functions, this my posture, 
Wherein, this three year, I have milk'd their hopes. 
He comes ; I hear him — Uh ! [cougluiig.^ uh ! uh ! 

uh! O— 
He-enter .Mosca( inirnducing Voltore, with a piece of Plate. 

Mos. Youstillarewhatyou were, sir. Only you, 
Of all the rest, are he commands his love. 
And you do wisely to preserve it thus. 
With early visitation, and kind notes 



BEN JONSON. 



209 



Of your good meaning to him, which, I know, 
Cannot but come most grateful. Patron ! sir ! 
Here's signior Voltore is come 

Volp. Ifainlli/.'] What say you 1 

Mos. Sir. signior Voltore is come this morning 
To visit you. 

J'olp. I thank him. 

3Ios. And hath brought 
A piece of antique plate, bought of St. Mark, 
With which he here presents you. 

Volp. He is welcome. 
Pray him to come more often. 

Mos. Yes. 

Volt. What says he 1 

Mos. He thanks you, and desires you see him 
often. 

Volp. Mosca. 

3Ios. My patron ! 

T'olp. Bring him near, where is he? 
I long to feel his hand. 

31os. The plate is here, sir. 

Volt. How fare you, sir 1 

T'olp. I thank you, signior Voltore ; 
Where is the plate 1 mine eyes are bad. 

Volf. ^putting it iniQ his hatids.^ I'm sorry, 
To see you still thus weak. 

Mos. That he's not weaker. [Aside. 

Volp, You are too munificent. 

Vol!. No, sir; would to heaven, 
I could as well give health to you, as that plate ! 

Volp. You give, sir, what you can; I thank 
you. Your love 
Hath taste in this, and shall not be unanswer'd : 
I pray you see me often. 

VolL Yes, I shall, sir. 

Volp. Be not far from me. 

31os. Do you observe that, sir ? 

Volp. Hearken unto me still; itwill concern you. 

Mos, You are a happy man, sir ; know your good. 

Volp, I cannot now last long 

3Ios. You are his heir, sir. 

Volt, Am 11 

Volp, I feel me going ; Uh ! uh ! uh ! uh ! 
I'm sailing to my port, Uh ! uh ! uh ! uh ! 
And I am glad I am so near my haven. 

Mos. Alas, kind gentleman ! Well, we must all 

Volt. But, Mosca 

Mos. Age will conquer. 

Volt. 'Pray thee, hear me : 
Am I inscribed his heir for certain 1 

3Ios. Are you ! 
I do beseech you, sir, you will vouchsafe 
To write me in your family. All my hopes 
Depend upon your worship: I am lost. 
Except the rising sun do shine on me. 

Volt. It shall both shine, and warm thee, Mosca. 

il/os. Sir, 
[ am a man, that hath not done your love 
AH the worst offices : here I wear your keys, 
See all your coffers and your caskets lock'd, 
Keep the poor inventory of your jewels, 
Vour plate and moneys ; am your steward, sir, 
Husband your goods here. 

Volt. But am I sole heir ? 
27 



Mos. Without a partner, su-; confirm'd this 
morning: 
The wax is warm yet, and the ink scarce dry 
Upon the parchment. 

J'ol/, Happy, happy me ! 
By what good chance, sweet Mosca'' 

3Ios, Your desert, sir ; 
I know no second cause. 

Vol/. Thy modesty 
Is not to know it ; well, we shall requite it. [him. 

Mos. He ever liked your course, sir; that first took 
I oft have heard him say, how he admired 
Men of your large profession, that could speak 
To every cause, and things mere contraries. 
Till they were hoarse again, yet all be law ; 
That, with most quick agility, could turn. 
And return ; make knots, and undo them ; 
Give forked counsel ; take provoking gold 
On either hand, and put it up : these men. 
He knew, would thrive with their humility. 
And, for his part, he thought he should be blest 
To have his heir of such a suffering spirit. 
So wise, so grave, of so perplex'd a tongue. 
And loud withal, that would not wag, nor scarce 
Lie still, without a fee; when every word 
Your worship but lets fall, is a chequin ! — 

[Knocling without. 
Who's that 1 one knocks ; I would not have you 

seen, sir. 
And yet — pretend you came, and went in haste ; 

I'll fashion an excuse and, gentle sir, 

When you do come to swim in golden lard. 
Up to the arms in honey, that your chin 
Is born up stiff, with fatness of the flood. 
Think on your vassal ; but remember me : 
I have not been your worst of clients. 

Jolt. Mosca ! 

il/os. When will you have your inventorybrought. 

Or see a copy of the will 1 Anon ! — [sir ; 

I'll bring them to you, sir. Away, be gone. 
Put business in your face. [Exit Voltore. 

Volp, [^springing ttp,^ Excellent Mosca ! 
Come hither, let me kiss thee. 

Mos, Keep you still, sir. 
Here is Corbaccio. 

Volp. Set the plate away : 
The vulture's gone, and the old raven's come ! 

3Ios, Betake you to your silence, and your sleep. 
Stand there and multiply. \_Fulting the plate to the 

rest.'] Now shall we see 
A wretch, who is indeed more impotent 
Than this can feign to be ; yet hopes to hop 
Over his grave — 

Enter Corbaccio. » 

Signior Corbaccio ! 
You're very welcome, sir. 

Corb, How does your patron ? 

3Ios. Troth, as he did, sir ; no amends. 

Corb. What ! mends he 1 

Mos. No, sir : he's rather worse. 

C'or6. That's well. Where is he? 

3Ios. Upon his couch, sir, newly fall'n asleep. 

Corb. Does he sleep well ? 

3Ios. No wink, sir, all this night, 
Nor yesterday ; but slumbers. 

82 



210 



BEN JONSON. 



Corb. Good ! he should take 
Some counsel of physicians : I have brought him 
An opiate here, from mine own doctor. 
Mos. He will not hear of drugs. 
Corb. Why 1 I myself 
Stood by while it was made, saw all the ingredients 
And know, it cannot but most gently work : 
My life for his, 'tis but to make him sleep. 
Volp. Ay, his last sleep, if he would take it. 

[Aside. 
Mos. Sir, 
He has no faith in physic. 
Corb. Say you, say you ? 

3Ios. He has no faith in physic: he does 
think 
Most of your doctors are the greater danger 
And worse disease, to escape. I often have 
Heard him protest, that your physician 
Should never be his heir. 
Coib. Not I his heir 1 
Mos. Not your physician, sir. 
Corb. O, no, no, no ; 
I do not mean it. 

Mos. No, sir, nor their fees 
He cannot brook : he says, they flay a man, 
Before they kill him. 

Corb. Right, I do conceive you. 
Mos. And then they do it by experiment; 
For which the law not only doth absolve them, 
But gives them great reward : and he is loth 
To hire his death, so. 

Corb. It is true, they kill 
With as much license as a judge. 

Mos. Nay, more ; 
For he but kills, sir, where the law condemns, 
And these can kill him too. 

Corb. Ay, or me ; 
Or any man. How does his apoplex ? 
Is that strong on him still 1 

3Ios. Most violent. 
His speech is broken, and his eyes are set, 

His face drawn longer than 'twas wont 

Corb. How ! how ! 
Stronger than he was wonti 

Mos. No, sir : his face 
Drawn longer than 'twas wont. 
Corb. O good ! 
Mos. His mouth 
Is ever gaping, and his eyelids hang. 
Corb. Good. 

Mos. A freezing numbness stiffens all his joints, 
And makes the colour of his flesh like lead. 
Corb. 'Tis good. 

Mos. His pulse beats slow, and dull. 
Corb. Good symptoms still. 

Mos. And from his brain 

Corb. I conceive you ; good. 
Mos. Flows a cold sweat, with a continual 
rheum, 
Forth the resolved corners of his eyes. 

Corb. Is't possible 1 Yet I am better, ha ! 
How does he, with the swimming of his head 1 

Mos. O, sir, 'tis past the scotomy ; he now 
Hath lost his feeling, and hath lelt to snort: 
You hardly can perceive him, that he breathes 



Corb. Excellent, excellent ! sure I shall outlast 
him: 
Tbis makes me young again, a score of years. 

Mos. I was coming for you, sir. 

Corb. Has he made his will 1 
What has he given mel 

Mos. No, sir. 

Corb. Nothing! hal 

3Ios. He has not made his will, sir. 

Corb. Oh, oh, oh ! 
What then did Voltore, the lawyer, here ? 

Mos. He smelt a carcass, sir, when he but heard 
My master was about his testament ; 
As I did urge him to it for your good 

Corb. He came unto him, did he 1 I thought so. 

Mos. Yes, and presented him this piece of plate. 

Corb. To be his heir] 

Mos. I do not know, sir. 

Corb. True: 
I know it too. 

3Ios. By your own scale, sir. [Aside 

Corb. Well. 
I shall prevent him, yet. See, Mosca, look, 
Here, I have brought a bag of bright chequines, 
Will quite weigh down his plate. 

Mos. [^tiikiiig ilie bog."] Yea, marry, sir. 
This is true physic, this your sacred medicine ; 
No talk of opiates, to this great elixir! 

Corb. 'Tis aurum palpabile, if not potabile. 

Mus. It shall be minisier'd to him, in his bowL 

Corb. Ay, do, do, do. 

Mos. Most blessed cordial ! 
This will recover him. 

Corb. Yes, do, do, do. 

Mos. I think it were not best, sir. 

Corb. What! 

31os. To recover him. 

Corb. O, no, no, no ; by no means. 

Mos. Why, sir, this 
Will work some strange effect, if he but feel it. 

Corb. 'Tis true, therefore forbear ; I'll take my 
Give me it again. [venture : 

Mos. At no hand ; pardon me : 
You shall not do yourself that wrong, sir. I 
Will so advise you, you shall have it all. 

Corb. How 1 

Mos. All, sir ; 'tis your right, your own ; no man 
Can claim a part : 'tis yours without a rival, 
Decreed by destiny. 

Corb. How, how, good Mosca ] 

Mos. I'll tell you, sir. This fit he shall recover. 

Corb. I do conceive you. 

Mos. And, on first advantage 
Of his gain'd sense, will I re-importune him 
Unto the making of his testament: 
And show him this. [I^jiiUing to Oie money. 

Corb. Good, good. 

Mos. 'Tis better yet, 
If you will hear, sir. 

C 'orb. Yes, with all my heart. [with speed ; 

Mos. Now, would I counsel you, make home 
There, frame a will; whereto you shall inscribe 
My master your sole heir. 

Corb. And disinherit 
My son ! 



BEN JONSON. 



lU 



Mos. 0, sir, the better : for that colour 
Shall make it much more taking. 

Corb. O, but colour ! 

Mos. This will, sir, you shall send it unto me. 
Now, when I come to enforce, as I will do, 
Your cares,your watchings, and your many prayers, 
Your more than many gifts, your this day's present, 
And last, produce your will; where, without 

thought. 
Or least regard, unto your proper issue, 
A son so brave, and highly meriting. 
The stream of your diverted love hath thrown you 
Upon my master, and made him your heir : 
He cannot be so stupid or stone dead, 
But out of conscience, and mere gratitude 

Coib. He must pronounce me his ! 

Mos. 'Tis true. . 

Corb. This plot 
Did I think on before. 

Mos. I do believe it. 

Corb. Do you not believe it ? 

Mos. Yes, sir. 

Corb. Mine own project. 

Mos. Which, when he hath done, sir 

Corb, Publish'd me his heir 1 

Mos. And you so certain to survive him 

Corb. Ay. 

Mos. Being so lusty a man 

Corb. 'Tis true. 

Mos. Yes, sir 

Corb. I thought on that too. See, how he 
should be 
The very organ to express my thoughts ! 

Mos. You have not only done yourself a good — 

Corb. But multiplied it on my son. 

Mos. 'Tis right, sir. 

Corb. Still, my invention. 

Mos. 'Las, sir ! heaven knows, 
It hath been all my study, all my care, 
(I e'en grow gray withal,) how to work things— 

Corb. I do conceive, sweet Mosca. 

Mos. You are he, 
For whom I labour, here. 

Corb. Ay, do, do, do : 
ri straight about it. 

Mos. Rook go with you, raven ! 

Corb, I know thee honest. 

Mos. You do he, sir ! 

Corb. And 

Mos. Your k now ledge is no better than your ears, 

Corb, I do not doubt, to be a father to thee. 

Mos. IS'or I to gull my brother of his blessing. 

Corb. I may have my youth restored to ine, why 

Mos. Your worship is a precious ass! [not] 

Corb. W hat say'st thou ! 

Mos. I do desire your worship to make haste, sir. 

Corb. 'Tis done, 'tis done ; I go. [Exit. 

Volp. \_le.ipi)ig Jrotii Ins ((mrli.] O, I shall burst ! 
Let out my sides, let out my sides — 

Mos. Contain 
Your flux of laughter, sir: you know this hope 
Is such a bait, it covers any hook. 

Vo.'p. O, but thy working, and thy placing it ! 
I cannot hold ; good rascal, let me kiss thee : 
I never knew thee in so rare a humour. 



[Going. 



[Aside. 



Mos. Alas, sir, I but do as I am taught; 
Foil. 'W your grave instructions ; givc'them words 
Pour Oil into their ears, and send them hence. 

Volp. 'Tis true, 'tis true. What a rare pun 
ishment 
Is avarice to itself! 

Mos. Ay, with our help, sir. 

J'olp, So many cares, so many maladies, 
So many fears attending on old age. 
Yea, death so often call'd on, as no wish 
Can be more frequent with them, their limbs faint, 
Their senses dull, their seeing, hearing, going, 
All dead before them; yea, their very teeth. 
Their instruments of eating, failing them : 
Yet this is reckon'd life ! nay, here was one. 
Is now gone home, that wishes to live longer ! 
Feels not his gout, nor palsy ; feigns himself 
Younger by scores of years, flatters his age 
With confident belying it, hopes he may, 
With charms, like ^son, have his youth restored: 
And with these thoughts so battens; as if fate 
Would be as easily cheated on, as he, 
And all turns air ? [^Knorkni^ within.'] Who's 
that there, now ] a third ! 

Mos. Close, to your couch again ; I hear his 
voice : 
It is Corvino, our spruce merchant. 

Volp. ^Iies down us before.] Dead. 

Mos. Another bout, sir, with your eyes. [./5)j 
oi/Uiiig ihetn.'] — Who's there 1 

FROM THE CELEBRATION OF CtlARIS. 
See the chariot at hand here of Love, 

Wherein my lady rideth ! 
Each that draws is a swan or a dove, 

And well the car Love guideth. 
As she goes, all hearts do duty 

Unto her beauty. 
And enamour'd, do wish so they might 

But enjoy such a sight. 
That they still were to run by her side, 
Thorough swords, thorough seas, whither she 
would ride. 

Do but look on her eyes, they do light 
All that Love's world compriseth ! 

Do but look on her hair, it is bright 
As Love's star when it riscth ! 

Do but mark, her forehead's smoother 

Than words that soothe her ! 

And from her arch'd brows, such a grace 
Sheds itself through the face. 

As alone there triumphs to the life 

All the gain, all the good of the elements' strife 

Have you seen but a bright lily grow, 
Before rude hands have touch'd it ] 

Ha' you mark'd but the fall o' the snow 
Before the soil hath smutch'd it 1 

Ha' you felt the wool of beaver ? 
Or swan's down everl 

Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier 1 
Or the nard in the fire? 

Or have tasted the bag of the bee 1 

O so white ! O so soft ! so sweet is she ! 



THOMAS CAEEW. 



[BoFD, 1569. Died, 1639.] 



When Mr. Ellis pronounced that Carew cer- 
tainly died in 1634, he had probably some rea- 
sons for setting aside the date of the poet's birth 
assigned by Lord Clarendon ; but as he has not 
given them, the authority of a contemporary must 
be allowed to stand. He was of the Carews of 
Gloucestershire, a family descended from the 
elder stock of that name in Devonshire, and a 
younger brother of Sir Matthew Carew, who was 
a zealous adherent of the fortunes of Charles I. 
He was educated at Oxford, but was neither 
matriculated nor took any degree. After return- 
ing from his travels, he was received with distinc- 
tion at the court of Charles I. for his elegant 
manners and accomplishments, and was ap- 
pointed gentleman of the privy chamber, and 
sewer in ordinary to his majesty. The rest of 
his days seem to have passed in affluence and 
ease, and he died just in time to save him from 
witnessing the gay and gallant court, to which 
he had contributed more than the ordinary litera- 
ture of a courtier, dispersed by the storm of civil 
war that was already gathering.* 

The want of boldness and expansion in Carew's 
thoughts and subjects, excludes him from rival- 



ship with great poetical names ; nor is it difficult, 
even within the narrow pale of his works, to dis- 
cover some faults of affectation, and of still more 
objectionable indelicacy. But among the poets 
who have walked in the same limited path, he 
is pre-eminently beautiful, and deservedly ranks 
among the earliest of those who gave a cultivated 
grace to our lyrical strains. His slowness in 
composition was evidently that sort of care in 
the poet, which saves trouble to his reader. His 
poems have touches of elegance and refinement, 
which their trifling subjects could not have 
yielded without a delicate and deliberate exer- 
cise of the fancy ; and he unites the point and 
polish of later times with many of the genial and 
warm tints of the elder muse. Like Waller, he 
is by no means free from conceit ; and one re- 
grets to find him addressing the surgeon bleeding 
Celia, in order to tell him that the blood which 
he draws proceeds not from the fair one's arm, 
but from the lover's heart. But of such frigid 
thoughts he is more sparing than Waller; and 
his conceptions, compared to that poet's, are like 
fruits of a richer flavour, that have been cultured 
with the same assiduity .f 



PERSUASIONS TO LOVE. 

Think not, 'cause men flattering say, 

Y' are fresh as April, sweet as May, 

Bright as is the morning-star. 

That you are so ; — or though you are. 

Be not therefore proud, and deem 

All men unworthy your esteem : . . . . 

Starve not yourself, because you may 

Thereby make me pine away; 

Nor let brittle beauty make 

You your wiser thoughts forsake : 

For that lovely face will fail ; 

Beauty's sweet, but beauty's frail; 

'Tis sooner past, 'tis sooner done. 

Than summer's rain, or winter's sun 
Most fleeting, when it is most dear ; 
'Tis gone, while we but say 'tis here. 
These curious locks so aptly twined, 
Whose every hair a soul doth bind, 
Will change their auburn hue, and grow 
White, and cold as winter's snow. 
That eye which now is Cupid's nest 
Will prove his grave, and all the rest 
Will follow; in the cheek, chin, nose, 
Nor lily shall be found, nor rose ; 
And what will then become of all 
'J'hose, whom now you servants call? 
Like swallows, when your summer's done 
They'll fly, and seek some warmer sun. . . . 

[* He is mentioned as alive in 1638 in Lord Falkland's 
ver.ses on Jonson's death; and as there is no poem of 
Carew's in the Jonannux Virlnus, it i.<< not unliljely that he 
wa.< dead before ite publication. — C] 

[f " Few will he.sitate to acknowledge that he has more 
£anc.y and more tenderneas than Waller; but less choice, 
212 



The snake each year fresh skin resumes, 
And eagles change their aged plumes ; 
The faded rose each spring receives . 
A fresh red tincture on her leaves: 
But if your beauties once decay, 
You never know a second May. 
Oh, then be wise, and whilst your season 
Affords you days for sport, do reason ; 
Spend not in vain your life's short hour, 
But crop in time your beauty's flower: 
Which will away, and doth together 
Both bud and fade, both blow and wither. 



SONG. 

MF.raOCRITT l.N LOVE REJECTED. 

Give me more love, or more disdain. 

The torrid or the frozen zone 
Brings equal ease unto my pain ; 

The temperate atfords me none ; 
Either extreme, of love or hate, 
Is sweeter than a calm estate. 
Give me a storm ; if it be love. 

Like Danae in a golden shower, 
I swim in pleasure ; if it prove 

Disdain, that torrent will devour 
My vulture-hopes ; and he's possess'd 
Of heaven that's but from hell released: 
Then crown my joys, or cure my pain ; 
Give me more love, or more disdain. 



less jud^mt-nt and knowledge where to stop, less of the 
equability which never oflfends. less attention to the unity 
and thread of his little p. ices. 1 .should hesitate to give 
him. on the whole, the preference as a poet, taking colleo- 
lively the attributes of that character."— I I.vllam, JM 
Ilisl., vol. iii. p. 507.— CI 



THOMAS CAREW. 



213 



TO MY MISTRESS SITTING BY A RIVER'S SIDK. 

AN LDDY. 

Mark how yon eddy steals away 
From the rude stream into the bay ; 
There lock'd up safe, she doth divorce 
Her waters from the channel's course, 
And scorns the torrent that did bring 
Her headlong from her native spring. 
Now doth she with her new lo\e play, 
Whilst he runs murmuring away. 
Mark how she courts the banks, whilst they 
As amorously their arms display, 
T' embrace and clip their silver waves : 
See how she strokes their sides, and craves 
An entrance there, which they deny ; 
Whereat she frowns, threatening to fly 
Home to her stream, and 'gins to swim 
Backwai-d, but from the channel's brim 
Smiling returns into the creek. 
With thousand dimples on her cheek. 

Be thou this eddy, and I'll make 
My breast thy shore, where thou shalt take 
Secure repose, and never dream 
Of the quite forsaken stream : 
Let him to the wide ocean haste, 
There lose his colour, name, and taste ; 
Thou shalt §ave all, and, safe from him, 
Within these arms for ever swim. 



EPITAPH ON THE LADY MARY VILLIERS. 
The Lady Mary Villiers lies 
Under this stone : With weeping eyes 
The parents that first gave her breath. 
And their sad friends, laid her in earth. 
If any of them, reader, were 
Known unto thee, shed a tear : 
Or if thyself possess a gem. 
As dear to thee as this to them ; 
Though a stranger to this place. 
Bewail in their's thine own hard case ; 
For thou perhaps at thy return 
May'st find thy darling in an urn. 



INGRATEFUL BEAUTY THREATENED. 

Know, Celia, since thou art so proud, 

'Twas I that gave thee thy renown : 
Thou hadst, in the forgotten crowd 

Of common beauties, lived unknown, 
Had not my verse exhaled thy name. 
And with it impt the wings of Fame. 
That killing power is none of thine, 

I gave it to thy voice and eyes : 
Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine : 

Thou art my star, shinest in my skies; 
Then dart not from thy borrow'd sphere 
Lightning on him that fix'd thee there. 
Tempt me with such affrights no more, 

Lest what I made I uncreate : 
Let fools thy mystic forms adore, 

I'll know thee in thy mortal state. 
Wise poets, that wrap truth in tales, 
Knew her themselves through all her veils. 



DISDAIN RKTURNED. 
He that loves a rosy cheek. 

Or a coral lip admires. 
Or from star-like eyes doth seek 

Fuel to maintain his fires; 
As old Tune makes these decay, 
So his flames must waste away. 

But a smooth and steadfast mind. 
Gentle thoughts and calm desires, 

Hearts with equal love combined. 
Kindle never-dying fires. 

Where these are not, I despise 

Lovely cheeks, or lips or eyes. 

No tears, Celia, now shall win 
My resolved heart to return ; 

I have search'd thy soul within, 

And find nought but pride and scorn ; 

I have learn'd thy arts, and now 

Can disdain as much as thou. 

Some power, in my revenge, convey 

That love to her I cast away. 



SONG. 

PERSUASIONS TO ENJOT. 

If the quick spirits in your eye 
Now languish, and anon must die ; 
If ev'ry sweet, and ev'ry grace 
Must fly from that forsaken face : 
Then, Celia, let us reap our joys, 
Ere time such goodly fi-uit destroys. 

Or, if that golden fleece must grow 

For ever, free from aged snow ; 

If those bright suns must know no shade, 

Nor your fresh beauties ever fade ; 

Then fear not, Celia, to bestow 

What still being gather'd still must grow. 
Thus, either Tune his sickle brings 
In vain, or else in vain his wings. 



SONG. 
Ask me no more where Jove bestows. 
When June is past, the fading rose; 
For in your beauties orient deep 
These flow'rs, as in their causes, sleep. 

Ask me no more, whither do stray 
The golden atoms of the day ; 
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare 
Those powders to enrich your hair. 

Ask me no more, whither doth haste 
The nightingde, when May is past; 
For in your sweet dividing throat 
She winters, and keeps warm her note. 

Ask me^no more, where those stars light 
That downards fall in dead of night; 
For in your eyes they sit, and there 
Fixed become, as in their sphere. 

Ask me no more, if east or west. 
The phoenix builds her spicy nest; 
For unto you at last she fl.es. 
And in your fragrant bosom dies. 



214 



THOMAS CAREW. 



SONG. 

THE WILLTNG PRISONER TO HIS MISTRESS. 

l.ET fools great Cupid's yoke disdain, 
Loving their own wild freedom better; 

"Whilst, proud of my triumphant chain, 
I sit and court my beauteous fetter. 

Her murdering glances, snaring hairs. 
And her bewitching smdes, so please me. 

As lie brings ruin, ihid repairs 

The sweet afflictions that disease me. 

Hide not those panting balls of snow 
With envious veils from my beholding ; 

Unlock those lips, their pearly row 
In a sweet smile of love uniblding. 

And let those eyes, whose motion wheels 

The restless fate of every lover. 
Survey the pains my sick heart feels. 

And wounds, themselves have made, discover. 



A PASTORAL DIALOGUE. 
Shepherd, Nymph, Chorus. 
Shqp. This mossy bank they prest. Nym. That 
aged oak 
Did canopy the happy pair 
All night from the damp air. 
Cho. Here let us sit, and sing the words they spoke. 
Till the day-breaking their embraces broke. 

Shep. See, love, the blushes of the morn appear : 
And now she hangs her pearly store 
(Robb'd from the eastern shore) 

I' th' cowslip's bell and rose's ear : 

Sweet, I must stay no longer here. 

A'j/ni. Those streaks of doubtful light usher not day. 
But show my sun must set; no morn 
Shall shine till thou return : 

The yellow planets, and the gray 

Dawn, shall attend thee on thy way. 

Shep. If thii.e eyes gild my paths, they may forbear 
Their Useless shine. Nyiti. My tears will quite 
Extinguish their faint light. 
Shep. Those drops will make their beams more clear. 
Love's flames will shine in every tear. 

Cho. They kiss'd, and wept ; and from their lips 
and eyes. 

In a mix'd dew of briny sweet, 

Their joys and sorrows meet; 
But she cries out. Nym. Shepherd, arise. 
The sun betrays us else to spies. 

Shep. The winged hours fly fast whilst we embrace ; 

But when we want their help to meet, 

They move with leaden feet. 
Nym. Then let us pinion time, and chase 
The day for ever from this place. 

Sliep. Hark ! Nym. Ah me, stay ! Shep. For ever. 
Nym, No, arise ; 

Wo must be gone. Shep. My nest of spice. 

Nym. My soul. Shep. My paradise. [eyes 

Cho. Neither ciuld say farewell, but through their 
Grief interrupted speech with tears supphes. 



UPON MR. W. JIONTAGUE'S RETURN FROM 
TRAVEL. 
Lead the black bull to slaughter, with the boar 
And lamb : then purple with their mingled gore 
The ocean's curled brow, that so we may 
The sea-gods for their careful waftage pay : 
Send grateful incense up in pious smoke 
To those mild spirits that cast a curbing yoke 
Upon the stubborn winds, that calmly blew 
To the wish'd shore our long'd-for Montague : 
Then, whilst the aromatic odours burn 
In honour of their darling's safe return. 
The Muse's quire shall thus, with voice and hand, 
Bless the fair gale that drove his ship to land. 

Sweetly-breathing vernal air. 

That with kind warmth dost repair 

Winter's ruins; from whose breast 

All the gums and spice of th' East 

Borrow their perfumes ; whose eye 

Gilds the morn, and clears the sky ; 

Whose dishevel'd tresses shed 

Pearls upon the violet bed ; 

On whose brow, with calm smiles dress'd, 

The halycon sits and builds her nest ; 

Beauty, youth, and endless spring, 

Dwell upon thy rosy wing; 

Thou, if stormy Boreas throws 

Down whole forests when he blows. 

With a pregnant flow'ry birth 

Canst refresh the teeming earth : 

If he nip the early bud. 

If he blast what's fair or good. 

If he scatter our choice flowers. 

If he shake our hills or bowers. 

If his rude breath threaten us ; 

Thou canst stroke great Eolus, 

And from him the grace obtain 

To bind him in an iron chain. 

FEMININE HONOUR. 
In what esteem did the gods hold 

Fair innocence and the chaste bed, 
When scandal'd virtue might be bold, 

Bare-foot upon sharp culters, spread 
O'er burning coals, to march ; yet feel 
Nor scorching fire nor piercing steel ! 
Why, when the hard-edged iron did turn 

Soft as a bed of roses blown. 
When cruel flames forgot to burn 

Their chaste, pure limbs, should man alone 
'Gainst female innocence conspire, 
Harder than steel, fiercer than fire? 
Oh hapless sex ! unequal sway 

Of partial honour ! who may know 
Rebels from subjeiHs that obey. 

When malice can on vestals throw 
Disgrace, and fame fix high repute 
On the loose shameless prostitute ] 
Vain Honour ! thou art but disguise, 

A cheating voice, a juggling a. t; 
No judge of Virtue, whose pure eyes 

Court her own image in the heart. 
More pleased with her true figure there, 
Than her false echo in the ear. 



SIR HENRY WOTTON. 



215 



THE MISTAKE. 
When on fair Celia I did spy 

A wounded heart of stone, 
The wound had almost made me cry, 

Sure this heart was my own ; 

But when I saw it was enthroned 

In her celestial breast, 
O then ! I it no longer own'd, 

For mine was ne'er so blest. 

Yet if in highest heavens do shine 
Each constant martyr's heart ; 

Then she may well give rest to mine, 
That for her sake doth smart : 

Where, seated in so high a bliss, 
Though wounded it shall live : 

Death enters not in Paradise ; 
The place free life doth give. 

Or, if the place less sacred were, 

Did but her saving eye 
Bathe my kind heart in one kind tear, 

Then should I never die. 



Slight balms may heal a slighter sore ; 

No nied'cine less divine 
Can ever hope for to restore 

A wounded heart like mine. 



GOOD COUNSEL TO A YOUNG MAID. 
When you the sun-burnt pilgrim see. 

Fainting with thirst, haste to the springs , 
Mark how at first with bended knee 

He courts the crystal nymphs, and flings 
His body to the earth, where he 
Prostrate adores the flowing deity. 
But when his sweaty face is drench'd 

In her cool waves, when from her sweet 
Bosom his burning thirst is quench'd ; 

Then mark how with disdainful feet 
He kicks her banks, and from the place 
That thus refresh'd him, moves with sullen pace. 
So shalt thou be despised, fair maid. 

When by the sated lover tasted ; 
What first he did with tears invade. 

Shall afterwards with scorn be wasted ; 
When all the virgin springs grow dry. 
When no streams shall be left but in thine eye. 



SIR HENRY WOTTON. 



[Born, 1568. Died, 1639.] 



Sir Henry Wotton was born at Bocton-Mal- 
herbe in Kent. Foreseeing the fall of the Earl 
of Essex, to whom he was secretary, he left the 
kingdom, but returned upon the accession of 



James, and was appointed ambassador to the court 
of Venice. Towards the close of his life he 
took deacon's orders, and was nominated provost 
of Eton. 



FAREWELL TO THE VANITIES OF THE WORLD. 
Farewell, ye gilded follies! pleasing troubles; 
Farewell, ye honour'd rags, ye glorious bubbles ; 
Fame's but a hollow echo, gold pure clay. 
Honour the darling but of one short day. 
Beauty, th' eye's idol, but a damask'd skin. 
State but a golden prison to live in 
And torture free-born minds; embroider'd trains 
Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins ; 
And blood, allied to greatness, is alone 
Inherited, not purchased, nor our own. 
Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood, and birth. 
Are but the fading blossoms of the earth. 

I would be great, but that the sun doth still 

Level his rays against the rising hill ; 

I would be high, but see the proudest oak 

Most subject to the rending thunder-stroke ; 

I would be rich, but see men too unkind 

Dig in the bowels of the richest mind ; 

I would be wise, but that I often see 

The fox suspected while the ass goes free ; 

I would be fair, but see the fair and proud 

Like the bright sun oft setting in a cloud ; 

I would be poor, but know the humble grass 

Still trampled on by each unworthy ass ; 

Hich, hated ; wise, suspected ; scorn'd if poor ; 

Great, fear'd ; fair, tempted ; high, still envied more. 

I have wish'd all, but now I wish for neither 

CJreat, high, rich, wise, nor fair — poor I'll be rather. 



Would the world now adopt me for her heir. 
Would beauty's queen entitle me " the fair," 
Fame speak me fortune's minion, could I vie 
Angels* with India; with a speaking eye 
Command bare heads, bow'd knees, strike justice 

dumb 
As well as blind and lame, or give a tongue 
To stones by epitaphs ; be call'd great master 
In the loose rhymes of every poetaster ; 
Could I be more than any man that lives. 
Great, fair, rich, wise, all in superlatives : 
Yet I more freely would these gifts resiicn. 
Than ever fortune would have made them mine. 
And hold one minute of this holy leisure 
Beyond the riches of this empty pleasure. 
Welcome, pure thoughts! welcome, ye silent 

groves ! [loves. 

These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly 
Now the wing'd people of the sky shall sing 
My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring ; 
A prayer-book now shall be my looking-gla.*":. 
In which I will adore sweet virtue's face ; 
Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace cares. 
No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-faced fears 
Then here I'll sit, and sigh my hot love's folly. 
And learn to aflfect a holy melancholy ; 
And if Contentment be a stranger then, 
I'll ne'er look for it but in heav'n again. 



Angels — pieces of money. 



nc 



NATHANIEL FIELD. 



ON niE SUDDEN RESTRAINT OF THE EARL OF 
SOMERSET (THE FAVOURITE OF JAMES I.) THEN 
FALLING FROM FAVOUR. 
Dazzled thus with height of place, 

Whilst our hopes our wits beguile, 
No man marks the narrow space 
'Twixt a prison and a smile. 

Yet since Fortune's favours fade, 

You that in arms do sleep 
Learn to swim and not to wade, 

For the hearts of kings are deep. 

But if greatness be so blind 

As to trust in towers of air. 
Let it be with goodness lined. 

That at least the fall be fair. 

Then though dark and you shall say, 
When friends fail and princes frown. 

Virtue is the roughest way, 

But proves at night a bed of down. 



THE HAPPY LIFE. 
How happy is he born and taught 

That serveth not another's will, 
Whose armour is his honest thought, 

And simple truth his utmost skill ! 

Whose passions not his masters are, 
Whose soul is still prepared for death, 

Untied unto the worldly care 

Of public fame or private breath. 

Who envies none that chance doth raise, 
Or vice ; who never understood 

How deepest wounds are given by praise. 
Nor rules of state, but rules of good. 



Who hath his life from rumours freed, 

Whose conscience is his strong retreat, 
Whose state can neither flatterers feed. 

Nor ruin make oppressors great. 
Who God doth late and early pray 

More of his grace than gifts to lend. 
And entertains the harmless day 

With a religious book or friend. 

This man is freed from servile bands 

Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; 
Lord of himself, though not of lands ; 

And having nothing, yet hath all. 

A MEDITATION. 

FROM SANSCROFT'S COLLECTION. 

[Mr. Malone, from whose handwriting I copy this, says, 
"not, I think, printed."] 

0, THOU great Povyer ! in whom we move. 

By whom we live, to whom we die. 
Behold me through thy beams of love. 

Whilst on this couch of tears I lie. 
And cleanse my sordid soul within 
By thy Christ's blood, the bath of sin. 
No hallow'd oils, no gums I need, 

No new-born drams of purging fire; 
One rosy drop from David's seed 

Was worlds of seas to quench thine ire : 
O, precious ransom ! which once paid, 
That Consummatum est was said. 
And said by him, that said no more. 

But seal'd it with his sacred breath : 
Thou then, that has dispurged our score. 

And dying wert the death of death. 
But now, whilst on thy name we call. 
Our life, our strength, our joy, our all ! 



NATHANIEL FIELD. 



Nathaniel Field had the honour of being 
(onnected with Massinger in the Fatal Dowry, 
the play from which Rowe stole the plot of his 
Fair Penitent. [As one of the Children of the 



Chapel, Field played a part in .lonson's Poetaster, 
1601 ; and Mr. Collier has conjectured that he 
could have hardly begun to write before 1609 or 
1610. In 1612 he was an author in print. — C] 



, SONG. 

FROM "AMENDS POB LASIES." 1618. 



Rise, lady ! mistress, rise ! 

The night hath tedious been, 
No sleep hath fallen into my eyes, 

Nor slumbers made me sin : 
is not she a saint, then, say. 
Thought of w "lom keeps sin away ' 



Rise, madam ! rise, and give me light, 
Whom darkness still will cover. 

And ignorance, darker than night, 
Till thou smile on thy lover : 

All want day till thy beauty rise. 

For the gray morn breaks from thine eye 



THOMAS DEKKER. 



[Died about 1638.] 



At the close of the sixteenth century we find 
that the theatres, conducted by Henslowe and 
Alleyn, chiefly depended on Jonson, Heywood, 
Chettle, and this poet, for composing or re- 
touching their pieces. Marston and Deliker had 
laboured frequently in conjunction witli Jonson, 
wlien their well-known hostility with him com- 
menced. What grounds of offence Marston and 
Lekker alleged, cannot now be told ; but Jonson 
affirms, that after the appearance of his comedy, 
"Every Man in his Humour," they began to 
provoke him on every stage with their "petulant 
s/yles," as if they wished to single him out for 
their adversary. When Jonson's Cynthia's Revels 
appeared, they appropriated the two characters of 



Hedon and Anaides to themselves, and were brood 
ing over their revenge when the Poetaster came 
forth, in which Dekker was recognised as Deme- 
trius. Either that his wrath made him more will- 
ing, or that he was chosen the champion of tiie 
oriended host, for his rapid powers and popularity, 
he furnished the Satiromastix ; not indeed a des- 
picable reply to Jonson, but more full of rage than 
of ridicule. The little that is known of Deliker's 
history, independent of his quarrel with Jonson, 
is unfortunate. His talents were prolific, and not 
contemptible; but he was goaded on by want to 
hasty productions — acquainted with spunging- 
houses, and an inmate of the King's Bench pri- 
son.* Oldys thinks that he was alive in 1638. 



FORTUNE GIVING FORTUNATUS IIlS CHOICK OF 
GOODS. 

For. Six gifts I spend upon mortality. 
Wisdom, strength, health, beauty, long life, and 
Out of my bounty, one of these is thine, [riches ; 
Choose then which likes thee best. 

Fort. Oh, most divine ! 
Give me but leave to borrow wonder's eye. 
To look (amazed) at thy bright majesty, 
Wisdom, strength, health, beauty, long life, and 
riches ? 

For. Before thy soul (at this deep lottery) 
Draw forth her prize, ordain'd by destiny, 
Know that here's no recanting a first choice : 
Choose then discreetly, (for the laws of fate 
Being graven in steel, must stand inviolate.) 

Fori. Daughters of Jove and the unblemish'd 
Night, 
Most rigiiteous Pares, guide my genius right ! 
Wisdom, st.ength, health, beauty, long life, and 
riches 1 

For. Stay, Fortunatus,once more hear me speak. 
If thou kiss wisdom's cheek and make her thine, 
She'll breathe into thy lips divinity, 
And thou (like Phoebus) shalt speak oracle ; 
Thy heaven-inspired soul, on wisdom's wings, 
Shall fly up to the parliament of Jove, 
And read the statutes of eternity. 
And see what's past, and learn what is to come : 
If thou lay claim to strength, armies shall quake 
To see thee frown ; as kings at mine do lie. 
So shall thy feet trample on empery : 
Make health thine object, thou shalt be strong proof, 
'Gainst the deep searching darts of surfeiting ; 
Be ever merry, ever revelling: 
Wish but for beauty, and within thine eyes 

* He was tlier« at one time for three years, according to 
Oklys. No wonder pour Dekker could r.se a de^iree above 
tlielevel ol bis ordinary {;eniu.< in de.-enbiiig ihe liles.-iiigs 
of Furtunatu.-'s inexliau.-tible purse: he liad probably felt 
but too keenly the force of what he expr>;B.-.eii in the mis- 
anthropy of Aiupedo. 
I'm not enamour'd of this painted idol, 
This strumpet world: tor her most beauteous looks 
28 



Two naked Cupids amorously shall swim. 
And on thy cheeks I'll mix such white and red, 
That Jove shall turn away young Ganymede, 
And with immortal arms shall circle thee: 
Are thy desires long life ? thy vital thread 
Shall bestretch'd out; thou shalt behold the change 
Of monarchies ; and see those children die 
Whose great-great-grandsires nc5w in cradles lie : 
If through gold's sacred hunger thou dost pine, 
Those gilded wantons which in swarms do run. 
To warm their slender bodies in the sun, 
Shall stand for number of those golden piles. 
Which in rich pride shall swell before thy feet ; 
As those are, so shall these be, infinite. 
Awaken then thy soul's best faculties. 
And gladly kiss this bounteous hand of fate. 
Which strives to bless thy name of Fortunate. 
Fort. Oh, whither am I rapt beyond myself] 
More violent conflicts fight in every thought. 
Than his whose fatal choice Troy's downfall 

wrought. 
Shall I contract myself to wisdom's love 1 
Then I lose riches ; and a wise man poor 
Is like a sacred book that's never read. 
To himself he lives, and to all else seems dead : 
This age thinks better of a gilded fool. 
Than of a thread-bare saint in wisdom's school. 
I will be strong : then I refuse long life ; 
And though my arm should conquer twenty worlds. 
There's a lean fellow beats all conquerors : 
The greatest strength expires with loss of breath j 
The mightiest (in one minute) stoop to death. 
Then take long life, or health: should I do so, 
I might grow ugly; and that tedious scroll 
Of months and years, much misery may inroll; 
'i'herelbre I'll beg for beauty ; yet I will not. 

Are poison'd baits, hung upon golden hooks. 
When fiiols Jo swim in wealth, liiT Cynthiau beams 
Will wantonly dance on the silver-streams; 
But when this squint-e,ied age sees virtue poor, 
Anil by a litile spark set shivering. 
Begging of all, reli.-ved at no man's door, 
She .-miles on her as the sun shines on fire, 
To kill that litlie heat. 

T 217 



218 



WILLIAM ALEXANDER, EARL OF STERLINE. 



The fairest cheek hath oftentimes a soul 
Irep'rous as sin itself, than hell more foul. 
The wisdom of this world is idiotism ; 
Strength a weak reed ; health sickness' enemy, 
(And it at length will have the victory ;) 
Beauty is but a painting ; and long life 
Is a long journey in December gone, 
Tedious and full of tribulation. 
Therefore, dread sacred empress, make me rich ; 
[Kneels down. 
My choice is store of gold ; the rich are wise : 
He that upon his back rich garments wears. 
Is wise, though on his head grow Midas' ears : 
Gold is the strength, the sinews of the world ; 
The health, the soul, the beauty most divine ; 
A mask of gold hides all deformities ; 
Gold is heaven's physic, life's restorative ; 
Oh, therefore, make me rich ! not as the wretch 
That only serves lean banquets to his eye, 
Has gold, yet starves ; is famish'd in his store ; 
Ko, let me ever spend, be never poor. 

For. Thy latest words confine thy destiny; 
Thou shah spend ever, and be never poor : 
For proof receive this purse ; with it this virtue ; 
Still when thou thrust'st thy hand into the same, 
Thou shalt draw forth ten pieces of bright gold. 
Current in any realm where then thou breathest: 
If thou canst dribble out the sea by drops. 
Then shalt thou want ; but that can ne'er be done, 
Nor this grow empty. 

Furl. Thanks, great deity ! 

For. The virtue ends when thou and thy sons end. 
This path leads thee to Cyprus, get thee hence : 



Farewell, vain covetous fool, thou will repent, 
That for the love of dross thou hast despised 
Wisdom's divine embrace ; she would have borne 

thee 
On the rich wings of immortality ; 
But now go dwell with cares, and quickly die. 



FROM "THE HONEST WHORE." 

Ilipnlito's thr>uj;hts on his mistn'Ss's piVturf, from which he 
turns to loolt on a scull that lies before him on a table. 

My Infelice's face, her brow, her eye. 

The dimple on her cheek : and such sweet skill 

Hath from the cunning workman's pencil flown, 

These lips look fresh and lively as her own ; 

Seeming to move and speak. 'Las ! now I see 

The reason why fond women love to buy 

Adulterate complexion ; here 'tis read ; 

False colours last after the true be dead. 

Of all the roses grafted on her cheeks. 

Of all the graces dancing in her eyes. 

Of all the music set upon her tongue. 

Of all that was past woman's excellence 

In her white bosom ; look, a painted board 

Circumscribes all ! Earth can no bliss afford : 

Nothing of her, but this ! This cannot speak ; 

It has no lap for me to rest upon ; 

No lip worth tasting. Here the worms will feed ! 

As in her coffin. Hence then, idle art ! 

True love's best pictured in a true-love's heart. 

Here art thou drawn, sweet maid, till this be dead ! 

So that thou livest twice, twice art buried. 

Thou figure of my friend, lie there. 



WILLIAM ALEXANDER, EARL OF STERLINE. 



[Bom, 1580 Died, 1640] 



William Alexander,* of Menstrie, travelled 
on the Continent as tutor to the Earl of Argyll ; 
and after his return to his native country, (Scot- 
land,) having in vain solicited a mistress, whom 
he celebrates in his poetry by the name of Aurora, 
he married the daughter of Sir William Erskine. 
Having repaired to the court of James the First, 
he obtained the notice of the monarch, was ap- 
pointed gentlemen usher to Prince Charles, and 
was knighted by James. Both of those sove- 



reigns patronized his scheme for colonizing Nova 
Scotia, of which the latter made him lord lieute- 
nant. Charles the First created him Earl of Ster- 
line in 1633, and for ten years he held the office of 
secretary of state for Scotland, with the praise of 
moderation, in times that were rendered pecu- 
liarly trying by the struggles of Laud against the 
Scottish Presbyterians. — He wrote some very 
heavy tragedies ; but there is elegance of expres- 
sion in a few of his shorter pieces.f 



SONNETS. 

FROM HIS " AURORA." 

Some men delight huge buildings to behold, 
Some theatres, mountains, floods, and famous 

springs. 
Some monuments of monarchs, and such things 
As in the books of fame have been enroU'd, 
Those stately towns that to the stars were raised ; 

* [Notices of Alexander, Lord Stirling', may be found 
in the VHiidUS books and tiacls upon tlie Life of Majur- 
general William Alexander, Earl of Stirling, who was so 
conspicuous in the An\erioan Revolution. A more ex- 
tended biography thon is given by Mr. Campbell, is in the 
Hi'^u-iuphical Cyclopedia, vol. L— U.j 



Some would their ruins see (their beauty's gone.) 
Of which the world's three parts each boasts of one : 
Though none of those, I love a sight as rare. 
Even her that o'er my life as queen doth sit ; 
Juno in majesty, Pallas in wit, 
As Phoebe chaste, than Venus far more fair ; 
And though her looks even threaten death to mo, 
Their threatenings are so sweet I cannot flee. 

+ ['• Lord Sterline is rather monotonous, ,is .sonneteers 
usually are. and he aildresses liis mistress by the appella- 
tion, • Fair tyjire-s.' Campbell observes that there is ele- 
gance of expression in a few of his shorter pieces." — Ual- 
LAM, Lit. Hist. vol. iii. p. du5. — C.j 



JOHN WEBSTER. 



219 



I CHANCED, my dear, to come upon a day 
Whilst thou wast but arising from thy bed. 
And the warm snows, with comely garments cled, 
More rich than glorious, and more line than gay. 
Then, blushing to be seen in such a case, 
O how thy curled locks mine eyes did please ; 
And well become those waves thy beauty's seas. 
Which by thy hairs were framed upon thy face; 
Such was Diana once, when l)eing spied 
By rash Ai taeon, she was much commoved : 
Yet, more discreet than th' angry goddess proved, 
Thou knew'st I came through error, not of pride, 
And thought the wounds I got by thy sweet sight 
Were too great scourges for a fault so Ught. 



Awake, my muse, and leave to dream of loves, 

Shake off soft fancy's chains — I must be free ; • 

I'll perch no more upon the myrtle tree, [doves ; 

Nor glide through th' air with beauty's sacred 

But w.th Jove's stately bird I'll leave my nest, 

And try my sight against Apollo's rays. 

Then, if that ought my vent'rous course dismays, 

Upon th' olive's boughs I'll light and rest ; 

I'll tune my accents to a trumpet now, 

And seek the laurel in another field. 

Thus I that once (as Beauty's means did yield) 

Did divers garments on my thoughts bestow, 

Like Icarus, I fear, unwisely bold. 

Am purposed other's passions now t' unfc Id. 



JOHN WEBSTER. 



[Died about 1638.] 



Langbaine only informs us of this writer, that 
he was clerk of St. Andrew's parish, Holl)orn,* 
and esteemed by his contemporaries. He wrote, 
in conjunction with Rowley, Dekker, and Marston. 
Among the pieces, entirely his own, are 'i'he 
White Devil, or Vittoria Corombona, the tragedy 
of Appius and Virginia, the Devd's Law Case, and 
the Duchess of Malfi. From the advertisement 
prefixed to Vittoria ('orond)ona, the piece seems 
not to have been successful in the representation. 
The author says, " that it wanted that which is 
the only grace and setting out of a tragedy, a 
full and understanding auditory." The auditory, 



it may be suspected, were not quite so much struck 
with the beauty of Webster's horrors, as Mr. 
Lamb seems to have been in writing the notes 
to his Specimens of our old Dramatic Poetry. 
In the same preface Webster deprives himself of 
the only apology that could be offered for his ab- 
surdities as a dramatist, by acknowledging that 
he wrote slowly ; a circumstance in which he 
modestly compares himself to Euripides. In his 
tragedy of the Duchess of Malfi, the duchess is 
married and delivered of several children in the 
course of the five acts. 



YITTORIA, THE MISTRESS OF BRACIIIANO, RELAT- 
liNU llER DKEAM TO lllM. 

FRDM VITTOKIA CORUMBONA, THE VENETIAN COUIiTEgAN. 

Pc):intix. — Vittorh Corombina ; Duke of I$R\rHl\No; Co- 
KOMUONA, iJie mother, and f lamineo, the brother of Vit- 
toria. 

Vittoria. To pass away the time, I'll tell your 
grace 
A dream I had last night. 

Eratluuito. Most wishedly. 

17/. A foolish idle dream : 
Methought I walk'd, about the mid of night, 
Into a churchyard, where a goodly yew tree 
Spread her large root in ground ; under that yew. 
As I sat sadly leaning on a grave, 
Chequer'd with cross sticks, there came stealing in 
Your, duchess and my husband ; one of them 
A pick-axe bore, th' other a rusty spade. 
And in rough terms they 'gan to challenge me 
About this yew. 

Ira. That tree? 

Vit. This harmless yew. 
They told me my intent was to root up 
That well-grown yew, and plant i'the stead of it 
A wither'd black-thorn, and for that they vow'd 
To bury me alive : my husband straight 
With pick-axe 'gan to dig, and your fell duchess, 

[* '•Gildon. I bflii've, was? the fir.«t wlio a.'scrtBii tlint 
our author wii.x cl.rk (if St. Aiulivw's. 1 ?carclnnl the 
registuis of tliat church, but the uame uf Webster did uot 



With shovel, like a fury, voided out 
The earth, and scatter'd bones: Lord, how me- 
thought . 
I trembled, and yet for all this terror 
I could not pray. 

Flu. No, the devil was in your dream. 

Vit. When to my rescue there arose methought 
A whirlwind, which let fall a massy arm 
From that strong plant. 

And both were struck dead by that sacred yew. 
In that base shallow grave that was their due. 

Fia. Excellent devil ! she hath taught him, in 
a dream, 
To make away his duchess, and her husband. 

Lr<i. Sweetly shall I interpret this your dream. 
You are lodged within his arms who shall protect 

you 
From all the fevers of a jealous husband, 
From the poor envy of our phlegmatic duchess ; 
I'll seat you above law and above scandal. 
Give to your thoughts the invention of delight 
And the fruit. on, nor shall government 
Divide me from you longer than a care 
To keep you great : you shall to me at once 
Be dukedom, health, wife, children, friends and all. 

Cvr. Woe to light hearts, they still forerun our 
fall. 



ocour in them; and I examined the MSS.helon.u'injr to the 
Parish Clerks' Hall, in Wood Street, with as little sue 
Cess."' — ^Dxiin's Webster, vol. i. p. 1. — C.j 



220 



JOHN WEBSTER. 



FKOSl THE DUCHESS OF MALFI. 

The Duchess of M:ilfi hfiviii); privately niiirriid Antonio, 
her own steward, is inhumanly perMCuteU by her bro- 
tliei- Feiuinaud, wlio ii.nDi.u.- Inr 111 a [mum of mad- 
men, and III concert with hi.s creature Uusuia murders 
her and her auendant Cariola. 

Sci.N£. — A Mud-house. 

Persons.— T)iicHEaa of Malfi: Carmla, her faithful attend- 
ai,t; Ferdi.\a\ii, he'- ciudhroOur ; linsoi-A. his criafure 
and iusCrumeiit of cruelty ; Madmen, Executioners, Ser- 
vant. 

Ducli. What hicleous noise was thati 

Ciiri. 'Tis the wild concert 
Of niaJmen, lady, which your tyrant brother 
Hiilh placed about your lodging: this tyranny 
I til nk was never practised till this hour. 

Dwii. Indeed I thank him: nothing but noise 
and lolly 
Can keep me in my right wits, whereas reason 
And s.lence make me stark mad. Sit down ; 
Discourse to me some dismal tragedy. 

Can. Oh, 'twill increase your melancholy. 

Durh. Thou art decei\ed; 
To hear of greater grief would lessen mine. 
This is a prison 1 

Cari. Yes, but you shall live 
To shake this durance otf. 

JJurh. Thou art a fool : 
The robin-redbreast and the nightingale 
Never live long in cages. 

Cari. Pray dry your eyes. 
What think you of, madam] 

Ducli. Of nothing: 
When I muse thus, I sleep. 

Caii. Like a madman, with your eyes open. 

Durh. Dost thou think we shall know one another 
In th' other world. 

Cari. Yes ; out of question. 

Durh. that Tt were possible we might 
But hold some two days' conlerence with the dead ! 
From them I should learn somewhat, I am sure 
I never shall know here. I'll tell thee a miracle: 
I am not mad yet, to my cause of sorrow. 
The heaven o'er my head seems made of molten 

brass. 
The earth of flaming sulphur ; yet I am not mad. 
I am acquainted with sad misery, 
As the tann'd galley-slave is with his oar: 
Necessity makes me sufler constantly. 
And custom makes it easy. Who do I look like now 1 

Can. Like to your picture in the gallery. 
A deal of life in show, but none in practice; 
Or ratlier like some reverend monument, 
Whose ruins are even pitied. 

Durh. Very proper; 
And fortune seems only to have her eye-sight 
To behold my tragedy. How now, 
What noise is that] 

Seiv. I am come to tell you 
Your brother hath intended you some sport : 
A great physician, when the pope was sick 
Of a deep melancholy, presented him 
With several sorts of mad-men, which wild object 
(Being fu 11 of change and sport) forced him to laugh. 
And so th' impostliume broke : the sell-same cure 
''he Duke intends on you. 



[The Ma'l-men enter, and whilst they dnnce 
to suitable music, t.'ie DvcaEna, perceiving 
BobOtA among them, sai/i, 

Durh. Is he mad too ] 

Seiv. Pray question him. I'll leave you. 

los. I am come to make thy tomb. 

Durh. Ha ! my tomb ] 
Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my death-bed 
Gasping for breath. Dost thou perceive me sick ] 

hos. Yes, and the more dangerously, since thy 
sickness is insensible. 

Durh. 'i'hou art not mad sure ! Dost know me ■• 

Bos. Yes. 

Duch. Who am I] 

Los, Thou art a box of worm-seed. . . . 

Durh. I am Duchess of Malfi still. 

Los. That makes thy sleeps so broken : 
Glories, like glow-worms, afar otf shine bright, 
But look'd to near, have neither heat nor light. 

Durh. Thou art very plain. 

Los. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the 
I am a toinb-maker. [living: 

Durh. And thou comest to make my tomb ] 

Los. Yes. 

Durh. Let me be a little merry — 
Of what stuff wilt thou make it ] 

Los. Nay, resolve me first of what fashion] 

Durh. W hy, do we grow fantastical on our 
death-bed ] 
Do we aflect fashion in the grave ] 

Los. Most ambitiously : princes' images on their 
tombs 
Do not lie, as they were wont, seeming to pray. 
Up to heaven ; but with their hands under their 
cheeks [carved 

(As if they died of the toothache;) they are not 
With their e\es fix'd upon the stars: but as 
Their minds were wholly bent ujjon the world, 
The self-same way they seem to turn their faces. 

Du(h. Let me know fully, therefore, the effect 
Of this thy dismal preparation, 
This talk, fit for a charnel ! 

Bos. Now I shall. 
Here is a present from your princely brothers, 

[A cnjin, curds, and a bell 
And may it arrive welcome, for it brings 
Last benefit, last sorrow. 

Duch, Let me see it : 
I have so much obedience in my blood, 
I wish it in their veins to do them good. 

Los. This is your last presence chamber. 

Cari, O my sweet lady ! 

Duch, Peace, it affrights not me. 

Bos. I am the common bellman, 
That usually is sent to condemn'd persons 
The night before they suffer. 

Duch. Even now thou said'st 
Thou wast a tomb-maker ] 

Bos. 'Twas to bring you 
By degrees to mortification. Listen : 
" Hark, now every thing is still. 
The screech-owl and the whistler shrill, 
Call upon our dame aloud. 
And bid her quickly don her shroud. 
Much you had of land and rent, 
Your length in clay's now competent • 



JOHN WEBSTER. 



221 



A long war disturb'd your mind, 

Here your perfect peace is sign'd ; 

Of what is't fools make such vain keeping 1 

Sin their conception, their birth weeping : 

Their life a general mist of error ; 

Their death a hideous storm of terror. 

Strew your hair with powder sweet, 

Don clean linen, bathe your feet ; 

And (the foul fiend more to check) 

A crucifix let bless your neck : 

'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day, 

End your groan and come away." 

Curi. Hence villains, tyrants, murderers! Alas! 
What will you do with my lady 1 call for help. 

Dnrh. To whom, to our next neighbours? they 

£os. Remove that noise. [are mad folks. 

Durh. Farewell. Cariola; 
In my last will I have not much to give — 
A many hungry guests have fed upon me — 
Thine will be a poor reversion. 

Can. I will die with her. 

Diuh. I pray thee look thou givest my little boy 
Some syrup for his cold, and let the girl 
Say herprayers ere she sleep. Now whatyou please. 
What death 1 

Ens. Strangling : here are your executioners. 

Burh. I forgive them : 
The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' th' lungs, 
Would do as much as they do. 

Eos. Doth not death fright you 1 

Duch. Who would be afraid on't, 
Knowing to meet such excellent company 
In th' other world ] 

hos. Yet, methinks. 
The manner of your death should much afflict you 1 
This cord should terrify you. 

Duch. Not a whit : 
What would it pleasure me to have my throat cut 
With diamonds 1 or to be smother'd 
With cassia? or to be shot to death with pearls? 
I know death hath ten thousand several doors 
For men to take their exits ; and 'tis found 
They go on such strange geometrical hinges, 
You may open them both ways : any way, (for 

heaven's sake,) 
So I were out of your whispering. Tell my brothers 
That I perceive death (now I am well awake) 
Best gilt is they can give, or I can take. 
I would fain put oft' my last woman's fault : 
ril not be tedious to you. 

Exec. We are ready. 

Duch. Dispose my breath how please you ; but 
Bestow upon my women, will you ? [my body 

Exec. Yes. 

Duch. Pull, and pull strongly ; for your able 
Must pull down heaven upon me : — [strength 
Yet stay, heaven's gates are not so highly arch'd ' 
As princes' palaces ; they that enter there 
Must go upon their knees. Come, violent death, 
Serve for mandragora to make me sleep. 
Go tell my brothers, when I am laid out. 
They then may feed in quiet. IThey strangU her. 

Los. Where's the waiting-woman ? 
Fetch her : some other strangle the children. 
Look you, there sleeps your mistress. 



Cari, Oh, you are damn'd 
Perpetually for this. My turn is next, 
Is't not so order'd ? 

Bos. Yes ; and I am glad 
You are so well prepared for't. 

Curi. You are deceived, sir, 
I am not prepared for't; I will not die; 
I will first come to my answer, and know 
How 1 have offended. 

Dos. Come, despatch her ! 
You kept her counsel, now you shall keep ours. 

Cari. I will not die ; I must not ; I am contracted 
To a young gentleman. 

E-iec. Here's your wedding ring. 

Cari. Let me but speak with the duke: I'll 
Treason to his person. [discover 

Dos. Delays ? throttle her ! 

Exec. She bites and scratches. 

Cari. If you kill me now, 
I am damn'd ; I have not been at confession 
This two years. 

Bos. When ? 

Curi. I am quick with child. 

Dos. Why then 
Your credit's saved ; bear her into th' next room. 
Let this lie still. [T/iey strangle her. 

Ferd. Is she dead ? 

Dos. She is what 
You'll have her. But here begin your pity : 

[Shows the cliiklren strangled. 
Alas, how have these ofTended ? 

Ferd. The death 
Of young wolves is never to be pitied. 

Bos. Fix your eye here. 

Ferd. Constantly. 

Dos. Do you not weep ? 
Other sins only speak, murder shrieks out. 
The element of water moistens the earth. 
But blood flies upwards, and bedews the heavens. 

Ferd. Cover her face ; mine eyes dazzle. She 
died young. 

Dos. I think not so ; her infelicity 
Seem'd to have years too many. 

Ferd. She and I were twins ; 
And should I die this instant, I had lived 
Her time to a minute. 

Dos. It seems she was born first. 
You have bloodily approved the ancient truth, 
That kindred commonly do worse agree 
Than remote strangers. 

Ferd. Let me see her face again. 
Why didst not thou pity her ? what 
An excellent honest man might'st thou have been. 
If thou hadst borne her to some sanctuary, 
Or, bold in a good cause, opposed thyself. 
With thy advanced sword above thy head. 
Between her innocence and my revenge ! 
I bade thee, when I was distracted of my wits, 
Go kill my dearest friend, and thou hast done't. 
For let me but examine well the cause : 
What was the meanness of her match to me ? 
Only I must confess I had a hope, 
Had she continued widow, to have gain'd 
An infinite mass of treasure by her death ; 
And what was the main cause ? Her marriage ! 
t2 



JOHN WEBSTER. 



That drew a stream of gall quite through my heart. 

For thee, (as we observe in tragedies, 

'J'liat a good actor many times is cursed 

For playnig a villain's part,) I hate thee for't: 

And, lor my sake, say thou hast done much ill well. 

J vs. Let me quicken your memory, lor i perceive 
Your are tailing into ingratitude ; I chalki.igc 
I'he reward due to my service. 

Ferd. I'll tell thee 
What I'll give thee. 

Ics. Do. 

teiiL I'll give thee a pardon 
For this murder. 

J OS. Ha ! 

ieif/. Yes; and 'tis 
The largest bounty I can study to do thee. 
By wliat authority didst thou execute 
'I'his bloody sentence ] 

Lcs. By yours. 

FeuJ. Mme] was I her judge 1 
Eid any ceremonial form of law 
Eoom her to not-being 1 did a complete jury 
Lehver her conviction up i' th' court? 
M liere shalt thou find this judgment register'd. 
Unless in hell 1 See : like a bloody Ibol, 
'1 hou hast Ibrfeited thy life, and thou shalt die for't. 

Los. 'i he oitice of justice is perverted quite, 
Wlien one thief hangs another: who shall dare 
To reveal this ] 

lerd. Oh, I'll tell thee : 
The wolf shall find her grave and scrape it up : 
Not to devour the corse, but to discover 
'I'he horrid murder. 

los. You, not I, shall quake for't. 

ienl. Leave me! 

Los. I will first receive my pension. 

leid. You are a villain ! 

Las. W hen your ingratitude 
Is judge, I am so. 

L erd. horror ! 
That not the fear of Him which binds the devils 
Can prescribe man obedience ! 
Is ever look upon me more. 

Los. Vv hy, fare thee well : 
Your brother and yourself are worthy men : 
You have a pair of hearts are hollow graves. 
Rotten, and rotting others; and your vengeance, 
Like two chain'd bullets, st.U goes arm in arm. 
You may be brothers: tor treason, like the plague, 
IJoih take much in a blood. I stand like one 
That long hath ta'en a sweet and golden dream. 
I am angry with myself, now that I wake. 

L enl, tiet thee into some unknown part o' th' 
That I may never see thee. [world, 

Los. Let me know 
Wherelbre I should be thus neglected? Sir, 
I served your tyranny, and rather strove 
'I'o satisly yourself than all the world; 
And though I loathed the evil, yet I loved 
Vou tliat did counsel it, and rather sought 
Tn appear a true servant than an honest man. 

bv'd. rii go hunt the badger by owl-hght: 
Tis a deed of darkness. [Exit. 

Los. He's much distracted. Off, my painted 
honour 



While with vain hopes our faculties we tire. 
We seem to sweat in ice, and freeze in fire ; 
What would I do, were this to do again 1 
I would not change my peace of conscience 
For all the wealth of Europe. She stirs! here's life! 
Return, fair soul, from darkness, and lead mine 
Outol this sensible hell. She's warm, she breathes. 
Upon thy pale lips I will melt my heart. 
To store them with fresh colour. Who's there? 
Some cordial drink ! Alas, I dare not call : 
So pity would destroy pity. Her eye opes, 
And heaven in it seems to ope, that late was shut. 
To take me up to mercy. 

Duck. Antonio! 

Los. Yes, madam, he is living : 
The dead bodies you saw were but feign'd statues; 
He's reconciled to your brother; the Pope hath 
The atonement. [wrought 

Duck. Mercy. [SUedies. 

Bos. Oh, she's gone again : there the cords of 
lile broke. 
Oh, sacred innocence ! that sweetly sleeps 
On turtles' feathers, whilst a guilty conscience 
Is a black register, wherein is writ 
All our good deeds, and bad ; a perspective 
That shows us hell, that we cannot be suffer'd 
To do good when we have a mind to it ! 
This is iiianly sorrow ; 
These tears, I am very certain, never grew 
In my mother's milk. My estate is sunk 
Below the degree of fear: where were 
These penitent Ibuntains while she was living] 
Oh, they were frozen up. Here is a sight 
As direlul to my soul as is the sword 
Unto a wretch hath slain his father. Come, I'll 

bear thee hence. 
And execute thy last will ; that's deliver 
Thy body to the reverend dispose 
Of some good women ; that the cruel tyrant 
Shall not deny me : then I'll post to Milan, 
V\ here somewhat I will speedily enact 
\V orth my dejection. 



FROM THE SAME. 

ACT V. SCENE HI. 

Persons. — Antonio, Deho, Echo from the Duchess's graue. 

Delio. YoNu's the cardinal's window. This 
fortification 
Grew from the ruins of an ancient abbey ; 
And to yond side o' th' river lies a wall. 
Piece ol a cloister, which in my opinion 
Gives the best echo that you ever heard ; 
So hollow and so dismal, and withal 
So plain in the distinction of our words, 
That many have supposed it is a spirit 
That answers. 

J.iioi.io. I do love these ancient ruins, 
We never tread upon them but we set 
Our loot upon some reverend history ; 
And, quest.onless. here in this open court, 
Which now hes naked to the injuries 
Of stormy weather, some men he interr'd 
Loved tlie church so well, and gave so largely to't. 
They thought it should have canopied their bones 



WILLIAM ROWLEY. 



223 



Till doomsday. But all things have their end : 
Churches and cities, which have diseases like to 
Must have Lke death that we have. [men, 

Echo. Like death that we have. 

Del. Now the echo hath caught you. 

A it. It groan'd, methought, and gave 
A very deadly accent. 

Eclio. Deadly accent. 

Del. I told you 'twas a pretty one. You may 
make it 
A huntsman, or a falconer, a musician, 
Or a thing of sorrow. 

£(7(0. A thing of sorrow. 

Jul. Ay, sure : that suits it best. 

Erito. That suits it best. 

jint. 'Tis very like my wife's voice. 

Echo. Ay, wife's voice. 

Del. Come, let's walk farther from't : 
I would not have you go to th' cardinal's to-night: 
Do not 

Echo. Do not. [sorrow 

Del. Wisdom doth not more moderate wasting 
Than time ; take time for't : be mindful of thy safety. 

Echo. Be mindful of thy safety. 

Ant. Necessity compels me : 
Make scrutiny throughout the passes 
Of your own life; you'll find it impossible 
To tiy your fate. 



Echo. Oh, fly your fate. 

Del. Hark : the dead stones seem to have pity 
And give you good counsel. [on you, 

Jlnt. Echo, I will not talk with thee, 
For thou art a dead thing. 

Echo. Thou art a dead thing. 

Ant. My duchess is asleep now, 
And her little ones, I hope sweetly : Oh, heaven ! 
Shall I never see her more ] 

Echo. Never see her more. 

Attt. I mark'd not one repetition of the Echo 
But that, and on the sudden a clear light 
Presented me a face folded in sorrow. 

Del. Your fancy, merely. 

Ant. Come, I'll be out of this ague ; 
For to live thus, is not indeed to live ; 
It is a mockery and abuse of life : 
I will not henceforth save myself by halves. 
Lose all or nothing. 

Del. Your own virtue save you. 
I'll fetch your eldest son, and second you. 
It may be that the sight of his own blood, 
Spread in so sweet a figure, may beget 
The more compassion. 
However, fare you well ! 
Though in our miseries Fortune have a part, 
Yet, in our noble suff 'rings, she hath none ; 
Contempt of pain, that we may call our own. 



WILLIAM ROWLEY. 



Of William Rowley nothing more is known 
than that he was a player by profession, and for 
several years at the head of the Prince's* com- 
pany of comedians. Though his name is found 
in one instance affixed to a piece conjointly with 
Shakspeare's, he is generally classed only in the 
third rank of our dramatists. His Muse is evi- 
dently a plebeian nymph, and had not been edu- 
cated in the school of the Graces. His most 
tolerable production is the "New Wonder, or 



Died, 1640 ?] 

I a Woman never vext." Its drafts of citizen life 
and manners have an air of reality and honest 
truth — the situations and characters are forcible, 
and the sentiments earnest and unaflected. The 
author seems to move in the sphere of life which 
he imitates, with no false fears about its dignity, 
and is not ashamed to exhibit his broken mer- 
chant hanging out the bag for charity among the 
debtors of a prison-house. 



SCENE FROM TUB COMEDY OF "A NEW WON- 
DER, Oil A WOMAN NEVER VEXT." 
rersons. — The Widow and Doctor. 

Dnct. Yon sent for me, gentlewoman ! 

Wul. Sir, I did ; and to this end : 
I have scruples in my conscience ; 
Some doubtful problems which I cannot answer 
Nor reconcile ; I'd have you make them plain. 

Doct. 'I'his is my duty : pray speak your mind. 

Wid. And as I speak, I must remember heaven. 
That gave those blessings which I must relate : 
Sir, you now behold a wondrous woman ; 
You only wonder at the epithet; 
I can approve it good ; guess at mine age. 

Doct. At the half-way 'twixt thirty and forty. 

* Prince Charles, afterwards Charles r. The p],iy in 
which his n:ime i,s printed oonjoiutly with Shakspeare's is 
calleU r,ie B.rlk o/ MerUn. 



Wid. 'Twas not much amiss ; yet nearest to the 
How think you then, is not this a wonder ? [last. 
That a woman lives full seven-and-thirty years 
Maid to a wife, and wife unto a widow, 
Now widow'd, and mine own, yet all this while 
From the extremest verge of my remembrance. 
Even from my weaning hour unto this minute, 
Did never taste what was calamity ! 
I know not yet what grief is, yet have sought 
An hundred ways for its acquaintance : with me 
Prosperity hath kept so close a watch. 
That even those things that I have meant a cross, 
Have that way turn'd a blessing. Is it notstrange^ 

Docl. Unparallel'd ; this gift is singular. 
And to you alone belonging: you are the moon, 
For there's but one, all women else are stars, 
For there are none of like condition. 
Full oft, and many, have I heard complain 
Of discontents, thwarts, and adversities. 



224 



WILLIAM ROWLEY. 



But a second to jourself I never knew : 
To groan under the superflux of blessings, 
To have ever been alien unto sorrow. 
No trip of fate 1 Sure it is wonderful. 

IV(J. Ay, sir, 'tis wonderful : but is it well 1 
For it is now my chief affliction. 
I have heard you say, that the child of heaven 
Shall sutler many tribulations; [subjects: 

IN' ay, kings and princes share them with their 
Then I that know not any chastisement, 
How may I know my part of childhood ? 

Doc:. 'Tis a good doubt ; but make it not extreme. 
'Tis some affliction, that you are afflicted 
For want of affliction ; cherish that : 
Yet wrest it not to misconstruction ; 
For all your blessings are free gifts from heaven ; 
Health, wealth, and peace ; nor can they turn to 
But by abuse. Pray, let me question you : [curses, 
You lost a husband, was it no grief to you? 

JVul. It was; but very small : no sooner I 
Had given it entertainment as a sorrow. 
But straight it turn'd unto my treble joy : 
A comfortable revelation prompts me then. 
That husband (whom in life I held so dear) 
Had changed a fiailty to unchanging joys ; 
Methought I saw him stellified in heaven, 
And singing hallelujahs 'mongst a quire 
Of white-sainted souls : then again it spake. 
And said ; it was a sin for me to grieve 
At his best good, that I esteemed best : 
And thus this slender shadow of a grief 
V^anish'd again. [from 

Docl. All this was happy ; nor can you wrest it 
A heavenly blessing : do not appoint the rod ; 
Leave still the stroke unto the magistrate : 
The time is not past, but you may feel enough. 

Wid. One taste more I had, although but little. 
Yet I would aggravate to make the most on't ; 
Thus 'twas : the other day it was my hap, 
In crossing of the Thames, 
To drop that wedlock ring from off my finger, 
That once conjoined me and my dead husband. 
It sunk ; I prized it dear ; the dearer, 'cause it kept 
Still in mine eye the memory of my loss ; 
Yet I grieved the loss ; and did joy withal. 
That I had found a grief: and this is ail 
The sorrow I can boast of. 
Doct, This is but small. 

Wirl, Nay, sure I am of this opinion. 
That had I sufl'er'd a draught to be made for it, 
The bottom would have sent it up again, 
I am so wondrously fortunate. 

Duri. You would not sutler it 1 

STEPHEN. A RECLAIMED GAMESTER, NEWLY MAR- 
RIED TO THE UVER-FURTUNATE WIDOW. 
Persims. — Stephen, Robert fas nephew, and Widow. 

Enter Stephen with bills and bonds. 
Wife. How now, sweetheart? what hast thou 

there 1 
S!cph. I find much debts belonging to you, sweet ; 
And my care must be now to fetch them in. 

il'ije. Ha! ha ! prithee do not mistake thyself, 
Nor my true purpose ; 1 did not wed to thrall, 



Or bind thy large expense, but rather to add 
A plenty to that liberty ; I thought by this. 
Thou wouldst have stufl"d thy pockets full of gold, 
And thrown it at a hazard ; made ducks and drakes. 
And baited fishes with thy silver flies; 
Lost, and fetch'd more ; why, this had been my joy, 
Perhaps at length thou wouldst have wasted my 

store ; 
Why. this had been a blessing too good for me. 

S.eph. Content thee, sweet, those days are gone. 
Ay, even from my memory ; 
I have forgot that e'er I had such follies. 
And I'll not call 'em back: my cares are bent 
To keep your state, and give you all content. 
Roger, go, call your fellow-servants up to me, 
And to my chamber bring all books of debt;' 
I will o'erlook, and cast up all accounts. 
That I may know the weight of all my cares. 

And once a year give up my stewardship 

Enter Robert. 

Sieph. Oh, nephew, are you come ! the wel- 
comest wish 
That my heart has ; this is my kinsman, sweet. 

Wife. Let him be largely texted in your love, 
That all the city may read it fairly : 
You cannot remember me, and him forget ; 
We were alike to you in poverty. [love, 

Sleph. I should have begg'd that bounty of your 
Though you had scanted me to have given't him ; 
For we are one, I an uncle nephew. 
He a nephew uncle. But, my sweet self, 
My slow request you have anticipated 
With proll'er'd kindness; and I thank you for it 
But how, kind cousin, does your father use you 1 
Is your name found again within his books ] 
Can he read son there ? 

Rob. 'Tis now blotied quite : 
For by the violent instigation 
Of my cruel step-mother, his vows and oaths 
Are stamp'd against me, ne'er to acknowledge me 
Never to call, or bless me as a child ; 
But in his brow, his bounty and behaviour 
I read it all most plainly. 

fiteph. Cousin, grieve not at it; that father lost 
at home. 
You shall find here; and with the loss of his 

inheritance, 
You meet another amply proffer 'd you ; 
Be my adopted son, no more my kinsman : 
(To his U'lje.) So that this borrow'd bounty do 

not stray 
From your consent. 

IVtJe. Call it not borrow'd, sir; 'tis all your own ; 
Here 'fore this reverend man I make it known, 
Thou art our child as free by adoption 
As derived from us by conception. 
Birth, and propinquity ; inheritor 
To our full substance. 

Rob. You were born to bless us both ; 
My knee shall practise a son's duty 
Even beneath a son's; giving you all 
The comely dues of parents ; yet not 
Forgetting my duty to my father: 
Where'er I meet him he shall have my knee, 
Although his blessing ne'er return to me. 



JOHN FORD. 



221i 



Steph. Come then, my dearest son, I'll now give 

thee 
A taste of my love to thee : be thou my deputy, 
The factor and disposer of my business ; 
Keep my accounts, and order my aHliirs ; 
They must be all your own : for you, dear sweet, 
Be merry, take your pleasure at home, abroad ; 
Visit your neighbours; aught that may seem 

good 
To your own will ; down to the country ride ; 
For cares and trouble^ lay them all aside. 
And I will take them up ; it's lit that weight 
Should now lie all on me: take thou the height 



Of quiet and content, let nothing grieve thee ; 
I brought thee nothing else, and that I'll give thee. 
[Exit Stephen and Rodert. 

Wife. Will the tide never turn ] was ever woman 
Thus burden'd with unhappy happiness ] 
Did I from riot take him, to waste my goods, 
And he strives to augment it] I did mistake him. 

Doit. Spoil not a good text with a false comment : 
All these are blessings, and from heaven sent ; 
It is your husband's good, he's now transform'd 
To a better shade, the prodigal's return'd. 
Come, come, know joy, make not abundance scant ; 
You 'plain of that which thousand women want 



JOHN FORD. 



[Born, 1586, 

It is painful to find the name of Ford a barren 
spot in our poetical biography, marked by nothing 
but a few dates and conjectures, chiefiy drawn 
fi-om his own dedications. He was born of a 
respectable family in Devonshire ; was bred to 
the law, and entered of the Middle Temple at 
the age of seventeen. At the age of twenty, he 
published a poem, entitled Fame's Memorial, in 
honour of the deceased Earl of Devonshire; and 
from the dedication of that piece it appears that 
he chiefly subsisted upon his professional labours, 
making poetry the solace of his leisure hours. 
All his plays were published between the year 
1629 and 1639 ; but beibre the former period he 



had for some time been known as a dramatic 
writer, his works having been printed a consider- 
able time after their appearance on the stage ; 
and, according to the custom of the age, had been 
associated in several works with other composers. 
With Dekker he joined in dramatizing a story, 
which reflects more disgrace upon the age than 
all its genius could redeem; namely, the fate of 
Mother Sawyer, the Witch of Edmonton, an aged 
woman, who had been recently the victim of legal 
and superstitious murder — 



The time of his death is unknown. 



FROM "THE LOVER'S MELANCHOLY."* 

ACT TV. SCENE III. 

Palador, Prince of Cyprus, having fallen into melancholy 
from the disappointment of losing Eroclea, to whom he 
was attadu'd, a masque is prepared to divert his thoughts, 
at the representation of which he sees a youth, passing 
by the name of Parthenopbill, whose resemblance to his 
mistress strikes him. 

Scene— ^ Boom at the Palace. 

Persons— PxLKDon, Prince of Cyprus ; Aretus, ?iis tutor; 
SoPHROXOS. uncle tn Eroclea; Peu.ks. a courtier ; Mena- 
PHON, son of SoPHRONOs; Amethus, cousin to the Prince ; 
Khktias, servant to Eroclea. 

Enter Aretos and Sophroxos. 

^re. The prince is thoroughly moved. 

Soph. I never saw him 
So much distemper'd. 

^re. Vv'hat should this young man be, 
Or whither can he be convey'd ] 

Soph. 'Tis to me 
A mystery ; I understand it not. 

Jlre. Nor I. 

Enter Palador, Amethus and Pelias. 

Pal. You have consented all to work upon 
The softness of my nature ; but take heed : 



* 1 have declined obtruding on the reader some passages 
in Ford's plays which possess a superior power to the pre- 
sent scene, because they have been anticipated by Mr. 
Lamb in his Dramatic Specimens. Even if this had not 
been the case, I should have felt reluctant to sive a place 
to one dreadfully beautiful specimen of his affecting 
powers, in the tragedy of the Brother and Sister. Better 
that poetry should cease, than have to do with such sub- 
29 



Though I can sleep in silence, and look on 
The mockery you make of my dull patience ; 
Yet you shall know, the best of ye, that in me 
There is a masculine, a stirring spirit. 
Which [once] provoked, shall, like a bearded comet, 
Set ye at gaze, and threaten horror. 

Pel. Good sir. [guage, 

Pal. Good sir ! 'tis not your active wit or lan- 
Nor your grave politic wistloms, lords, shall dare 
To check-mate and control my just demands. 

Enter Menaphon. 
Where is the youth, your friend? Is he found yet 1 

Men. Not to be heard of. 

Pal. Fly then to the desert. 
Where thou didst first encounter this fantastic, 
This airy apparition : come no more 
In sight ! Get ye all from me ! He that stays 
Is not my friend. 

jjinet. 'Tis strange. 

Jlre. and Soph. We must obey. 

[Exeunt all hut Palador. 

Pal. Some angry power cheats, with rare delu- 
sions. 
My credulous sense : the very soul of reason 

jects. The Lover's Melancholy has much of the grace and 
sweetness that distinguishes the genius of Ford. [" Mr. 
Campbell .speaks favourably of the poetic portion of this 
play; he thinks, and I fully agree with him, that it has 
much of the grace and sweetness which distinguish tha 
genius of Ford. Jt has also somewhat more of the spright- 
liness in the language of the secondary characters, than 
is commonly found in his plays." — GifFORD. — C.J 



226 



JOHN FORD. 



Is troubled in me. — The physician 
Presented a strange mask, the view of it 

Puzzled my understanding : but the boy 

Enter Rhetias. 
Rhetias, thou art acquainted with my griefs ; 
Parthenophill is lost, and I would see him : 
For he is like to something I remember 
A great while since, a long, long time ago. 

Rhe. I have been diligent, sir, to pry into every 
corner for discovery, but cannot meet with him. 
There is some trick, I am confident. 

Pal. There is, there is some practice, slight, or 
plot. 

Rhe. I have apprehended a fair wench, in an 
odd private lodging in the city, as like the youth 
in face as can by possibility be discerned. 

Pal. How, Rhetias 1 

Rhe. If it be not Parthenophill in long coats, 
'tis a spirit in his likeness ; answer I can get none 
from her : you shall see her. 

Pal. The young man in disguise, upon my life. 
To steal out of the land. 

Rhe. I'll send him to you. 

[Exit Rhetias. 
Enter behind Eroclea (Parthenophiil) in female attire. 

Pal. Do, do, my Rhetias. As there is by nature, 
In every thing created, contrariety : 
So likewise is there unity and league 
Between them in their kind ; but man, the abstract 
Of all perfection, which the workmanship 
Of heaven hath modell'd, in himself contains 
Passions of sev'ral qualities ; the music 
Of man's fair composition best accords 
When 'tis in concert, not in single strains. 
My heart hath been untuned these many months, 
Wanting her presence, in whose equal love 
True harmony consisted ; living here. 
We are heav'n's bounty all, but fortune's exercise. 

Ero. Minutes are number'd by the fall of sands. 
As by an hour-glass ; the span of time 
Doth waste us to our graves, and we look on it. 
An age of pleasures, revell'd out, comes home 
At last, and ends in sorrow : but the life, 
Weary of riot, numbers every sand, 
Wailing in sighs, until the last drop down ; 
So to conclude calamity in rest. 

Pal. Whatechoyields a voice to my complaints 1 
Can I be nowhere private ] 

Era. Let the substance 
As. suddenly be hurried from your eyes. 
As the vain sound can pass your ear, 
If no impression of a troth vow'd yours 
Retain a constant memory. [Kneels. 

Pal. Stand up ! 
'Tis not the figure, stamp'd upon thy cheeks. 
The cozenage of thy beauty, grace, or tongue, 
Can draw from me a secret, that hath been 
The only jewel of my speechless thoughts. 

Ero. I am so worn away with fears and sorrows. 
So winter'd with the tempests of affliction. 
That the bright sun of your lite-quickening pre- 
sence 
Hath scarce one beam of force to warm again 
That spring of cheerful comfort, which youth once 
Apparel'd in fresh looks. 



Pal. Cunning impostor ! 
Untruth hath made thee subtle in thy trade: 
If any neighb'ring greatness hath seduced 
A free-born resolution, to attempt 
Some bolder act of treachery, by cutting 
My weary days off; wherefore, (cruel mercy !) 
Hast thou assumed a shape, that would make 
A piety, guilt pardonable, bloodshed [treason 

As holy as the sacrifice of peace 1 

Ero. The incense of my love-desires is flamed 
Upon an altar of more constant proof. 
Sir, O sir ! turn me back into the world. 
Command me to forget my name, my birth. 
My father's sadness, and my death alive, 
If all remembrance of my faith hath found 
A burial, without pity, in your scorn. 

Pal. My scorn,disdainful boy,shall soon unweave 
The web thy art hath twisted. Cast thy shape off; 
Disrobe the mantle of a feigned sex, 
And so I may be gentle : as thou art, 
There's witchcraft in thy language, in thy face. 
In thy demeanours. Turn ! turn from me, pr'ythee: 
For my belief is arm'd else. Yet, fair subtilty, 
Before we part (for part we must,) be true ; 
Tell me thy country. 

Ero. Cyprus. 

Pal. Ha! thy father 1 

Ero. Meleander. 

Pal. Hast a name 1 

Ero. A name of misery; 
Th' unfortunate Eroclea. 

Pal. There is danger 
In this seducing counterfeit. Great Goodness ! 
Hath honesty and virtue left the time] 
Are we become so impious, that to tread 
The path of impudence, is law and justice? 
Thou vizard of a beauty ever sacred. 
Give me thy name ! 

Era. Whilst I was lost to memory, 
Parthenophill did shroud my shame in change 
Of sundry rare misfortunes: but, since now 
I am, before I die, return'd to claim 
A convoy to my grave, I must not blush 
To let prince Palador, if I offend, 
Know, when he dooms mc, that he dooms Eroclea. 
I am that woful maid. 

Pal. Join not too fast 
Thy penance with the story of my sufferings : — 
So dwelt simplicity with virgin truth ; 
So martyrdom and holiness are twins. 
As innocence and sweetness on thy tongue ; 
But, let me by degrees collect my senses ; 
I may abuse my trust. Tell me, what air 
Hast thou perfumed, since tyranny first ravish'd 
The contract of our hearts. 

Ero. Dear sir, in Athens 
Have I been buried. 

Pal. Buried ! Right, as I 
In Cyprus. — Come ! to trial, if thou beest 
Eroclea ; in my bosom I can find thee. 

Ero. As I, prince Palador, in mine : this gift 
[She shriws him a labUt, 
His bounty bless'd me with, the only physic 
My solitary cares have hourly took 
To keep me from despair. 



PHILIP MASSINGER. 



127 



Pal. We are but fools 
To trifle in disputes, or vainly struggle 
With that eternal mercy which protects us. 
Come home, home to my heart, thou banish'd 

peace ! 
My ecstasy of joys would speak in passion, 



But that I would not lose that part of man. 
Which is reserved to entertain content. 
Eroclea, I am thine : O, let me seize thee 
As my inheritance. Hymen shall now 
Set all his torches burnmg, to give light 
Throughout this land, new-settled in thy welcome. 



PHILIP MASSINGER. 



[Born, 1584. Died, ICIO.] 



The father of this dramatic poet was attached 
to the family of Henry, the second Earl of Pem- 
broke, and died in the service of that honourable 
house. The name of a servant carried with it 
no sense of degradation in those times, when the 
great lords and officers of the court numbered 
inferior nobles among their followers. On one 
occasion the poet's father was the bearer of let- 
ters from the Earl of Pembroke to Queen Eliza- 
beth; a circumstance which has been justly ob- 
served to indicate that he could be no mean person, 
considering the punctilious respect which Eliza- 
beth exacted from her courtiers. 

Massinger was born at Salisbury, or probably 
at Wilton, in its neighbourhood, the seat of the 
Earl of Pembroke, in whose family he also appears 
to have been educated. That nobleman died in the 
poet's sixteenth year, who thus unfortunately lost 
wljatever chance he ever had of his protecting kind- 
ness. His father continued indeed in the service of 
the succeeding earl,* who was an accomplished 
man, a votary of the muses, and one of the bright- 
est ornaments of the court of Elizabeth and James; 
but he withheld his patronage from a man of ge- 
nius, who had claims to it, and would have done 
it honour, for reasons that have not been distinctly 
explained in the scanty and sorrowful history of 
the poet. Mr. Giflbrd, dissatisfied with former 
reasons alleged for this neglect, and convinced, 
from the perusal of his writings, that Massinger was 
a Catholic, conjectures that it may be attributed 
to his having offended the carl by having aposta- 
tized while at the university to that obnoxious 
faith. He was entered as a commoner of St. 
Alban's Hall, Oxford, in his eighteenth year, 
where he continued only four years. Wood and 
Davies conclude that he missed a degree, and was 
suddenly withdrawn from the univers.ty, in con- 
sequence of Pembroke's disapprobation of his 
attacl\ment to poetry and romances, instead of 
logic and philosophy. Mr. Gitliird prefers the 
authority of Langbaine, that he was not sup- 
ported at all at Oxford l)y the Earl of Pembroke, but 
by his own father, and concludes that he was with- 
drawn from it solely by the calamitous event of 
his death. Whatever was the cause, he left the 
university abruptly, and coming to London, with- 
out friends, or fortune, or profession, was, as he 
inlbrnis us himself, driven by his necessities to the 
sta^e for support. 

From the period of his arrival in London in 

* William, tUe third Earl of Ptmbroke. 



1606 till the year 1622, when his Virgin Martyr 
appeared in print, it is sufficiently singular that we 
should have no notice of Massinger, except in one 
melancholy relic that was discovered by Mr. Ma- 
lone in Dulwich college, namely, a letter sub- 
scribed by him and two other dramatic poets,! 
in which they solicit the advance of five pounds 
from the theatrical manager, to save them from 
the horrors of a jail. The distressful document 
accidentally discovers the fact of Massinger hav- 
ing assisted Fletcher in one of his dramas, and 
thus entitles S.r Aston Cokayne's assertion to be- 
lief, that he assisted iiim in more than one. Though 
Massinger therefore did not appear in print dur- 
ing the long period already mentioned, his time 
may be supposed to have been partly employed 
in those confederate undertakings which were so 
common during the early vigour of our stage ; and 
there is the strongest presumptive evidence that 
he was also engaged in plays of his own compo- 
sition,' which have been lost to the world among 
those literary treasures that perished by the neg- 
lect of Warburton, the Somerset herald, and the 
unconscious sacrilege of his cook. Of Massingor's 
fame for rapidity in composition, Langbaine has 
pieserved a testimony in the lines of a contem- 
porary poet : alter the date of his first printeJ per- 
formance, those of his subsequent works come in 
thick succession, and there can be l.ttle doubt that 
the period preceding it was equally prolific. 

Of his private lifie literally nothing can be said 
to be known, except_that his dedications bespeak 
incessant distress and dependence, while the re- 
commendatory poems prefixed to his plays address 
him with attributes of virtue, which are seldom 
lavished with flattery or falsehood on those who 
are poor. In one of his dedications he acknow- 
ledges the bounty of Philip, Earl of Montgoaieiy, 
the brother to that Earl of Pembroke who so un- 
accountably neglected him ; but warm as Mas- 
singer's acknowledgments are, the assistance ap- 
pears to have been but trans.tory. On the 17th 
of March, 1G40, having gone to bed in apparent 
health the preceding night, he was found dead in 
the morning, in his own house, in the iJank-side. 
He was buried in the church-yard of St. Saviour's, 
and his fellow-comedians attended him to the 
grave ; but it does not appear from the strictest 
search that a stone or inscription of any kind 
marked the place where his dust was deposited ; 
even the memorial of his mortality is given with 

t Nathaniel Field and Robert Daborue. 



228 



PHILIP MASSINGER. 



a pathetic brevity, which accords but too well with 
the obscure and humble circumstances of his life — • 
"March 20, 1639-40, buried Philip Massinger, a 
stranger ;"* and of all his admirers only Sir Aston 
Cokayne dedicated a line to his memory. Even 
posterity did him long injustice : Rowe, who had 
discovered his merits in the depth of their neglect, 



forbore to be his editor, in the hopes of concealing 
his plagiarism from the Fatal Dowry ;t and he 
seemed on the eve of oblivion, when Dodsley's 
reprint of our old plays brought him faintly into 
that light of reputation, which has been made 
perfectly distinct by Mr. Gilford's edition of his 
works. 



MARCELIA TEMPTED BY FRANCISCO. 

FHOM ''THE DUKE OP MILAN," A TR \GEDY. 

Sfnrza, Duke of Milan, in hia passionate atfarhment to his 
wife Marcelia, cannot endure the idea of her surviving 
hie, and being oallfd out to war, leaves an order to his 
favourite Francisro, that in the event of his falling in 
the contest he should )iut the duchess to death. Mar- 
celia's discovery of this frantic order brin^is on the jea- 
lousy aud deaths that form the catastrophe of the piece. 

Fran. Let them first know themselves, and 
how you are [confess, 

To be served and honour'd ; which, when they 
You may again receive them to your favour : 
And then it will show nobly. 

Marc. With my thanks 
The duke shall pay you his, if he return 
To bless us with his presence. 

Fran. There is nothing 
That can be added to your fair acceptance ; 
That is the prize, indeed ; all else are blanks, 
And of no value. As, in virtuous actions, 
1'he undertaker iinds a full reward. 
Although conferr'd upon unthankful men ; 
So, any service done to so much sweetness, 
However dangprous, and subject to 
An ill construction, in your favour finds 
A wish'd, and glorious end. 

Marc. From you, I take this 
As loyal duty ; but, in any other, 
It would appear gross flattery. 

Fran. Flattery, madam ! 
You are so rare and excellent in all things, 
And raised so high upon a rock of goodness, 
As that vice cannot reach you ; who but looks on 
This temple, built by nature to perfection, 
But must bow to it ; and out of that zeal, 
Not only learn to adore it, but to love it 1 

Marc. Whither will this fellow 1 

Fran. Pardon, therefore, madam. 
If an excess in me of humble duty 
Teach me to hope, and though it be not in 
The power of man to merit such a blessing, 
My piety, for it is more than love, 
May find reward. 

Marc. You have it in my thanks ; 
And, on my hand, I am pleased that you shall take 
A full possession of it : but, take heed 
That you fix here, and feed no hope beyond it ; 
If you do, it will prove fatal. 

Fran. Be it death. 
And death with torments tyrants ne'er found out. 
Yet I must say, I love you. 

Marc. As a subject ; 
And 'twill become you. 



* [The real entry is " 1639. March 18. PliHip Massinger, 
stranger' — that is, a non-parishioner; but it has hitherto 
oeen quoted as Mr. Campbell has quoted it. — C.J 



Fran. Farewell circumstance ! 
And since you are not pleased to understand me, 
But by a plain and usual form of speech; 
All superstitious reverence laid by, 
I love you as a man, and, as a man, 
I would enjoy you. Why do you start, and fly me 1 
I am no monster, and you but a woman, 
A woman made to yield, and by example 
Told it is lawful : favours of this nature, 
Are, in our age, no miracle in the greatest ; 
And, therefore, lady 

Marc. Keep off". O you Powers ! • 

Libidinous beast ! and, add to that, unthankful ! 
A crime which creatures wanting reason fly from ; 
Are all the princely bounties, favours, honours. 
Which, with some prejudice to his own wisdom, 
Thy lord and raiser hath conferr'd upon thee. 
In three days' absence buried 1 Hath he made thee, 
A thing obscure, almost without a name, 
The envy of great fortunes 1 Have I graced thee. 
Beyond thy rank, and entertain'd thee, as 
A friend, and not a servant 1 and is this, 
This impudent attempt to taint mine honour, 
The fair return of both our ventured favours ! 

Fran. Hear my excuse. 

Marc. The devil may plead mercy, 
And with as much assurance, as thou yield one. 
Burns lust so hot in thee ] or is thy pride 
Grown up to such a height, that, but a princess, 
No woman can content thee ; and, add to it, 
His wife and princess, to whom thou art. tied 
In all the bonds of duty 1 — Read my Ufe, 
And find one act of mine so loosely carried. 
That could invite a most self-loving fool. 
Set oflTwith all that fortune could throw on him. 
To the least hope to find way to my favour ; 
And, what's the worst mine enemies could wish me, 
I'll be thy strumpet. 

Fran. 'Tis acknowledged, madam, 
That your whole course of life hath been a pattern 
For chaste and virtuous women. In your beauty, 
Which I first saw, and loved, as a fair crystal, 
I read your heavenly mind, clear and untainted ; 
And while the duke did prize you to your value, 
Could it have been in man to pay that duty, 
I well might envy him, but durst not hope 
To stop you in your full career of goodness : 
But now I find that he's fall'n from his fortune. 
And, howsoever he would appear doting, 
Grown cold in his affection ; I presume. 
From his most barbarous neglect of you. 
To offer my true service. Nor stand I bound, 
To look back on the courtesies of him, 
That, of all living men, is most unthankful. 




PFIILIP MASSINGER. 



Marc. Unheard-of impudence ! 

Fran. You'll say I am modest, 
When I have told the story. Can he tax me, 
That have received some worldly trifles from him, 
For being ungrateful; when he, that first tasted. 
And hath so long enjoy'd, your .sweet embraces, 
In which all blessings that our frail condition 
Is capable of, are wholly comprehended, 
As cloy'd with happiness, contemns the giver 
Of his felicity ! and, as he reach'd not 
The masterpiece of mischief which he aims at. 
Unless he pay those favours he stands bound to. 
With fell and deadly hate! — 'You think he lovesyou 
With unexampled fervour; nay, dotes on you. 
As there were something in you more than woman : 
When, on my knowledge, he long since hath wish'd 
You were anjong the dead ; — and I, you scorn so, 
Perhaps, am your preserver. 

Mure. Bless me, good angels. 
Or I am blasted ! Lies so false and wicked, 
And fashion'd to so damnable a purpose, 
Cannot be spoken by a human tongue. 
My husband hate me ! give thyself the lie. 
False and accursed ! Thy soul, if thou hast any, 
Can witness, never lady stood so bound 
To the unfeign'd affection of her lord, 
As I do to my Slbrza. If thou wouldst work 
Upon my weak credulity, tell me, rather. 
That the earth moves ; the sun and stars stand still; 
The ocean keeps nor floods nor ebbs ; or that 
There's peace betw een the lion and the lamb ; 
Or that the ravenous eagle and the dove 
Keep in one aerie, and bring up their young ; 
Or any thin^ that is averse to nature : 
And I will sooner credit it, than that 
My lord can think of me, but as a jewel. 
He loves more than himself, and all the world. 

Fran. innocence abused ! simplicity cozen'd ! 
It were a sin, for which we have no name. 
To keep you longer in this wilful error. 
Read his afl'ectiou here; — \irives her a paper.'\ — 

and then observe 
How dear he holds you ! 'Tis his character, 
Which cunning yet could never counterfeit. 

Marc. 'Tis his hand, I'm resolved of it. I'll try 
What the inscription is. 

Fran. Pray you, do so. 

Marc, (reads.) Wm know my pleasure, and the 
hour of Murceluih death, which fail not to execute, 
as y(ru will answer the contrary, not with your head 
alone, but with the ruin, of your whole family. .And 
this, written with my own hand, and signed with my 
privy signet, shall be your sufficient warrant. 

Louovico Sforza. 
I do obey it ; every word's a poinard, 
And reaches to my heart. \_She swoons. 

Fran. What have I done ! 
Madam ! for heaven's sake, madam ! — my fate ! 
I'll bend her body : this is, yet, some pleasure : 
I'll kiss her into a new life. Dear lady ! — 
She stirs. For the duke's sake, for Sfoiza's sake' — 

Marc. Sforza's! standott'; thoughdead,! will be 
And even my ashes shall abhor the touch [his. 

Of any other. — O unkind, and cruel ! 
Lean, women, learn to trust in one another; 



There is no faith in man : Sforza is false, 
False to Marcelia ! 

Fran. But I am true. 
And live to make you happy. All the pomp, 
State, and observance you had, being his. 
Compared to what you shall enjoy, when mine, 
Shall be no more remember'd. Lose his memory. 
And look with cheerful beams on your new creature; 
And know, what he hath plotted for your good, 
Fate cannot alter. If the emperor 
Take not his life, at his return he dies, 
And by my hand ; my wife, that is his heir, 
Shall quickly follow : — then we reign alone ! 
For with this arm I'll swim through seas of blood. 
Or make a bridge, arch'd with the bones of men, 
But I will grasp my aims in you, my dearest, 
Dearest, and best of women ! 

Marc. Thou art a villain ! 
All attributes of archvillains made into one, 
Cannot express thee. I prefer the hate 
Of Sforza, though it mark nie for the grave, 
Belbre thy base aflection. I am yet 
Pure and unspotted in my Uue love to him ; 
Nor shall it be corrupted, though he's tainted : 
Nor will I part with innocence, because 
He is found guilty For thyself, thou art 
A thing, that, equal with the devil iiimself, 
I do detest and scorn. 

Fran. Thou, then, art nothing : 
Thy life is in my power, disdainful woman ! 
Think on't, and tremble. 

Mure. No, though thou wert now 
To play thy hangman's part. — Thou well may'stbe 
My executioner, and art only fit 
For such employment; but ne'er hope to have 
The least grace iiom me. 1 will never see thee. 
But as the shame of men: so, with my curses 
Of horror to thy conscience in this life. 
And pains in hell hereafter, I spit at thee ; 
And, making haste to make my peace with heaven. 
Expect thee as my hangman. 



PARTING SCENE OF LEOSTIIENES, A YOUXG 
NOBLKMAN OF SYRACUSE, AND CLEORA, DAUGH- 
TER TO TUE PltJiTOK OF THE CITY. 



FROM "THE BONDMAN.' 



Leost. We are alone ; 
But how I should begin, or in what language 
Speak the unwdhng word of parting from you, 
I am yet to learn. 

Cleii. And still continue ignorant; 
For I must be most cruel to myself, 
If I should teach you. 

Lcost. Yet it must be spoken, 
Or you will chide my slackness. You have fir^d me 
With the heat of noble action to deserve you • 
And the least spark of honour that took life 
From your sweet breath, still fann'd by it ami 

cherish'd. 
Must mount up in a glorious flame, or I 
Am much unworthy. 

Cieo. May it yet burn here, 
And, as a seamprk, serve to guide true lovers, 
Toss'd on the ocean of luxurious wishes, 
U 



!3(r 



PHILIP MASSINGER. 



Safe from the rocks of lust, into the harbour 
Of pure affection ! rising up an example 
Which aftertiines shall witness to our glory, 
First took from us beginning. 

J.eosl. 'Tis a happiness 
My duty to my country, and mine honour 
Cannot consent to : besides, add to these, 
It was your pleasure, fortified by persuasion. 
And strength of reason, for the general good, 
That I should go. 

Cleo. Alas ! I then was witty 
To plead against myself; and mine eye, fix'd 
Upon the hill of honour, ne'er descended 
To look into the vale of certain dangers, 
Through which you were to cut your passage to it. 
Leosl. I'll stay at home, then. 
Cleo. No, that must not be ; 
For so, to serve my own ends, and to gain 
A petty wreath myself, I rob you of 
A certain triumph, which must fall upon you, 
Or Virtue's turn'd a handmaid to blind Fortune. 
How is my soul divided ! to confirm you 
In the opinion of the world, most worthy 
To be beloved, (with me you're at the height, 
And can advance no further.) I must send you 
To court the goddess of stern war, who, if 
She see you with my eyes, will ne'er return you. 
But grow enamour'd of you. 

Leust. Sweet, take comfort ! 
And what I offer you, you must vouchsafe me. 
Or I am wretched : All the dangers that 
I can encounter in the war, are trifles ; 
My enemies abroad to be contemn'd ; 
The dreadful foes, that have the power to hurt me, 
I leave at home with you, 
Cleo. With me 1 
Lecst. Nay, in you. 
In every part about you, they are arm'd 
To fight against me. 
Cleo. W here ] 

Least. There's no perfection 
That you are mistress of, but musters up 
A legion against me, and all sworn 
To my destruction. 
Cleo. This is strange ! 
Leosl. But true, sweet; 
Excess of love can work such miracles ! 
Upon this ivory forehead are intrenth'd 
Ten thousand rivals, and these suns command 
Supplies from all the world, on pain to forfeit 
Their comfortable beams ; these ruby lips, 
A rich exchequer to assure their pay ; 
Thi^ hand, Sibylla's golden bough to guard them 
Through hell, and horror, to the Elysian springs ; 
Which who'll not venture for? and, should I name 
Such as the virtues of your mind invite, 
Their numbers would be infinite. 

( leo. Can you think 
I may be tempted 1 

Leost. You were never proved. 
For me, I have conversed with you no further 
Than would become a brother. I ne'er tuned 
Loose notes to your chaste ears ; or brought rich 
For my artillery, to batter down [presents 

The fortress of your honour ; nor endeavour'd 



To make your blood run high at solemn feasts 
With viands that provoke ; the speeding philtres , 
I work'd no bawds to tempt you ; never practised 
The cunning and corrupting arts they study. 
That wander in the wild maze of desire ; 
Honest simplicity and truth were all 
The agents I employ'd ; and when I came 
To see you. it was with that reverence 
As I beheld the altars of the gods : 
And Love, that came along with me, was taught 
To leave his arrows and his torch behind, 
Quench'd in my fear to give offence. 

Cleo. And 'twas 
That modesty that took me and preserves me, 
Like a fresh rose, in mine own natural sweetness, 
Which, sullied with the touch of impure heads, 
Loses both scent and beauty. 

Leost. But, Cleora, 
When I am absent, as I must go from you 
(Such is the cruelty of my fate) and leave you, 
Unguarded, to the violent assaults 
Of loose temptations; when the memory 
Of my so many years of love and service 
Is lost in other objects; when you are courted 
By such as keep a catalogue of their conquests 
Won upon credulous virgins ; when nor father 
Is here to awe you, brother to advise you. 
Nor your poor servant by, to keep such off. 
By lust instructed how to undermine. 
And blow your chastity up; when your weak senses, 
At once assaulted, shall conspire against you. 
And play the traitors to your soul, your virtue; 
How can you stand 1 'Faith, though you fall, and I 
The judge, before whom you then stood accused, 
I should acquit you. 

Cleo. Will you then confirm 
That love and jealousy, though of different natures, 
Must of necessity be twins ; the younger 
Created only to defeat th« elder, 
And spoil him of his birthright ? 'tis not well. 
But being to part, I will not chide, I will not ; 
Nor with one syllable or tear, express 
How deeply I am wounded with the arrows 
Of your distrust: but when that you shall hear, 
At your return, how I have borne myself, 
And what an austere penance I take on me. 
To satisfy your doubts ; when, like a vestal, 
I show you, to your shame, the fire still burning. 
Committed to my charge by true affection. 
The people joining with you in the wonder; 
When by the glorious splendour of my sufferings, 
The prying eyes of jealousy are struck blind. 
The monster too that feeds on fears, e'en starved 
For want of seeming matter to accuse me; 
Expect, Leosthenes, a sharp reproof 
From my just anger. 

Leosl. VV hat will you dol 
Cleo. Obey me. 
Or from this minute you are a stranger to me ; 
And do't without reply. All-seeing sun. 
Thou witness of my innocence, thus I close 
Mine eyes against thy comfortable light. 
Till the return of this distrustful man ! 
Now bind them sure; — nay. do't: [He binds hei 
eyes.l If, uncompell'd, 



PHILIP MASSINGER. 



231 



I loose this knot, until the hands that made it 
Be pleased to untie it, may consuming plagues 
Fall heavy on me ! pray you guide me to your lips. 
This kiss, when you come back, shall be a virgin 
To bid you welcome ; nay, I have not done yet : 
I will continue dumb, and, you once gone. 
No accent shall come from me. Now to my chamber, 
My tomb, if you miscarry: there I'll spend 
My hours in silent mourning, and thus much 
Shall be reported of me to my glory, 
And you confess it, whether I live or die, 
My chastity triumphs o'er your jealousy. 



PISANDER DKCr.ARING HIS PASSION FOR CLEORA, 
IN THE INSURRECTION OF THE SLAVES OF 

SYRACUSE. 

FROM THE SAME. 

Enter Pisander, speaking, at the door, to the Insurgents. 

Pisander. He that advances 
A foot beyond this, comes upon my sword : 
You have had your ways, disturb not mine. 

Timandra. Speak gently. 
Her fears may kill her else. 

PiS'ui. Now Love inspire me ! 
Still shall this canopy of envious night 
Obscure my suns of comfort ? and those dainties 
Of purest white and red, which I take in at 
My greedy eyes, denied my famish'd senses 1 — 
The organs of your hearing yet are open ; 
And you infringe.no vow, though you vouchsafe 
To give them warrant to convey unto 
Your understanding parts, the story of 
A tortured and despairing lover, whom 
Not fortune but aflection marks your slave : 
Shake not, best lady ! for believe't, you are 
As far from danger as I am from force : 
All violence I shall offer, tends no further 
Than to relate my sufferings, which I dare not 
Presume to do, till, by some gracious sign, 
You show you are pleased to hear me. 

Tmiand. If you are. 
Hold forth your right hand. 

[Cleoka holds forth her right hand. 

Pisan. So 'tis done ; and I 
With my glad lips seal humbly on your foot, 
My soul's thanks for the favour : I forbear 
To tell you who I am, what wealth, what honours 
I made exchange of, to become your servant : 
And, though I knew worthy Leosthenes 
(For sure he must be worthy, for whose love 
You have endured so much) to be my rival ; 
When rage and jealousy counsell'd me to kill him. 
Which then I could have done with much more ease. 
Than now, in fear to grieve you, I dare speak it. 
Love, seconded with duty, boldly told me 
The man I hated, fair Cleora favour'd : 
And that was his protection. [Cleora hows. 

Timand. See, she bows 
Her head in sign of thankfulness. 

Pisun. He removed by 
The occasion of the war, (my fires increasing 
By being closed and stopp'd up,) frantic affection 
Prompted me to do something in his absence, 
That might deliver you into my power, 



Which you see is effected ; and, even now. 
When my rebellious passions chide my dulness. 
And tell me how much I abuse my fortunes, 
Now it is in my power to bear you hence, 

[Cleora s'arls. 
Or take my wishes here, (nay, fear not, madam ; 
True love 's a servant, brutish lust a tyrant.) 
I dare not touch those viands that ne'er taste well. 
But when they're freely offer'd : only thus much. 
Be pleased I may speak in my own dear cause. 
And think it worthy your consideration, 
(I have loved truly, cannot say deserved. 
Since duty must not take the name of merit,) 
That I so far prize your content, before 
All blessings that my hope can fashion to me, 
That willingly I entertain despair, 
And, for your sake, embrace it : for I know. 
This opportunity lost, by no endeavour 
The like can be recover'd. To conclude, 
Forget not that I lose myself to save you : 
For what can I expect but death and torture. 
The war being ended ? and, what is a task 
Would trouble Hercules to undertake, 
I do deny you to myself, to give you, 
A pure unspotted present, to my rival. 
I have said ; If it distaste not, best of virgins. 
Reward my temperance with some lawful favcur, 
Though you contemn my person. 

[Cleora kneels, then prdU off her glove, mid 
offers her hand to Pisander. 
Tinmnd. See, she kneels ; 
And seems to call upon the gods to pay 
The debt she owes your virtue : to perform which. 
As a sure pledge of friendship, she vouchsafes you 
Her fair right hand. 

Pisan. I am paid for all my sufferings. 
Now, when you please, pass to your private cham- 
ber; 
My love and duty, faithful guards, shall keep you 
From all disturbance; and when you are sated 
With thinking of Leosthenes, as a fee 
Due to my service, spare one sigh for me. 



PISANDER HOLDING A PARLEY WITH THE CHIEFS 
OF SYRACUSE, AT THE HEAD OF THE INSUR- 
GENTS. 

FROM THE SAME. 

Pisan. Briefly thus, then. 
Since I must speak for all ; your tyranny 
Drew us from our obedience. Happy those times 
When lords were styled fathers of families. 
And not imperious masters ! when they number'd 
Their servants almost equal with their sons. 
Or one degree beneath them ! when their labours 
Were cherish'd and rewarded, and a period 
Set to their sufferings : when they did not press 
Their duties or their wills beyond the power 
And strength of their performance! all things 

order'd 
With such decorum as wise lawmakers, 
From each well-govern'd private house derived 
The perfect model of a commonwealth. 
Humanity then lodged in the hearts of men, 
And thankful masters carefully provided 



232 



PHILIP MASSINGER. 



For creatures wanting reason. The noble horse, 
That, in his fiery youth, from his wide nostrils 
Ncigh'd courage to his rider, and brake through 
Groves of opposed pikes, bearing his lord 
Safe to triumphant victory ; old or wounded, 
Was set at liberty, and freed from service. 
The Athenian mules, that from the quarry drew 
Marble, hew'd for the temples of the gods, 
The great work ended, were dismiss'd, and fed 
At the public cost; nay, faithful dogs have found 
Their sepulchres; but man, to man more cruel, 
Appoints no end to the sufierings of his slave; 
Since pride stepp'd in and riot, and o'erturn'd 
'i'his goodly frame of concord, teaching masters 
To glory in the abuse of such as are 
Brought under their command ; who, grown un- 

useful, 
Are less esteem'd than beasts. — This you have 

practised, 
Practised on us with rigour ; this hath forced us 
To shake our heavy yokes off; and, if redress 
Of these just grievances be not granted us, 
We'll right ourselves, and by strong hand defend 
What we are now possess'd of. 



LEOSTHENES'S RETURN TO CLEORA. 

FROM THE SAME. 

Timandra (the attendant of Clem-a.) You are 
welcome, sir. 

Least. Thou givest it in a heavy tone. 

Tvnand. Alas ! sir, 
We have so long fed on the bread of sorrow, 
Drinking the bitter water of afflictions, 
Made loathsome too by our continued fears, 
Comfort 's a stranger to us. 

Leos'. Fears ! your sufferings : — 
For which I am so overgone with grief, 
I dare not ask, without compassionate tears. 
The villain's name that robb'd thee of thy honour: 
For being train'd up in chastity's cold school. 
And taught by such a mistress as Cleora, 
'Twere impious in me to think Timandra 
Fell with her own consent. 

Tinurnd. How mean you, fell, sir 1 
I understand you not. 

Leos!. I would thou didst not. 
Or that I could not read upon thy face. 
In blushing characters, the story of 
Libidinous rape : confess it, for you stand not 
Accountable for a sin, against whose strength 
Vour o'ermatched innocence could make no resist- 
ance ; 
Under which odds, I know, Cleora fell too. 
Heaven's help in vain invoked ; the amazed sun 
Hiding his face behind a mask of clouds. 
Not daring to look on it ! In her sufferings 
All sorrow 's comprehended : what Timandra, 
Or the city, has endured, her loss consider'd, 
Deserves not to be named. 

Timund. Pray you, do not bring, sir. 
In the chimeras of your jealous fears. 
New monsters to affright us. 

Lenst. O, Timandra, 
That I had faith enough but to believe thee ! 



I should receive it with a joy beyond 
Assurance of Elysian shades hereafter. 
Or all the blessings, in this life, a mother 
Could wish her chddrfin crown'd with ; — but I must 

not 
Credit impossibilities ; yet I strive 
To find out that whose knowledge is a curse. 
And ignorance a blessing. Come, discover 
What kind of look he had that forced thy lady, 
(Thy ravisher I will inquire at leisure,) 
That when, hereafter, I behold a stranger 
But near him in aspect, I may conclude. 
Though men and angels should proclaim him 

honest. 
He is a hell-bred villain. 

Timand. You are unworthy 
To know she is preserved, preserved untainted : 
Sorrow, but ill bestow'd, hath only made 
A rape upon her comforts in your absence. 
Come forth, dear madam. {Leads in Cleoba. 

Leost. Ha ! [Kneels. 

Timand. Nay, she deserves 
The bending of your heart ; that, to content you, 
Has kept a vow, the breach of which a vestal. 
Though the infringing it had call'd upon her 
A living funeral, must of force have shrunk at. 
No danger could compel her to dispense with 
Her cruel penance, though hot lust came arm'd 
To seize upon her ; when one look or accent 
Might have redeem'd her. 

Leost. Might ! O do not shcfw me 
A beam of comfort, and straight take it from me. 
The means by which she was freed 1 speak, O 

speak quickly ; 
Each minute of delay 's an age of torment; 

speak, Timandra. 

Timand. Free her fi-om her oath : 
Herself can best deliver it. 

Leost. O blest office ! [Lnbinds fi~ 'yes. 

Never did galley-slave shake off his chains, 
Or look'd on his redemption from the oar, 
With such true feeling of delight as now 

1 find myself possess'd of. — Now I behold 
True light indeed ; for, since these fairest stars, 
Cover'd with clouds of your determinate will. 
Denied their influence to my optic sense. 

The splendour of the sun appear'd to me 
But as some little glimpse of his bright beams 
Convey'd into a dungeon, to remember 
The dark inhabitants there how much they wanted. 
Open these long-shut lips, and strike mine ears 
With music more harmonious than the spheres 
Yield in their heavenly motions ; and if ever 
A true submission for a crime acknowledged. 
May find a gracious hearing, teach your trngue. 
In the first sweet articulate sounds it utters. 
To sign my wish'd-for pardon. 

Cleo. I forgive you. 

Leost. How greedily I receive this ! Stay, best lady, 
And let me by degrees ascend the height 
Of human happiness ! all at once deliver'd. 
The torrent of my joys will overwhelm me: — 
So now a little more ; and pray excuse me. 
If, like a wanton epicure, I desire 
The pleasant taste these cates of comfort yield me. 



PHILIP MASSINGER. 



233 



Should not too soon be swallow'd. Have you not, 
By youi' unspotted truth I do conjure you 
To answer truly, suffer'd in your honour, 
By force, I mean, for in your will I free you, 
Since I left Syracuse 1 

Cleo. I restore 
This kiss, so help me goodness ! which I borrow'd, 
When I last saw you. 

Leust, Miracle of virtue ! 
One pause more, I beseech you ; I am like 
A man whose vital spirits consumed and wasted 
With a long and tedious fever, unto whom 
Too much of a strong cordial, at once taken. 
Brings death, and not restores him. Yet I cannot 
Fix here ; but must inquire the man to whom 
I stand indebted for a benefit. 
Which, to requite at full, though in his hand 
I grasp all sceptres the world's empire bows to. 
Would leave me a poor bankrupt. Name him, 

lady; 
If of a mean estate, I'll gladly part with 
My utmost fortunes to him ; but if noble, 
In thankful duty study how to serve him ; 
Or if of higher rank, erect him altars, 
And as a god adore him. 
Clco. If that goodness. 
And noble temperance, the queen of virtues, 
Bridling rebellious passions, to whose sway 
Such as have conquer'd nations have lived slaves, 
Did ever wing great minds to fly to heaven. 
He that preserved mine honour may hope boldly 
To fill a seat among the gods, and shak* off 
Our frail corruption. 
Least. Forward. 
Cleo. Or if ever 
The Powers above did mask in human shapes, 
To teach mortality, not by cold precepts 
Forgot as soon as told, but by examples. 
To imitate their pureness, and draw near 
To their celestial natures, I believe 
He's more than man. 

Least. You do describe a wonder. 
Clea. Which will increase, when you shall un- 
derstand 
He was a lover. 

Least. Not yours, lady ] 
Cleo. Yes; 
Loved me, Leosthenes : nay more, so doated, 
(If e'er ati'ections scorning gi-oss desires 
May without wrong be styled so,) that he durst not 
With an immodest syllable or look. 
In fear it might take from me, whom he made 
The object of his better part, discover 
I was the saint he sued to. 
Least. A rare temper ! 

Clea. I cannot speak it to the worth : all praise 
I can bestow upon it will appear 
Envious detraction. Not to rack you further. 
Yet make the miracle full, though, of all men. 
He hated you, Leosthenes, as his rival ; 
So high yet he prized my content, that knowing 
You were a man I favour'd, he disdain'd not, 
Against himself, to serve you. 

Leust. You conceal still 
The owaer of these excellencies. 



Cleo. 'Tis MaruUo, 
My father's bondman. 
Leas,. Ha, ha, ha! 
Cleo. M'hy do you laugh? 
Least. To hear the labouring mountain of youi 
praise 
Deliver'd of a mouse. 

Clea. The man deserves not 
This scorn, I can assure you. 

Least. Do you call 
What was his duty, merit 1 

Cleo. Yes, and place it 
As high in my esteem as all the honours 
Descended from your ancestors, or the glory. 
Which you may call your own, got in this action. 
In which, I must confess, you have done nobly, 
And I could add, as I desired, but that 
I fear 'twould make you proud. 

Least. Why, lady, can you 
Be won to give allowance that your slave 
Should dare to love you ] 

Clea. The immortal gods 
Accept the meanest altars that are raised 
By pure devotions ; and sometimes prefer 
An ounce of frankincense, honey or milk. 
Before whole hecatombs, or Sabean gums, 
Ofler'd in ostentation. — Are you sick 
Of your old disease ] I'll fit you. [Aside- 

Least. You seem moved. 

Cleo. Zealous, I grant, in the defence of virtue. 
Why, good Leosthenes, though I endured 
A penance for your sake, above example ; 
I have not so far sold myself, I take it, 
To be at your devotion, but I may 
Cherish desert in others, where I find it. 
How would you tyrannize, if you stuod possess'd of 
That which is only yours in expectation, 
That now prescribe such hard conditions to me ' 
Least. One kiss, and I am silenced. 
Clea. I vouchsafe it; 
Yet, I must tell you 'tis a favour that 
Marullo, when I was his, not mine own, 
Durst not presume to ask : no ; when the city 
Bow'd humbly to licentious rapes and lust, 
And when I was of men and gods forsaken, 
Deliver'd to his power, he did not press me 
To grace him with one look or syllable, 
Or urged the dispensation of an oath 
Made for your satisfaction : — the poor wretch, 
Having related only his own sufl'erings, 
And kiss'd my hand, which I could not deny him, 
Defending me from others, never since 
Solicited my favours. 

Least. Pray you, end ; 
The story does not please me. 

Cleo. Well, take heed 
Of doubts and fears; — for know, Leosthenes, 
A greater injury cannot be offer'd 
To innocent chastity, than unjust suspicion. 
I love Marullo's fair mind, not his person ; 
Let that secure you. And I here command you 
If I have any power in you, to stand 
Between him and all punishment, and oppose 

His temperance to his folly ; if you fail 

No more ; I will not threaten. 
u2 



PHILIP MASSINGER. 



FROM TUE BONDMAN. 

Act V. Scene III.— The Court of Justice. 

Enter Timoleon, Archidamcs, Cleora, and Officers. 

Tlmol. 'Tis wondrous strange ! nor can it fall 
within 
The reach of my belief, a slave should be 
The owner of a temperance which this age 
Can hardly parallel in frceborn lords, 
Or kings proud of their purple. 

Architl. 'Tis most true; 
And though at first it did appear a fable, 
All circumstances meet to give it credit; 
Which works so on mc, that I am compell'd 
To be a suitor, not to be denied. 
He may have equal hearing. 

Cleo, Sir, you graced me 
With the title of your mistress ; but my fortune 
Is so far distant from command, that I 
Lay by the power you gave me, and plead humbly, 
For the preserver of my fame and honour. 
And pray you, sir, in charity believe, 
7"hat since I had ability of speech. 
My tongue has been so much inured to truth, 
I know not how to lie. 

I'liiiol. I'll rather doubt 
The oracles of the gods than question what 
Your innocence delivers; and, as far 
As justice and mine honour can give way. 
He shall have favour. Bring him in unbound: 

[Kxeunt Officers. 
And though Leosthenes may challenge from me. 
For his late worthy service, credit to 
All things he can allege in his own cause, 
Marullo, so, I think, you call his name. 
Shall find I do reserve one ear for him, 

[Enter Cleox, Asotus, Diphilus, Oltmpia, and Corisca. 
To let in mercy. Sit and take your places ; 
The right of this fair virgin first determined, 
Your bondmen shall be censured. 

Cleoii. With all rigour, 
Wfc do expect. 

Coiis. Teniper'd, I say, with mercy. 

Enter at one door Leosthenes and Timagobas; at the otlier, 
Officers with I'ISANDER and TimanI)RA. 

Timol. Your hand, Leosthenes : I cannot doubt, 
You, that have been victorious in the war, 
Should, in a combat fought with words, come off 
But with assured triumph. 

Leosl. My deserts, sir. 
If, without arrogance, I may style them such. 
Arm me from doubt and I'ear. 

2'lmol. 'Tis nobly spoken. 
iVor be thou daunted (howsoe'er thy fortune 
Has mark'd thee out a slave) to speak thy merits : 
For virtue, though in rags, may challenge more 
Than vice set ofi" with all the trim of greatness. 

Pisuu. I had rather fall under so just a judge. 
Than be acquitted by a man corrupt 
And partial in his censure. 

Orchid. Note his language ; 
It lelishes of better breeding than 
His present stale dares promise. 

Ttiiiul. I observe it. 
Place the" fair lady in the midst, that both, 



Looking with covetous eyes upon the pnze 
They are to plead for, may, from the fair obje.*, 
Teach Hermes eloquence. 

Leosl, Am I fallen so low ? 
My birth, my honour, and what's dearest to me, 
My love, and witness of my love, my service. 
So undervalued, that I must contend 
With one, where my excess of glory must 
Make his o'erthrow a conquest? Shall my fulness 
Supply defects in such a thing, that never 
Knew any thing but want and emptiness, 
Give him a name, and keep it such, from this 
Unequal competition? If my pride, 
Or any bold assurance of my worth. 
Has pluck'd this mountain of disgrace upon me, 
I am justly punish'd, and submit; but if 
I have been modest, and esteem'd myself 
More injured in the tribute of the praise, 
Which no desert of mine, prized by self-love. 
Ever exacted, may this cause and minute 
For ever be forgotten. I dwell long 
Upon mine anger, and now turn to you. 
Ungrateful fair one ; and, since you are such, 
'Tis lawful for me to proclaim myself. 
And what I have deserved. 

Cleo, JVeglect and scorn 
From me, for this proud vaunt. 

Leosl, You nourish, lady. 
Your own dishonour in this harsh reply. 
And almost prove what some hold of your sex , 
You are all made up of passion: for if reason 
Or judgment could find entertainment with you, 
Or that you would distinguish of the objects 
You look on, in a true glass, not seduced 
By the false light of your too violent will, 
I should not need to plead for that which you 
With joy should offer. Is my high birth a blemish 1 
Or does my wealth, which all the vain expense 
Of women cannot waste, breed loathing in you. 
The honours I can call mine own thoughts, scan- 
dals! 
Am I deform'd, or, for my father's sins, 
Mulcted by nature? If you interpret these 
As crimes, 'tis fit I should yield up myself 
Most miserably guilty. But, perhaps, 
(Which yet I would not credit,) you have seen 
This gallant pitch the bar, or bear a burden 
Would crack the shoulders of a weaker bondman ; 
Or any other boisterous exercise. 
Assuring a strong back to satisfy 
Your loose desires, insatiate as the grave. 

Cleo, You are ibul-mouth'd. 

Aithld, Ill-manner'd too. 

Leosl, I speak 
In the way of supposition, and entreat you, 
With all the fervour of a constant lover. 
That you would free yourself from these aspersions. 
Or any imputation black-tongued slander 
Could throw on your unspotted virgin whiteness : 
To which there is no easier way, than by 
Vouchsafing him your favour; him, to whom 
Next to the general, and the gods and fautors, 
The country owes her safety. 

TitiKig. Are you stupid ? 
'Slight ! leap into his arms, and there ask pardon— 



PHILIP MASSINGER. 



235 



Oh ! you expert your slave's reply ; no doubt 
We shall have a fine oration ! I will teach 
My spaniel to howl in sweeter language, 
And keep a better method. 

Jrchid. You forget 
The dignity of the place. 
Diph. Silence ! 

Tunol. [To Pisander.'] Speak boldly. 
Pisdv. 'Tis your authority gives me a tongue, 
I should be dumb else ; and I am secure, 
I cannot clothe my thoughts, and just defence, 
In such an alyect phrase, but 'twill appear 
Equal, if not above my low condition. 
I need no bombast language, stolen from such 
As make nobility from prodigious terms 
The liearers understand not ; I bring with me 
No wealth to boast of, neither can I number 
Uncertain fortune's favours with my merits ; . 
I dare not force affection, or presume 
To censure her discretion, that looks on me 
As a weak man, and not her fancy's idol. 
How I have loved, and how much I have suffer'd. 
And with what pleasure undergone the burden 
Of my ambitious hopes, (in aiming at 
The glad possession of a happiness, 
The abstract of all goodness in mankind 
Can at no part deserve,) with my confession 
Of mine own wants, is all that can plead for me. 
But if that pure desires, not blended with 
Foul thoughts, that, like a river, keeps his course. 
Retaining still the clearness of the spring 
From whence it took beginning, may be thought 
^\'orthy acceptance ; then I dare rise up. 
And tell this gay man to his teeth, I never 
Durst doubt her constancy, that, like a rock. 
Beats off temptations, as that mocks the fury 
Of the proud waves ; nor, from my jealous fears, 
Question that goodness to which, as an altar 
Of all perfection, he that truly loved 
Should rather bring a sacrifice of service. 
Than raze it with the engines of suspicion : 
Of which, when he can wash an ^^thiop white, 
Leosthenes may hope to free himself; 
But, till then, never. 

Tmiug. Bold, presumptuous villain ! 
Pisan, I will go further, and make good upon 
him, 
I' the pride of all his honours, birth, and fortunes. 
He's more unworthy than myself. 
Leusl, Thou liest. 

Tuiiag. Confute him with a whip, and, the doubt 
decided. 
Punish him with a halter. 

Pisaii, O the gods ! 
My ribs, though made of brass, cannot contain 
My heart, swollen big with rage. The lie ! — a 

whip ! — 
Let fury then disperse these clouds, in which 
I long have march'd disguised ! [Throws off ids dis- 
guise.] that, when they know 
Whom they have injured, they may faint with 

horror 
Of my revenge, which, wretched men, expect, 
As sure as fate, to suffer. 
Least. Ha! Pisander! 



Timag. 'Tis the bold Theban ! 

Jlsot, There's no hope for me then : 
I thought I should have put in for a share. 
And borne Cleora from them both ; but now 
This stranger looks so terrible, that I dare not 
So much as look on her. 

Pisan. Now as myself. 
Thy equal at thy best, Leosthenes. 
For you, Timagoras, praise heaven you were bom 
Cleora's brother, 'tis your safest armour. 
But I lose time. — The base lie cast upon me, 
I thus return : Thou art a perjured man. 
False, and perfidious, and hast made a tender 
Of love and service to this lady, when 
Thy soul, if thou hast any, can bear witness. 
That thou were not thine own : for proof of this, 
Look better on this virgin, and consider. 
This Persian shape laid by, and she appearing 
In a Greekish dress, such as when you first saw 

her. 
If she resemble not Pisander's sister, 
One call'd Statilial 

Leosl. 'Tis the same ! my guilt 
So chokes my spirits, I cannot deny 
My falsehood, nor excuse it. 

PisiDi. This is she. 
To whom thou wert contracted : this the lady. 
That, when thou wert my prisoner, fairly taken 
In the Spartan war, that begg'd thy liberty. 
And with it gave herself to thee, ungrateful ! 

Sialil. No more, Sir, I entreat you : I perceive 
True sorrow in his looks, and a consent 
To make me reparation in mine honour ; 
And then I am most happy. 

Pisan. The wrong done her 
Drew me from Thebes, with a full intent to kill 

thee; 
But this fair object met me in my fury, 
And quite disarm'd me. Being denied to have 

her. 
By you, my lord Archidamus, and not able 
To live far from her ; love, the mistress of 
All quaint devices, prompted me to treat 
With a friend of mine, who, as a pirate, sold me 
For a slave to you, my lord, and gave my sister 
As a present to Cleora. 

Tintol. Strange meanders ! 

Pisan. There how I bare myself, needs no rela- 
tion. 
But, if so far descending from the height 
Of my then flourishing fortunes, to the lowest 
Condition of a man, to have means only 
To feed my eye with the sight of what I honoured , 
The dangers too I underwent, the sufferings : 
The clearness of my interest, may deserve 
A noble recompense in your lawful favour; 
Now 'tis apparent that Leosthenes 
Can claim no interest in you, you may please 
To think upon my service. 

Clep. Sir, my want 
Of power to satisfy so great a debt, 
Makes me accuse my fortune ; but if that, 
Out of the bounty of your mind, you think 
A free surrender of myself ful' payment, 
I gladly tender it. 



236 



PHILIP MASSINGER. 



FROM "THE GREAT DUKE OF FLORENCE." 
Giovanni, m^phew to the Duke of Florence, taking leave 

of LiUia, the daughter of his tutor Cliarouioute. 

Persons. — Chakomontk; CoNTAnixo, tlie DuK£'S Secretary; 

Giovanni; and Lima. 

Cha?: This acknowledgment 

£,.ter 1-lWA. 

Binds me your debtor ever. — Here comes one 
In whose sad looks you easily may read 
What her heart suffers, in that she is forced 
To take her last leave of you. 

Conl. As I live, 
A beauty without parallel ! 

Lid. Must you go, then, 
So suddenly ] 

Giov. There's no evasion, Lidia, 
To gain the least delay, though I would buy it 
At any rate. Greatness, with private men 
Estcem'd a blessing, is to me a curse ; 
And we, whom, for our high births, they conclude 
The only freemen, are the only slaves. 
Happy the golden mean ! had i been born 
In a poor sordid cottage, not nursed up 
"With expectation to command a court, 
I might, like such of your condition, sweetest, 
Have ta'en a safe and middle course, and not, 
As I am now, against my choice, compell'd 
Or to lie grovelling on the earth, or raised 
So high upon the pinnacles of state. 
That I must either keep my height with danger, 
Or fall with certain ruin. 

Lul. Your own goodness 
Will be your faithful guard. 

Giov. O, Lidia. 

Coiil. So passionate ! 

Giiiv. For, had I been your equal, 
I might have seen and liked with mine own eyes, 
And not, as now, with others ; I might still, 
And without observation, or envy. 
As I have done, continued my delights 
With you, that are alone, in my esteem, 
The abstract of society : we might walk 
In solitary groves, or in choice gardens ; 
From the variety of curious flowers 
Contemplate nature's workmanship, and wonders ; 
And then, for change, near to the murmur of 
Some bubbling fountain, I might hear you sing, 
And, from the well-tuned accents of your tongue. 
In my imagination conceive 
M'ith what melodious harmony a choir 
Ol angels sing above their Maker's praises. 
And then with chaste discourse, as we return'd, 
Imp feathers to the broken wings of time : — > 
And all this I must part from. 

Cont. You forget 
The haste upon us. 

Giov. One word more, 
And then I come. And after this, when, with 
Continued innocence of love and service, 
I had grown ripe for hymeneal joys. 
Embracing you, but with a lawlul flame, 
I might have been your husband. 

Li(J. Sir, I was, 
And ever am, your servant; but it was. 
And 'tis, far from me in a thought to cherish 



Such saucy hopes. If I had been the heir 

Of all the globes and sceptres mankind bows to, 

At my best you had deserved me ; as I am, 

Howe'er unworthy, in my virgin zeal 

I wish you, as a partner of your bed, 

A princess equal to you ; such a one 

That may make it the study of her life. 

With all the obedience of a wife to please you. 

May you have happy issue, and I live 

To be their humblest handmaid ! 

Giov. I am dumb. 
And can make no reply. 

Co/it. Your excellence 
Will be benighted. 

Giov. This kiss, bathed in tears, 
May learn you what I ohould say. 



FROM "THE FATAL DOAVRY."* 

ACT II. SCENE I. 

Eni4ir Po^fTALIER, Maloiin, and Beaumont. 

Mai. 'Tis strange. 

Beau. Methinks so. 

Pont. In a man but young, 
Yet old in judgment; theorick and practick 
In all humanity, and to increase the wonder, 
Religious, yet a soldier; that he should 
Yield his free-living youth a captive for 
The freedom of his aged folher's corpse, 
And rather choose to want life's necessaries, 
Liberty, hope of fortune, than it should 
In death be kept from Christian ceremony. 

Mai. Come, 'tis a golden precedent in a son, 
To let strong nature have the better hand, 
In such a case, of all affected reason. 
What years sit on this Charalois 1 

Beau. Twenty-eight: 
For since the clock did strike him seventeen old. 
Under his father's wing this son hath fought, 
Served and commanded, and so aptly both, 
That sometimes he appeared his father's father. 
And never less than 's son ; the old man's virtues 
So recent in him, as the world may swear. 
Nought but a fair tree could such fair fruit bear. 

Foid. But wherefore lets he such a barbarous law. 
And men more barbarous to excute it, 
Prevail on bis soft disposition, 
That he had rather die alive for debt 
Of the old man, in prison, than they should 
Rob him of sepulture ; considering 
These moneys borrow'd bought the lender's peace, 
And all the means they enjoy, nor were diffused 
In any impious or licentious path ! [trunk. 

Beau. True ! for my part, were it my father's 
The tyrannous rain-heads with their horns should 

gore it, 
Or cast it to their curs, than they less currish. 
Ere prey on me so with their lion-law. 
Being in my free will, as in his, to shun it. 

Poni. Alas ! he knows himself in poverty lost. 
For in this partial avaricious age 
What price bears honour] virtue 1 long ago 



* Mr. Gifford. in his edition of Massiuger, has few doubts 
that it was written by i'ield. 



ANONYMOUS. 



237 



It was but praised, and freezed ; but now-a-days 
'Tis colder far, and has nor love nor praise : 
The very praise now freezeth too ; for nature 
Did make the heathen far more Christian then, 
Than knowledge us, less heathenish, Christian. 
Mai. This morning is the funeral ] 
Potit. Certainly. 
And from this prison, — 'twas the son's request, 
That his dear father might interment have, 
See, the young son enter'd a lively grave ! 
Beau. They come : — observe their order. 
Solemn Music. Enter the Funeral Procession. The Coffin 
borne by four, prnvih'i! hii a Priest. Captains, Lieuten- 
ants, Ensigns, a^r/ Soldiers; MoMTViers, Scutcheons, dc., 
and very good order. Komunt and Chakalois, /oHoioerf 
by the Jailers and (Jfficcrs, witlc Creditors, meet it. 
Charal. How like a silent stream shaded with 
And gliding softly with our windy .sighs, [night, 
Moves the whole frame of this solemnity ! 
Tears, sighs, and blacks filling the simile ; 
Whilst I, the only murmur in this grove 
Of death, thus hollowly break forth. Vouchsafe 
[To the bearers. 
To stay a while. — Rest, rest in peace, dear earth ! 
Thou that brought'st rest to their unthankful lives, 
Whose cruelty denied thee rest in death ! 
Here stands thy poor executor, thy son, 
That makes his life prisoner to bail thy death ; 
Who gladlier puts on this captivity. 
Than virgins, long in love, their wedding weeds. 
Of all that ever thou hast done good to. 
These only have good memories ; for they 
Remember best forget not gratitude. 
I thank you for this last and friendly love : 

[To the Soldiers. 
And though this country, like a viperous mother, 
Not only hath eat up ungratefully 
All means of thee, her son, but last, thyself, 
Leaving thy heir so bare and indigent, 
He cannot raise thee a poor monument, 
Such as a flatterer or a usurer hath ; 
Thy worth, in every honest breast, builds one, 
Making their friendly hearts thy funeral stone. 



Pont. Sir. 

Charal. Peace ! Oh, peace ! this scene is wholly 

mine. [weeps. 

What! weep ye, soldiers'? blanch not. — Romont 
Ha ! let me see ! my miracle is eased. 
The jailers and the creditors do weep ; 
Even they that make us weep, do weep themselves. 
Be these thy body's balm ! these and thy virtue 
Keep thy fame ever odoriferous, 
Whilst the great, proud, rich, undeserving man, 
Alive stinks in his vices, and being vanish'd. 
The golden calf, that was an idol deck'd 
With marble pillars, jet, and porphyry. 
Shall quickly, both in bone and name, consume. 
Though wrapt in lead, spice, searcloth, and per- 
fume ! . . . 

Priest. On. 

Charal. One moment more, 
But to bestow a few poor legacies. 
All I have left in my dead father's rights. 
And I have done. Captain, wear thou these spurs, 
That yet ne'er made his horse run from a foe. 
Lieutenant, thou this scarf; and may it tie 
Thy valour and thy honesty together ! 
For so it did in him. Ensign, this cuirass, 
Your general's necklace once. You, gentle bearers, 
Divide this purse of gold ; this other strew 
Among the poor ; 'tis all I have. Romont — 

Wear thou this medal of himself that, like 

A hearty oak, grew'st close to this tall pine. 
Even in the wildest wilderness of war, [selves : 
Whereon foes broke their swords, and tired them- 
Wounded and hack'd ye were, but never fell'd. 

For me, my portion provide in heaven ! 

My root is earth'd, and I, a desolate branch, 
Left scatter'd in the highway of the world. 
Trod under foot, that might have been a column 
Mainly supporting our demolish'd house. 

This* would I wear as my inheritance 

And what hope can arise to me from it. 
When I and it are both here prisoners ! 

* His father's sword. 



ANONYMOUS. 

THE OXFORD RIDDLE ON THE PURITANS. 

FROM A SINGLE SHEET PRINTED AT OXFORD IN lb43. 



Theee dwells a people on the earth, 
That reckons true allegiance treason, 
That makes sad war a holy mirth. 
Calls madness zeal, and nonsense reason ; 
That finds no freedom but in slavery. 
That makes lies truth, religion knavery. 
That rob and cheat with yea and nay : 
Riddle me, riddle me, who are they 1 
They hate the flesh, yet kiss their dames. 
That make kings great by curbing crowns, 
That quench the fire by kindling flames, 
That settle peace by plund'ring towns, 
That govern with implicit votes. 
That 'stablish truth by cutting throats. 
That kiss their master and betray : 
Riddle mc, riddle me, who are they 1 



That make Heaven speak by their commission, 
That stop God's peace and boast his power 
That teach bold blasphemy and sedition, 
And pray high treason by the hour. 
That damn all saints but such as they are, 
That wish all common, except prayer. 
That idolize Pym, Brooks, and Say : 
Riddle me, riddle me, who are they 1 
That to enrich the commonwealth. 
Transport large gold to foreign parts ; 
That house't in Amsterdam by stealth, 
Yet lord it here within our gates ; 
That are staid men, yet only stay 
For a light night to run away ; 

That borrow to lend, and rob to pay : 
Riddle me, riddle me, who are they 1 



SIR JOHN 

[Born, 1608. 

SiTTCKLiNG, who gives levity its gayest expres- 
sion, was the son of the comptroller of the house- 
hold to Charles I. Langbaine tells us that he 
spoke Latin at five years of age ; but with what 
correctness or fluency we are not informed. His 
versatile mind certainly acquired many accom- 
plishments, and filled a short life with many pur- 
suits, for he was a traveller, a soldier, a lyric and 
dramatic poet, and a musician. After serving a 
campaign under Gustavus Adolphus, he returned 
to England, was favoured by Charles I., and 
wrote some pieces, which were exhibited for the 
amusement of the court with sumptuous splen- 
dour. When the civil wars broke out he ex- 



SUCKLING. 

Died, 1641.1 

pended 1200/.* on the equipment of a regiment 
for the king, which was distinguished, however 
only by its finery and cowardice. A brother poet 
crowned his disgrace with a ludicrous song. The 
event is said to have aflfected him deeply with 
shame ; but he did not live long to experience 
that most incurable of the heart's diseases. Hav- 
ing learnt that his servant had robbed him. he 
drew on his boots in great haste ; a rusty nail,t 
that was concealed in one of them, pierced his 
heel, and produced a mortification, of which he 
died. His poems, his five plays, together with 
his letters, speeches, and tracts, have been col- 
lected into one volume. 



SONO. 

WuY so pale and wan, fond lover ! 
Pr'ythee why so pale 1 

Will, when looking well can't move her, 
Looking ill prevail 1 
Pr'ythee why so pale 1 

Why so dull and mute, young sinner! 

Pr'ythee why so mute 1 
Will, when speaking well can't win her, 

Saying nothing do't 1 

Pr'ythee why so mute 1 
Quit, quit for shame ! this will not move, 

This cannot take her; 
If of herself she will not love, 

Nothing can make her : — 

The devil take her ! 



A BALLAD UPOX A WEDDING. 
I TELL thee, Dick, where I have been. 
Where I the rarest things have seen : 
things without compare ! 
Such sights again cannot be found 
Li any place on English ground, 
Be it at wake, or fair. 

At Charing-Cross, hard by the way 
Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay. 

There is a house with stairs : 
And there did I see coming down 
Such folks as are not in our town, 

Vorty at least, in pairs. 
Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine, 
(His beard no bigger though than thine,) 

Waik'd on before the rest: 
Our landlord looks like nothing to him : 
The king (God bless him) 'twou'd undo him, 

Shou'd he go still so drest. 

At Course-a-park, without all doubt, 
He should have first been taken out 

By all the maids i' the town : 

[* Rather 12,000i. See Percy's Keliques, vol. ii. p. 356, 
llii! ludicrous song Mr. Campbell refers to may be 



wh. 

found.— C.l 
238 



Though lusty Roger there had been. 
Or little George upon the Green, 

Or Vincent of the Crown. 



But wot you what ? the youth w 
To make an end of all his wooing ; 

The parson for him stay'd : 
Yet by his leave, for all his haste, 
He did not so much wish all past 

(Perchance) as did the maid. 

The maid — and thereby hangs a tale 

For such a maid no Whitson ale 

Could ever yet produce : 
No grape that's kindly ripe could be 
So round, so plump, so soft as she, 

Nor half so full of juice. 

Her finger was so small, the ring 
Wou'd not stay on which they did bring, 

It was too wide a peck : 
And to say truth (for out it must) 
It look'd like the great collar (just) 

About our young colt's neck. 

Her feet beneath her petticoat. 
Like little mice stole in and out. 

As if they fear'd the light: 
But oh ! she dances such a way ! 
No sun upon an Easter day 

Is half so fine a sight. 

He wou'd have kiss'd her once or twice. 
But she wou'd not, she was so nice, 

She wou'd not do't in sight: 
And then she look'd as who shou'd say 
I will do what I list to-day ; 

And you shall do't at night. 

Her cheeks so rare a white was on. 
No daisy makes comparison, 

(Who sees them is undone) 
For streaks of red were mingled there. 
Such as are on a Kalherine pear, 

The side that's next the sun. 

[t Oldys says the blade of a penknife, whilst Aubrey 
sffiniis "that be was poisoned. The nail or blade may 
have beeu poisoned. — C] 



SIDNEY GODOLPHIN. 239 


Hr-r lips were red, and one was thin, 


Now hats fly ofl", and youths carouse ; 


Compared to that was next her chin, 


Healths first go round, and then the house, 


Some bee had stung it newly. 


'J"he brides came thick and thick ; 


But (Dick) her eyes so guard her face, 


And when 'twas named another's health, 


I durst no more upon them gaze, 


Perhaps he made it her's by stealth. 


Than on the sun in July. 


And who could help it, Dick 7 


Her mouth so small, when she does speak. 


0' the sudden up they rise and dance ; 


Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break. 


Then sit again, and sigh and glance : 


That they might passage get; 


Then dance again and kiss. 


But she so handled still the matter. 


Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass. 


They came as good as ours, or better, 


W hilst every woman wish'd her place. 


And are not spent a whit. 


And every man wish'd his. 


If wishing shou'd be any sin, 


By this time all were stolen aside 


The parson himself had guilty been, 


To counsel and undress the bride ; 


She look'd that day so purely : 


But that he must not know: 


And did the youth so oft the feat 


But yet 'twas thought he guest her mind. 


At night, as some did in conceit, 


And did not mean to stay behind 


It would have spoil'd him, surely. 


Above an hour or so. 


Passion o'me ! how I run on ! 


When in he came (Dick) there she lay, 


There's that that wou'd be thought upon, 


Like new-fal'n snow melting away. 


I trow, besides the bride : 


'Twas time, I trow, to part. 


The bus'ness of the kitchen's great, 


Kisses were now the only stay. 


For it is fit that men should eat ; 


Which soon she gave, as who wou'd say, 


Nor was it there denied. 


Good b'ye, with all my heart. 


Just in the nick the cook knock'd thrice, 


But just as heavens wou'd have to cross it, 


And all the waiters in a trice 


In came the bridemaids with the posset ; 


His summons did obey ; 


'J'he bridegroom eat in spite ; 


Each serving man with dish in hand. 


For had he left the women to't 


March'd boldly up, like our traiii'd band. 


It wou'd have cost two hours to do't. 


Presented and away. 


Which were too much that night. 


When all the meat was on the table. 


At length the candle's out, and now 


What man of knife, or teeth, was able 


All that they had not done, they do ! 


To stay to be entreated : 


W hat that is, who can tell 1 


And this the very reason was. 


But I believe it was no more 


Belbre the parson could say grace. 


Than thou and I have done before 


The company were seated. 


With Bridget and with Nell! 


SIDNEY GODOLPHIN. 


[Born, 1610. 


Died, lt>4'.] 


Sidney Godolphin, who is highly praised by 


Godolphin. He flourished and perished in che 


Lord Clarendon, was the brother of the treasurer 


evil wars. 


THE FOLLOWING LINES ARK FOUND 


IN MS. IN MR. MALONE'S COLLECTION. 


'Tis affection but dissembled, 


'Tis not scorn that can reniove thee, 


Or dissembled liberty. 


For thou either wilt not see 


To pretend thy passion changed 


Such loved beauty not to love thee. 


With changes of thy mistress' eye, 


Or will else consent that she 


Following her inconstancy. 


Judge not as she ought of thee. 


Hopes, which do from favour flourish, 


Thus thou either canst not sever 


May perhaps as soon expire 


Hope from what appears so fair, 


As the cause which did them nourish. 


Or, un happier, thou canst never 


And disdain'd they may retire; 


Find contentment in despair, 


But love is another fire. 


Nor make love a trifling care. 


For if beauty cause thy passion, 


There are seen but few retiring 


If a fair resistless eye 


Steps in all the paths of love, 


Melt thee with its soft expression, 


Made by such who in aspiring 


Then thy hopes will never die, 


Meeting scorn their hope.* remove ; 


Nor be cured by cruelty. 


Yet even these ne'er change their iove 



WILLIAM CARTWEIGHT. 



[Born, 1611. Died, 1643.] 



William Cartwright was the son of an inn- 
keeper at Cirencester, who had been reduced to 
that situation by spending a good estate. He 
was a king's scholar at Westmin.ster, and took 
orders at Oxford, where he became, says Wood, 
" a most florid and seraphic preacher." Bishop 
Duppa, his intimate friend, appointed him suc- 
centor of the church of Salisbury in 1642. In 
the same year he was one of the council of war, 
or delegacy, appointed by the University of Ox- 
ford, for providing troops sent by the king to pro- 
tect, or as the opposite party alleged, to overawe 
the universities. His zeal in this service occa- 
sioned his being imprisoned by the parliamentary 



forces on their arrival ; but he was speedily re- 
leased on bail. Early in the year 1643 he was 
appointed junior proctor of his university, and also 
reader in metaphysics. The latter othce we may 
well suppose him to have filled with ability, as, 
according to Lloyd's account, he studied at the 
rate of sixteen hours a day : but he survived his ap- 
pointment to it for a very short time, being carried 
off by a malignant fever, called the camp-disease, 
which was then epidemical at Oxford. Cart- 
wright died in his thirty-second year ; but he lived 
long enough to earn the distinguishing praise of 
Ben Jonson, who used to say of him, " My son, 
Cartwright, writes all like a man." 



ON THE DEATH OF SIR BEVIL GRENVILLE. 
Not to be wrought by malice, gain, or pride, 
To a compliance with the thriving side: 
Not to take arms for love of change, or spite. 
But only to maintain afflicted right; 
Not to die vainly in pursuit of fame. 
Perversely seeking after voice and name ; 
Is to resolve, fight, die, as martyrs do. 

And thus did he, soldier and martyr too 

When now th' incensed legions proudly came 
Down like a torrent without bank or dam : 
When undeserved success urged on their force ; 
That thunder must come down to stop their course. 
Or Grenville must step in ; then Grenville stood, 
And with himself opposed, and check'd the flood. 
Conquest or death was all his thought. So fire 
Either o'ercomes, or doth itself expire : 
His courage work'd like flames, cast heat about, 
Here, there, on this, on that side, none gave out ; 
Not any pike in that renowned stand. 
But took new force from his inspiring hand : 
Soldier encouraged soldier, man urged man, 
And he urged all; so much example can ; 
Hurt upon hurt, wound upon wound did call. 
He was the butt, the mark, the aim of all : 
His soul this while retired from cell to cell, 
At last flew up from all, and then he fell. 
But the devoted stand enraged more 
From that his fate, plied hotter than before, 
And proud to fall with him, sworn not to yield. 
Each sought an honour'd grave, so gain'd the field. 
Thus he being fallen, his action fought anew : 
And the dead conquer'd, whiles the living slew. 
This was not nature's courage, not that thing 
We valour call, which time and reason bring; 
But a diviner fury, fierce and high, 
Valour transported into ecstasy, 
\Vhich angels, looking on us from above, 
ITse to convey into the souls they love. 
You now that boast the spirit, and its sway, 
Show us his second, and we'll give the day : 
We know your politic axiom, lurk, or fly ; 
^'e cannot con(iuer, 'cause you dare not die : 



And though you thank God that you lost none there, 
'Cause they were such who lived not when they 

were ; 
Yet your great general (who doth rise and fall, 
As his successes do, whom you dare call. 
As fame unto you doth reports dispense, 

Either a or his excellence) 

Howe'er he reigns now by unheard-of laws, 
Could wish his fate together with his cause. 
And thou (blest soul) whose clear compacted 
fame, 
As amber bodies keeps, preserves thy name. 
Whose life aflbrds what doth content both eyes, 
Glory for people, substance for the wise, 
Go laden up with spoils, possess that seat 
To which the valiant, when they've done, retreat : 
And when thou seest an happy period sent 
To these distractions, and the storm quite spent, 
Look down and say, I have my share in all. 
Much good grew from my life, much from my fall. 



LOTE'S DARTS. 
Where is that learned wretch that knows 
What are those darts the veil'd god throws ? 

let him tell me ere I die 

When 'twas he saw or heard them fly : 
Whether the sparrow's plumes, or dove's, 
Wing them for various loves ; 
And whether gold, or lead, 
Quicken, or dull the head : 

1 will anoint and keep them warm. 
And make the weapons heal the harm. 
Fond that I am to ask ! whoe'er 

Did yet see thought 1 or silence hear? 
Safe from the search of human eye 
These arrows (as their ways are) fly : 

The flights of angels part 

Not air with so much art ; 

And snows on streams, we may 

Say, louder fall than they. 
So hopeless I must now endure, 
i And neither know the shaft nor cure. 



GEORGE SANDYS. 241 


A sudden fire of blushes shed 
To dye white paths with hasty red ; 
A glance's lightning swiftly thrown, 
Or fioin a true or seeming frown ; 

A subtle taking smile 

From passion, or from guile ; 

The spirit, life, and grace 

Of motion, limbs, and face; 
These misconcoit entitles darts, 
And tears the bleedings of our hearts. 

But as the feathers in the wing 
Unblemish'd are, and no wounds bring, 
And harmless twigs no bloodshed know. 
Till art doth fit them for the bow ; 

So lights of flowing graces 

Sparkling in several places, 

Only adorn the parts, 

Till that we make them darts ; 
Themselves are only twigs and quills: 
We give them shape, and force for ills. 

Beauty's our grief, but in the ore. 
We mint, and stamp, and then adore : 
Like heathen we the image crown. 
And indiscreetly then fall down : 

Those graces all were meant 

Our joy, not discontent ; 


But with untaught desires 

We turn those lights to fires. 
Thus Nature's healing herbs we take, 
And out of cures do poisons make. 

A VALEDICTION. 
Bid me not go where neither suns nor showers 
Do make or cherish flowers ; 
Where discontented things in sadness lie, 
And Nature grieves as L 
When I am parted from those eyes. 
From which my better day doth rise, 
Though some propitious power 
Should plant me in a bower. 
Where amongst happy lovers I might see 
How showers and sunbeams bring 
One everlasting spring. 

Nor would those fall, nor these shine forth to me ; 
Nature herself to him is lost, 
Who loseth her he honours most. 
Then, fairest, to my parting view display 
Your graces all in one full day ; 
Whose blessed shapes I'll snatch and keep till when 
I do return and view again : 
So by this art fancy shall fortune cross, 
And lovers live by thinking on their loss. 


GEORGE 

[Bora, 1677. 

Geobob Sandys, to whose translations Pope 
declared that English poetry owed much of its 
beauty, was the youngest son of the Archbishop 
of York. After leaving the university, he set out 
upon an extensive tour, comprehending Greece, 
Egypt, and the Holy Land, which is described in 
his well-known and well-written book of Travels. 
After his return to England he published a trans- 
lation of the Metamorphoses of Ovid, and a Para- 
phrase of the Psalms of David. He translated 


SANDYS. 

Died, 1643.] 

also the Christus Patiens of Grotius. Few inci- 
dents of his life are recorded. For the most part 
of his latter days he lived with Sir Francis Wen- 
man, of Caswell, near Witney, jn Oxfordshire ; 
a situation near to Burford, the retirement of his 
intimate friend Lucius Lord Falkland, who has 
addressed several poems to him. [He also re- 
sided some time in Virginia, in the service of the 
Virginia company. — G.] 


PSALM LXVIII. 

FROM A PARAPHRASE OF " THE PSALMS." 

Let God, the God of battle, rise. 
And scatter his proud enemies: 
let them flee before his face. 
Like smoke which driving tempests chase ; 
As wax dissolves with scorching fire, 
So perish in his burning ire. 
But let the just with joy abound ; 
In joyful songs his praise resound; 
Who, riding on the rolling spheres, 
The name of great Jehovah bears. 
Before his face your joys express, 
A father to the fatherless ; 
He wipes the tears from widows' eyes. 
The single plants in families ; 
Eitlarging those who late were bound. 
While rebels starve on thirsty ground. 
31 


When he our numerous army led. 
And march'd through deserts full of dread, 
Heav'n melted, and earth's centre shook. 
With his majestic presence struck. 
When Israel's God in clouds came down, 
High Sinai bow'd his trembling crown; 
He, in th' approach of meagre dearth, 
With showers refresh'd the fainting earth. 
Where his own flocks in safety fed. 
The needy unto plenty led. 
By him we conquer. — Virgins sing 
Our victories, and timbrels ring : 
He kings with their vast armies foils, 
While women share their wealthy spoils. 

When he the kings had overthrown. 
Our land like snowy Salmon shone. 
God's mountain Bashan's mount transcends. 
Though he his many heads extends. 
V 



242 



FRANCIS QUARLES. 



Why boast ye so. ye meaner hills t 

God with his glory Zion fills, 

This his beloved residence, 

Nor ever will depart from hence. 

His chariots twenty thousand were, 

Which myriads of angels bear, 

He in the midst, as when he crown'd 

High Sinai's sanctified ground. 

Lord, thou hast raised thyself on high. 

And captive led captivity 

praised be the God of Gods, 
Who with his daily blessings loads ; 
The God of our salvation, 

On whom our hopes depend alone ; 
The controverse of life and death 
Is arbitrated by his breath. 

Thus spoke Jehovah : Jacob's seed 

1 will from Bashan bring again. 
And through the bottom of the main, 
That dogs may lap their enemies' blood, 
And they wade through a crimson flood. 
We, in thy sanctuary late. 

My God, my King, beheld thy state ; 
The sacred singers march'd before, 
Who instruments of music bore. 
In order foUow'd — every maid 
Upon her pleasant timbrel play'd. 
His praise in your assemblies sing. 



You who from Israel's fountain spring, 

Nor little Benjamin alone. 

But Judah, from his mountain-throne; 

The far-removed Zebulon, 

And Napthali, that borders on 

Old Jordan, where his stream dilates, 

Join'd all their powers and potentates. 

For us his winged soldiers fought ; 

Lord, strengthen what thy hand hath wrought ! 

He that supports a diadem 

To thee, divine Jerusalem ! 

Shall in devotion treasure bring. 

To build the temple of his King 

Far off from sun-burnt Meroe, 

From falling Nilus, from the sea 

Which beats on the Egyptian shore. 

Shall princes come, and here adore. 

Ye kingdoms through the world renown'd, 

Sing to the Lord, his praise resound ; 

He who heaven's upper heaven bestrides, 

And on her aged shoulders rides; 

Whose voice the clouds asunder rends. 

In thunder terrible descends. 

O praise his strength, whose majesty 

In Israel shines — 'his power on high ! 

He from his sanctuary throws 

A trembling horror on his foes, 

While us his power and strength invest ; 

Israel, praise the ever-blest!* 



FRANCIS QUARLES. 

[Born, 1592. Died, 1644.] 



This voluminous saint was bred at Cambridge 
ind Lincoln's-inn, and was appointed cup-bearer 
to Elizabeth, Electress of Bohemia, after quitting 
whose service he went to Ireland, and was secre- 
tary to Archbishop Usher. On the breaking out 
of the rebellion in that kingdom he was a consi- 
derable sufferer, and was obliged to fly, for safety, 
to England. He had already been pensioned by 
Charles, and made Chronologer to the city of 
London ; but in the general ruin of the royal 
cause his property was confiscated, and his books 
and manuscripts, which he valued more, were 
plundered. This reverse of fortune is supposed 
to have accelerated his death. 

The charitable criticism of the present age has 

* [Mr. Campbell's extract, selected to show the strength 
of SanJys, gives no idea of his greatest merit, the effect 
his taste and knowledge of our language had in harmo- 
nizing the numbers of our couplet verse. Dryden, who 
allows him but slender talents as a translator, calls him, 
however, "the ingenious and learned Sandys, the best 
versifier of the former age." His versification is his chief 
excellence; he studied the well-placing of words for tbe 
'weetness of prouunciatiou, and gave uS Ovid in smooth- 
llidinc ver.se: 

Vith so much sweetness and unusual grace, 
that if he does not deserve the whole eulogy of Drayton, 
he merits his epithet of daintt/, which, wlieii said of his 
heroic verse, is not only poetical but appropriate. — C.J 

t Of his absurdity one example may Bufflce from his 
« Emblems." 

Man is a tennis-court, his flesh the wall. 

The gamesters God and Satan, — the heart's the ball; 



done justice to Quarles, in contrasting his merits 
with his acknowledged defojmities. That his 
perfect specimens of the bathos should have been 
laughed at in the age of Pope, is not surprising.f 
His " Emblems," whimsical as they are, have not 
the merit of originality, being imitated from Her- 
man Hugo. A considerable resemblance to Young 
may be traced in the blended strength and ex- 
travagance, and ill-assorted wit and devotion of 
Quarles. Like Young, he wrote vigorous prose 
— witness his Enchiridion. In the parallel, how- 
ever, it is due to the purity of Young to acknow- 
ledge, that he never was guilty of such indecency 
as that which disgraces the " Argalus and Parthe* 
nia" of our pious author. 



The higher and the lower hazards are 

Too bold I resumption and too base de.spair: 

The rackets which our restless balls make fly, 

Adversity and sweet prosperity. 

The angels keep the court, and mark the place 

Where the ball falls, and chalk out every chase. 

The line 's a civil life we often cross, 

O'er which the ball, not flying, makes a loss. 

Detractors are like sianders-by, and bet 

With charitable men, our lite's the set. 

Lord, ill these conflicts, in the.se fierce assaults, 

Laborious Siitan makes a world of fmlls. 

Forgive them. Lord, although he ne'er implore 

Kor favour, they'll l)e set upon our score. 

take the ballbefore it come to the ground, 

For this base court has many a false rebound; 

Strike, and strike hard and strike above the line^ 

Strike where thou please, su as the set be thine. 



FRANCIS QUARLES. 



24S 



[Quarles is more justly criticised, we think, by 
Mr. S. C. Hall, in the " Book of Geins," in which 
he observes : " As a poet he has been somewhat 
hardly dealt with ; having been judged more by 
the evidence of his conceits, absurdities, and false 
taste, than by his striking and original images, 
his noble and manly thought.s, and the exceeding 
fertility of his language. It is not surprising that 
posterity has failed to reverse the unjust judgment 
passed upon him by his contemporaries. He is 
described by one of them as ' an old puritanical 
poet, the sometime darling of our plebeian judg- 
ments' — by another as ' in wonderful veneration 
among the vulgar ;' even when he received praise, 
it was faint praise ; his master Archbishop Usher 
styles him ' a man of some fame for his sacred 
poetry' — and the best compliment that Lloyd could 
atford him was ' that he taught poetry to be witty 
without profaneness, wantonness, or being satyri- 
cal — that is, with the poet's abusing God, himself, 
or his neighbour.' His principal poetical works 
are ' Job Militant,' ' Sion's Elegies,' the ' History 
of Queen Esther,' 'Argalus and Parthenia,' that 
which he calls his ' Morning Muse,' ' The Feast 
for Worms, or the History of Jonah,' and the 
'Divine Emblems' — the last being the only pro- 
duction of Quarles that is now at all known or read. 
This has passed through several editions: — the 



latest, perhaps, is that which a presumptuous 
editor describes as ' properly modernized,' which 
means, according to a better reading, utterly spoiled. 
Quarles was indebted for the idea of his Emblems 
to Herman Hugo. Of the poems we shall give 
a specimen — the prints we should not be so well 
disposed to copy. They are for the most part 
absurd in the extreme. Thus, the picture which 
accompanies the motto, ' O wretched man that I 
am, who shall deliver me from the body of this 
death V represents a man standing within a skele- 
ton. They are not all, however, of this class ; for 
example, one consists of a helmet turned into a 
beehive, surrounded by its useful labourers — the 
motto ' Ex hello pax.' — The faults of Quarles are 
large and numerous. He would have escaped 
this censure if he had himself followed the advice 
he gave to others : — ' Clothe not thy. language 
either with obscurity or affectation.' No writer 
is either more affected or more obscure. It is only 
by raking that we can gather the gold ; yet it is 
such as will reward the seeker who has courage 
to undertake the search. His sagacity and good 
sense are unquestionable, and occasionally there 
is a rich outbreak of fancy ; while at times he 
startles us by compressing, as it were, a volume 
into a single line." — G.] 



FAITH. 
The proudest pitch of that victorious spirit 
Was but to win the world, whereby t' inherit 
The airy purchase of a transitory 
And glozing title of an age's glory ; 
Wouldst thou by contjuest win more fime than he, 
Subdue thyself! thyself 's a world to thee. 
Earth's but a ball, that heaven hath quilted o'er 
With Wealth and Honour, banded on the floor 
Of fickle Fortune's false and slippery court, 
Sent for a toy, to make us children sport, 
Man's satiate spirits with fresh delights supplying, 
To still the fondlings of the world from crying; 
And he, whose merit mounts to such a joy, 
Gains but the honour of a mighty toy. 

But wouldst thou conquer, have thy conquest 

crown'd 
By hands of Seraphims, triumph'd with the sound 
Of heaven's loud trumpet, warbled by the shrill 
Celestial choir, recorded with a qudl 
Pluck'd from the pinion of an angel's wing, 
Confirm'd with joy by heaven's eternal King; 
Conquer thyself, thy rebel thoughts repel. 
And chase those false affections that rebel. 
Hath heaven despoJ'd what his full hand hath 

given thee ] 
Nipp'd thy succeeding blossoms? orbereaven thee 
Of thy dear latest hope, thy bosom friend ? 
Doth sad Despair deny these griefs an end 7 
Despair's a whispering rebel, that within thee. 
Bribes all thy field, and sets thyself again' thee: 
Make keen thy faith, and with thy force let flee, 
If thou not conquer him, he'll conquer thee : 
Advance thy shield of Patience to thy head. 
And when G-ief strikes, 'twill strike the striker dead. 



I In adverse fortunes, be thou strong and stout, 
And bravely win thyself, heaven holds not out 
His bow for ever bent; the disposition 
Of noblest spirit doth, by opposition. 
Exasperate the more: a gloomy night 
Whets on the morning to return more bright; 
Brave minds, oppress'd, should in despite of Fate 
Look greatest, like the sun, in lowest state. 
But, ah ! shall God thus strive with flesh and blood ! 
Receives he glory from, or reaps he good 
In mortals' ruin, that he leaves man so 
To be o'erwhelm'd by this unequal foe? 

May not a potter, that, from out the ground, 
Hath framed a vessel, search if it be sound? 
Or if, by furbishing, he take more pain 
To make it fairer, shall the pot complain ? 
Mortal, thou art but clay ; then shall not he, 
That framed thee for his service, season thee ! 
Man, close thy lips ; be thou no undertaker 
Of God's designs : dispute not with thy Maker. 



EMBLEM I. ROOK TIT. 
My soul hath desired thee in the night.— Tsmah, xxvi. 6. 
Good God ! what horrid darkness doth surround 
My groping soul ! how are my senses bound 
In utter shades; and muffled from the light, 
Lurk in the bosom of eternal night! 
The bold-fa'-ed lamp of heaven can set and rise 
And with his morning glory fill the eyes 
Of gazing mortals ; his victorious ray 
Can chase the shadows and restore the day : 
Night's bashful empress, though she often wane 
As oft repents her darkness, primes again ; 
And with her circling horns doth re-embrace 



244 



FRANCIS QUARLES. 



Rer brother's wealth, and orbs her silver f.ice. 

But, ah ! my sun, deep swallow'd in his fall, 

Is set, and cannot shine, nor rise at all : 

My bankrupt wain can beg nor borrow light ; 

Alas I my darkness is perpetual night. 

FalU have their risings ; wanings have their primes, 

And desperate sorrows wait their better times : 

Ebbs have their floods; and autumns have their 

springs ; 
All states have changes, hurried with the swings 
Of chance and time, still riding to and fro : 
Terrestrial bodies, and celestial too. 
How often have I vainly groped about. 
With lengthen'd arms, to find a passage out, 
That I might catch those beams mine eye desires. 
And bathe my soul in these celestial fires ! 
Like as the haggard, cloister'd in her mew. 
To scour her downy robes, and to renew 
Her broken flags, preparing t' overlook 
The timorous mallard at the sliding brook, 
Jets oft from perch to perch ; from stock to ground, 
From ground to window, thus surveying round 
Her dove-befeather'd prison, tdl at length 
Calling her noble birth to mind, and strength 
Whereto her wing was born, her ragged beak 
Nips off" her jangling jesses, strives to break 
Her jingling fetters, and begins to bate 
At every glimpse, and darts at every grate : 
E'en so my weary soul, that long has been 
An inmate in this tenement of sin, 
Lock'd up by cloud-brow'd error, which invites 
My cloister'd thoughts to feed on black delights, 
Now suns her shadows, and begins to dart 
Her wing'd desires at thee, that only art 
The sun she seeks, whose rising beams can fright 
These dusky clouds that make so dark a night : 
Bhine forth, great glory, shine ; that I may see, 
Both how to loathe myself, and honour thee : 
But if my weakness force thee to deny 
Thy flames, yet lend the twilight of thine eye ! 
If I must want those beams I wish, yet grant 
That I at least may wish those beams I want. 



BREVITY OF HUMAN LIFE. 

Mr glass is half unspent! forbear t' arrest 
My thriftless day too soon : my poor request 
Is that my glass may run but out the rest. 

My lime-devouring minutes will be done 
Without thy help; see ! see how swift they run ; 
Cut not my thread before my thread be spun. 

The gain's not great I purchase by this stay ; 
What loss sustain'st thou by so small delay, 
To whom ten thousand years are but a day 1 

My following eye can hardly make a shift 
To count my winged hours ; they fly so swift. 
They scarce deserve the bounteous name of gift. 

The secret wheels of hurrying time do give 
So short a warning and so fast they drive, 
That I am dead before I seem to live. 



And what's a life ? a weary pilgrimage. 
Whose glory in one day doth fill the stage 
With childhood, manhood, and decrepit age. 

And what's a life 1 the flourishing array 

Of the proud summer-meadow, which to-day 

Wears her green plush, and is to-morrow hay. . . 



SONG. 
To the tune of— Cuclolds all a-row. 

Know then, my brethren, heaven is clear, 

And all the clouds are gone; 
The righteous now shall flourish, and 

Good days are coming on : 
Come then, my brethren, and be glad. 

And eke rejoice with me ; 
Lawn sleeves and rochets shall go down. 

And hey ! then up go we ! 

We'll break the windows which the Whore 

Of Babylon hath painted, 
And when the popish saints are down. 

Then Barrow shall be sainted. 
There's neither cross nor crucifix 

Shall stand for men to see ; 
Rome's trash and trumperies shall go down, 

And hey ! then up go we ! ... . 

We'll down with all the 'Varsities, 

Where learning is profest. 
Because they practise and maintain 

The language of the beast. 
We'll drive the doctors out of doors, 

And arts, whate'er they be ; 
We'll cry both arts and learning down. 

And hey ! then up go we ! ... . 

If once that Antichristian crew 

Be crush'd and overthrown. 
We'll teach the nobles how to crouch, 

And keep the gentry down. 
Good manners have an ill report, 

And turn to pride, we see ; 
We'll therefore cry good manners down. 

And hey ! then up go we ! 

The name of lord shall be abhorr'd, 

For every man's a brother; 
No reason why, in church or state. 

One man should rule another. 
But when the change of government 

Shall set our fingers free. 
We'll make the wanton sisters stoop, 

And hey ! then up go we ! 

Our cobblers shall translate their souls 

From caves oliscure and shady ; 
We'll make Tom T as good as my lc« J, 

And Joan as good as my lady. 
We'll crush and fling the marriage ring 

Into the Roman see ; 
We'll ask no bands, but e'en clap hands, 

And hey ! then up go we ! 



WILLIAM BROWNE. 



1590. Died, 1645.] 



WiLMAM Browne was the son of a gentleman 
of Tavistock, in Devonshire. He was educated 
at Oxford, and went from thence to the Inner 
Temple, but devoted himself chiefly to poetry. 
In his twenty-third year he published the first 
part of his Britannia's Pastorals, prefaced by 
poetical eulogies, which evince his having been, 
at that early period of life, the friend and favour- 
ite of Selden and Drayton. To these testimonies 
he afterwards added that of Ben Jonson. In the 
following year he published the Shepherd's Pipe, 
of which the fourth eclogue is often said to have 
been the precursor of Milton's Lycidas. A sin- 
gle simile about a rose constitutes all the resem- 
blance ! In 1616 he published the second part 
of his Britannia's Pastorals. His Masque of the 
Inner Temple was never printed, till Dr. Farmer 
transcribed it from a MS. of the Bodleian library, 
for Thomas Davies's edition of Browne's works, 
more than 120 years after the author's death. 



He seems to have taken his leave of the Muses 
about the prime of his life, and returned to Ox- 
ford, in the capacity of tutor to Robert Dormer, 
Earl of Caernarvon, who fell in the battle of 
Newbury, 1643. After leaving the university 
with that nobleman, he found a liberal patron in 
William, Earl of Pembroke, whose character, 
like that of Caernarvon, still lives among the 
warmly coloured and minutely touched portraits 
of Lord Clarendon. The poet lived in Lord 
Pembroke's family ; and, according to Wood, 
grew rich in his employment. But the particu- 
lars of his history are very imperfectly known, 
and his verses deal too little with the business of 
life to throw much light upon his circumstances. 
His poetry is not without beauty ; but it is the 
beauty of. mere landscape and allegory, without 
the manners and passions that constitute human 
interest. 



SONG. 
Gentle nymphs, be not refusing. 
Love's neglect is time's abusing. 

They and beauty are but lent you ; 
Take the one, and keep the other : 
Love keeps fresh what age doth smother, 

Beauty gone, you will repent you. 

'Twill be said, when ye have proved, 
Never swains more truly loved : 

O, then fly all nice behaviour ! 
Pity fain would (as her duty) 
Be attending still on Beauty, 

Let her not be out of favour. 



Shall I tell you whom I love 1 
Hearken then a while to me, 

And if such a woman move 
As I now shall versify ; 

Be assured, 'tis she, or none, 

That I love, and love alone. 

Nature did her so much right, 
As she scorns the help of art. 

In as many virtues dight 

As e'er yet embraced a heart. 

So much good so truly tried. 

Some for less were deified. 

Wit she hath, without desire 

To make known how much she hath ; 
And her anger flames no higher 

Than may fitly sweeten wrath. 
Full of pity as may be. 
Though perhaps not so to me. 



Reason masters every sense, 

And her virtues grace her birth: 
Lovely as all excellence. 

Modest in her most of mirth : 
Likelihood enough to prove 
Only worth could kindle love. 
Such she is : and if you know 

Such a one as I have sung ; 
Be she brown, or fair, or so. 

That she be but somewhile young ; 
Be a.ssured, 'tis she, or none, 
That I love, and love alone. 

POWER OF GENIUS OVER ENVY. 
'Tis not the rancour of a canker'd heart 
That can debase the excellence of art, 
Nor great in titles makes our worth obey, 
Sfnce we. have lines far more esteera'd than they. 
For there is hidden in a poet's name 
A spell that can command the wings of Fame, 
And maugre all oblivion's hated birth 
Begin their immortality on earth. 
When he that 'gainst a muse with hate combines 
May raise his tomb in vain to reach our lines. 



ADDRK.SS TO IIIS NATIVE SOIL. 
Hail thou, my native soil ! thou blessed plot 
Whose equal all the world aflbrdeth not ! 
Show me who can ] so many crystal rills. 
Such sweet-clothed valleys, or aspiring hills. 
Such wood-ground, pastures, quarries, wealthy 

mines. 
Such rocks in whom the diamond fairly shine:. 
And if the earth can show the like again, 
Yet will she fail in her sea-ruling men. 

V i 245 



•24G 



WILLIAM BROWNE. 



Tiiiie never can produce men to o'ertake 
The fames of Grenville, Davis, Gilbert, Drake, 
Or wortliy Hawkins, or of thousands more, 
That by their ])ower made the Devonian shore 
Mock the proud Tagus ; for whose richest spoil 
The boasting Spaniard left the Indian soil 
Bankrupt of store, knowing it would quit cost 
By winning this, though all the rest were lost. 



EVENING. 
As in an evening when the gentle air 
Breathes to the sullen night a soft repair, 
I oft have sat on Thames' sweet bank to hear 
My friend with his sweet touch to charm mine ear, 
When he hath play'd (as well he can) some strain 
That likes me, straight I ask the same again, 
And he as gladly granting, strikes it o'er 
With some sweet relish was forgot before : 
I would have been content, if he would play, 
In that one strain to pasfi the night away ; 
But fearing much to do his patience wrong. 
Unwillingly have ask'd some other song : 
So in this differing key though I could well 
A many hours but as few minutes tell. 
Yet lest mine own delight might injure you 
(Though loath so soon) I take my song anew. 



FROM BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS. 

BOOK II. SONG V. 

Between two rocks (immortal, without mother)* 
That stand as if outfacing one another. 
There ran a creek up, intricate and blind, 
As if the vvfaters hid them from the wind, 
Which never wash'd but at a higher tide 
The frizzled cotes which do the mountains hide. 
Where never gale was longer known to stay 
Than from the smooth wave it had swept away 
The new divorced leaves, that from each side 
Left the thick boughs to dance out with the tide. 
At further end the creek, a stately wood 
Gave a kind shadow (to the brackish flood) 
Made up of trees, not less ken'd by each skiff 
Than that sky-scaling peak of Teneriffe, 
Upon whose tops the hernshew bred her young, 
And hoary moss upon their branches hung ; 
Whose rugged rinds sufficient were to show. 
Without their height, what time they 'gan to grow. 
And if dry eld by wrinkled skin appears, 
None could allot them less than Nestor's years. 
As under their command the thronged creek 
Ran lessen'd up. Here did the shepherds seek 
Where he his little boat might safely hide. 
Till it was fraught with what the world beside 
Could not outvalue; nor give equal weight 
Though in the time when Greece was at her 

height 

Yet that their happy voyage might not be 
Without time's shortener, heaven-taught melody 



(Music that lent feet to the stable woods, 
And in their currents turn'd the mighty floods, 
Sorrow's sweet nurse, yet keeping joy alive, 
Sad discontent's most welcome corrosive. 
The soul of art, best loved when love is by, 
The kind inspirer of sweet poesy. 
Least thou shouldst wanting be, when swans 

would fain 
Have sung one song, and never sung again) 
The gentle shepherd, hasting to the shore, 
Began this lay, and timed it with his oar. 

Nevermore let holy Dee 

O'er other rivers brave. 
Or boast how (in his jollity) 

Kings row'd upon his wave. 
But silent be, and ever know 
That Neptune for my fare would row. . . . 

Swell then, gently swell, yo floods, 

As proud of what ye beiir, 
And nymphs that in low coral woods 

String pearls upon your hair, 
Ascend ; and tell if ere this day 
A fairer prize was seen at sea. 

See the salmons leap and bound 

To please us as we pass. 
Each meruiaid on the rocks around 

Lets fall her brittle glass. 
As they their beauties did despise 
And loved no mirror but your eyes. 

Blow, but gently blow, fair wind, 

From the forsaken shore. 
And be as to the halycon kind, 

Till we have ferried o'er: 
So mayst thou still have leave to blow, 
And fan the way where she shall go. 



* This dt'Sf^riptinn ooiiiciilfs viTy ftrikinsjly with Uik 
scenery of the Taiinr. in Ilevonshire. Urowji«. wlio was 
a uativu of that county, must have studied it from nature. 



VENUS AND ADONIS. 
Venus by Adonis' side 
Crying kiss'd and kissing cried, 
Wrung her hands and tore her hair 
For Adonis dying there. 

" Stay," quoth she, " O stay and live ! 
Nature surely doth not give 
To the earth her sweetest flowers 
To be seen but some few hours." 

On his face, still as he bled 
For each drop a tear she shed, 
Which she kiss'd or wiped away, 
Else had drown'd him where he lay. 

" Fair Proserpina," quoth she, 
" Shall not have thee yet from me ; 
Nor thy soul to fly begin 
While my lips can keep it in." 

Here she closed again. And some 
Say, Apollo would have come 
To have cured his wounded limb, 
But that she had smother'd him. 



THOMAS HEYWOOD. 



Thomas Hetwood was the most prolific writer 
in the most fertile age of our drama.* In the 
midst of his theatrical labours as an actor and 
poet, he composed a formidable list of prose works, 
and defended the stage against the puritans, in a 
work that is full of learning. One of his projects 
was to write the lives of all poets that were ever 
distinguished, from the time of Homer downwards. 
Yet it has happened to the framer of this gigantic 
design to have no historian so kind to his own 
memory as to record either the period of his death, 
or the spot that covers his remains. His merits 
entitled him to better remembrance. He com- 
posed indeed with a careless rapidity, and seems to 
have thought as little of Horace's precept of 
'• sape s ylum verlas" as of most of the injunctions 
in4lie jlri. of Puery. But he possesses consider- 
able power of interesting the affections, by placing 
his plain and familiar characters in atiecting situa- 
tions. The worst of him is, that his common- 
place sentiments and plain incidents fall not only 
beneath the ideal beauty of art, but are often more 
fatiguing than what we meet with in the ordinary 
and unselected circumstances of lite. When he 
has hit upon those occasions where the passions 
should obviously rise with accumulated expres- 
sion, he lingers on through the scene with a dull 
ar.d level indifference. The term artlessness may 
lie applied to Hey wood in two very opposite senses. 
His pathos is often artless in the better meaning 
of the word, because its objects are true to life. 



and their feelings naturally expressed. But he 
betrays still more frequently an artlessness, or 
we should rather call it, a want of art, in defi- 
ciency of contrivance. His best performance is, 
" A Woman killed with Kindness." In that play 
the repentance of Mrs. Frankford, who dies of a 
broken heart, for her infidelity to a generous hus- 
band, would present a situation consummately 
moving, if we were left to conceive her death to 
be produced simply by grief. But the poet most 
unskilfully prepares us for her death, by her de- 
claring her intentions to starve herself; and mars, 
by the weakness, sin, and horror of suicide, an 
example of penitence that would otherwise be 
sublimely and tenderly edifying. The scene of 
the death of Mrs. Frankford has been deservedly 
noticed for its pathos by an eminent foreign critic, 
Mr. Schlegel,t who also commends the superior 
force of its inexorable morality to the reconciling 
conclusion of Kotzebue's drama on a similar subject. 
The learned German perhaps draws his inference 
too rigidly. Mrs. Frankford's crime was recent, 
and her repentance and death immediately follow 
it ; but the guilt of the other tragic penitent, to 
whom Mr. S. alludes, is more remote, and less 
heinous ; and to prescribe interminable limits, 
either in real or imaginary hfe, to the generosity 
of individual forgiveness, is to invest morality 
with terrors, which the frailty of man and the 
mercy of Heaven do not justify. 



SCENE IN THE TRAGEDY "A WOMAN KILLED 
WITH KINDNESS." 



Enter Cranwel, Frankford, and Nicholas. 

Cran. Why do you search each room about 
your house, 
Now that you have despatch'd your wife away 1 

Fran. sir, to see that nothing may be left, 
That ever was my wife's : I loved her dearly. 
And when I do but think of her unkindness. 
My thoughts are all in hell; to avoid which torment, 
I would not have a bodkin or a cuff, 
A bracelet, necklace, or rebato wier ; 
Nor any thing that ever was call'd hers. 
Left me, by which I might remember her. 
Seek round about. [corner. 

iV>. .... Master, here's her lute flung in a 

Fran. Her lute 1 Oh God! upon this instrument 
Her fingers have ran quick division. 
Swifter than that which now divides our hearts. 
These frets have made me pleasant, that have now 
Frets of my heart-strings made. master Cranwel, 

[* He had, as he himself tells us, "either an entire hand, 
or at the least a main finger, in two hundred and twenty 
plays." lie was a. native of liiucolushire. — C] 



Oft hath she made this melancholy wood 
(Now mute and dumb for her disastrous chance) 
Speak sweetly many a note ; sound many a strain 
To her own ravishing voice, which being well strung. 
What pleasant strange airs have they jointly rung ! 
Post with it after her ; now nothing's left ; 

Of her and hers I am at once bereft 

Nicholas overtakes Mrs. Frankford with Iter lute. 

Nic. There. 

.Anne. I know the lute ; oft have I sung to thee : 
We both are out of tune, both out of time. 

Nic. My master commends him unto ye ; there's 
all he can find that was ever yours : he hath no- 
thing left that ever you could lay claim to but his 
own heart, and he could not afford you that. All 
that I have to deliver you is this ; he prays you 
to forget him, and so he bids you farewell. 

Aline. I thank him ; he is kind, and ever was. 
All you that have true feeling of my grief. 
That know my loss, and have relenting hearts, 
Gird me about ; and help me, with your tears, 
To wash my spotted sins : my lute shall groan ; 
It cannot weep, but shall lament my moan. 

t Mr. Schlegel, however, is mi.«taken in speaking of him 
as anterior to Shakspeare, evidently confounding him with 
an older poet of the name. 

247 



DEATH OF MRS. FRAXKFORD. 

FROM THE SAME. 

Persons.— Mr. Malby, Mrs. Anne Frankford. Frankfoed, 
Sir Charlls Mou.mford, Sir Francis Acton. 

Mai How fare you, Mrs. Frankford ? [pray 

Jtme. Sick, sick, oh sick : Give me some air. I 
Tell me, oh tell me, where's Mr. Frankford 1 
Will he not deign to see me ere I die 1 

Mai. Yes, Mrs. Frankford : divers gentlemen, 
Your loving neighbours, with that just request 
Have moved and told him of your weak estate : 
Who, though with much ado to get belief, 
Examining of the general circumstance, 
Seeing your sorrow and your penitence, 
And hearing therewithal the great desire 
You hav3 to see him ere you left the world, 
He gave to us his faith to follow us, 
And sure he will be here immediately. 

Jlniie. You have half revived me with the 
pleasing news : 
Raise me a httle higher in my bed. [Charles 1 
Blush I not, brother Acton 1 Blush 1 not, SJr 
Can you not read my fault writ in my cheek? 
Is not my crime there 1 tell me, gentlemen. 

Char. Alas ! good mistress, sickness hath not 
left you 
Blood in your face enough to make you blush. 

.dnne. Then sickness, like a friend, my fault 
would hide. 
Is my husband come ? My soul but tarries 
His arrival, then I am fit for heaven. 

.dcion. I came to chideyou, but my words of hate 
Are turn'd to pity and compassionate grief. 
I came to rate you, but my brawls, you see, 
Melt into tears, and I must weep by thee. 
Here's Mr. Frankford now. 

Enter Frankford. 

Fran. Good-morrow, brother ; morrow, gentle- 
men ! 
God, that hath laid this cross upon our heads, 
Might (had he pleased) have made our cause of 

meeting 
On a more fair and more contented ground : 
But he that made us, made us to this woe. 

.dnne. And is he come I Methinks that voice 
I know. 

Fran. How do you, woman 1 [better, 

Jinie. Well, Mr. Frankford, well ; but shall be 
I hope, within this hour. Will you vouchsafe 
(Out of your grace and your Iwmanity) 
To take a spotted strumpet by the hand 1 [bonds 

Fra>i. This hand once held my heart in faster 
Than now 'tis gripeu by me. God pardon them 
That made us first break hold ! 

Jlniie. Amen, amen. 
Out of my zeal to heaven, whither I'm now bound, 
I was so impudent to wish you here ; 
And once more beg your pardon. Oh ! good man, 
And father to my children, pardon me. 
Pardon, O pardon me ! my fault so heinous is, 
That if you in this world forgive it not, 
Heaven will not clear it in the world to come. 
Faintness hath so usurp'd upon my knees. 
That kneel I cannot : But on my heart's knees 



My prostrate soul lies thrown down at your feet 
To beg your gracious pardon: Pardon.O pardon me! 

Fran. As freely from the low depth of my soul 
As my Redeemer hath for us given his death, 
I pardon thee ; I will shed tears for thee ; 
Pray with thee ; and in mere pity of thy weak 
I'll wish to die with thee. [estate, 

Jll. So do we all. 

Jjrlon. 0, Mr. Frankford, all the near alliance 
I lose by her, shall be supplied in thee ; 
You are my brother by the nearest way, 
Her kindred hath fallen olf, but yours doth stay. 

Fran. Even as I hope for pardon at that day, 
When the great judge of heaven in scarlet sits, 
So be thou pardon'd. Though thy rash oflTence 
Divorced our bodies, thy repentant tears 
Unite our souls. 

Char. Then comfort, mistress Frankford ; 
You see your husband hath forgiven your fall ; 
Then rouse your spirits, and cheer your fainting 

Stis. How is it with you 1 [soul. 

Acton. How d'ye feel yourself] 

Anne. Not of this world. 

Fran. I see you are not, and I weep to see it. 
My wife, the mother to my pretty babes ; 
Both those lost names I do restore thee back. 
And with this kiss I wed thee once again : 
Though thou art wounded in thy honour'd name, 
And with that grief upon thy death-bed liest, 
Honest in heart, upon my soul thou diest. 

Anne. Pardon'd on earth, soul, thou in heaven 
art free 
Once more ! thy wife dies thus embracing thee. 

Adon. Peace with thee, Nan. Brothers and 
gentlemen, 
(All we that can plead interest in her grief) 
Bestow upon her body funeral tears. 
Brother, had you with threats and usage bad 
Punish'd her sin, the grief of her offence 
Had not with such true sorrow touch'd her heart. 



A WITTLING SET Uf BY A POET'S LEGACY. 

FROM "THE FAIR MAID OF THE EXCHANGE." 

Cripple. Why, think'st thou that I cannot write 
Ditty, or sonnet, with judicial phrase, [a letter, 
As pretty, pleasing, and pathetical, 
As any Ovid-imitating dunce 
In all the townl 

Frank. I think thou canst not. 

Crip. Yea, I'll swear I cannot: 
Yet, sirrah, I could cony-catch the world, 
Make myself famous for a sudden wit, 
And be admired for ray dexterity, 
Were I disposed. 

Frank. I prithee how ? 

Crip. Why thus : there lived a poet in this town 
(If we may term our modern writers poets,) 
Sharp-witted, bitter-tongued, his pen of steel. 
His ink was temper'd with the biting juice. 
And extracts of the bitterest weeds that grew : 
He never wrote but when the elements 
Of fire and water tilted in his brain. 
This fellow, ready to give up his ghost 
To Luciae's bosom, did bequeath to me 



WILLIAM DRUM MO ND. 



249 



His library, which was just nothing 
But roils and scrolls, and bundles of cast wit, 
Such as durst never visit Paul's Churchyard : 
Amongst them all I happen'd on a quire 
Or two of paper fiU'd with songs and ditties, 
And here and there a hungry epigram : 
These I reserve to my own proper use. 
And, paternoster-like, have conn'd them all. 
I could now, when I am in company 
At alehouse, tavern, or an ordinary, 
Upon a theme make an extemporal ditty, 
(Or one at least should seem extemporal,) 
Out of the abundance of this legacy. 
That all would judge it, and report it too, 
To be the infant of a sudden wit ; 
And then were I an admirable fellow. 



SONG OF NYMPHS TO DIANA. 

FROM "THE GOLDEN AGE." 

Hail, beauteous Dian, queen of shades. 
That dwells beneath these shadowy glades, 
Mistress of all these beauteous maids 
That are by her allow'd ; 



Virginity we all profess, 
Abjure the worldly vain excess, 
And will to Dian yield no less 

Than we to her have vow'd. 
The shepherds, satyrs, nymphs, and fauns, 
For thee will trip it o'er the lawns. 
Come to the forest let us go. 
And trip it like the barren doe, 
The fauns and satyrs will do so, 

And freely thus they may do. 
The fairies dance, and satyrs sing. 
And on the grass tread many a ring. 
And to their caves their ven'son bring. 

And we will do as they do. 
The shepherds, satyrs, &c. 
Our food is honey from the bees, 
And mellow fruits that drop from trees; 
In chase we climb the high degrees 

Of every steepy mountain ; 
And when the weary day is past 
We at the evening hie us fast. 
And after this our field repast. 

We drink the pleasant fountain. 
The shepherds, satyrs, &c. 



WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 

[Born, 1585. Died, 1649.] 



This poet was born at Hawthornden, his fa- 
ther's estate in Mid-Lothian, took a degree at the 
university of Edinburgh, studied the civil law in 
France, and, returning home, entered into pos- 
session of his paternal estate, and devoted him- 
self to literature. During his residence at Haw- 
thornden he courted, and was on the eve of 
marrying, a lady of the name of Cunningham. 
Her sudden death inspired him with a melancholy 
which he sought to dissipate by travelling. He 
accordingly visited France, Italy, and Germany, 
and, during a stay of eight years on the conti- 
nent, conversed with the most polished society, 
and studied the objects most interesting to curi- 
osity and taste. He collected at the same time 
a number of books and manuscripts, some of 
which are still in the library of his native uni- 
versity. 

On his second return to Scotland he found the 
kingdom distracted by political and religious fer- 
ment, and on the eve of a civil war. What con- 
nection this aspect of public aflairs had with his 
quitting Hawthornden, his biographers have not 
informed us, but so it was, that he retired to the 
seat of his brother-in-law. Sir John Scot of Scots- 
tarv(!t, a man of letters, and probably of political 
sentiments congenial with his own. At his abode 
he wrote his History of the Five James's, Kings 
of Scotland, a work abounding in false eloquence 
and slavish principles. Having returned at length 
to settle himself at his own seat, he married a 
lady of the name of Logan, of the house of Rest- 
alrig, in whom he fancied a resemblance to his 
former mistress, and repaired the family mansion 
of Hawthornden, with an inscription impcrtmg 
32 



his hopes of resting there in honourable ease. 
But the times were little suited to promote his 
wishes ; and on the civil war breaking out he 
involved himself with the covenanters, by writing 
in support of the opposite side, for which his ene- 
mies not only called him to a severe account, but 
compelled him to furnish his quota of men and 
arms to support the cause which he detested. 
His estate lying in different counties, he contri- 
buted halves and quarters of men to the forces 
that were raised ; and on this occasion he wrote 
an epigram, bitterly wishing that the imaginary 
division of his recruits might be realized on their 
bodies. His grief for the death of Charles is said to 
have shortened his days. Such stories of political 
sensibility may be believed on proper evidence. 

The elegance of Drummond's sonnets, and the 
humour of his Scotch and Latin macaronics, have 
been at least sufficiently praised : but when Milton 
has been described as essentially obliged to him, 
the compliment to his genius is stretched too far. 
A modern writer, who edited the works of Drum- 
mond, has affirmed, that, " perhaps," if we had 
had no Drummond, we should not have seen 
the finer delicacies of Milton's Comus, Lycidas, 
L'AUegro, and II Penseroso. " Perhaps" is an 
excellent leading-string for weak assertions. One 
or two epithets of Drummond may be recognised 
in Milton, though not in the minor poems already 
mentioned.* It is difficult to apply any precise 

[* The only passage in Milton that looks like borrow- 
ing from Drummond is in Lycidas: Uray, who born.wed 
always and ably, adopted one of his lines into his Klegy 
too exact and uncommon to be called a re.-<emblauce: 
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife.- C "" 



250 



WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 



idea to this tautology of " fine delicacies ;" but 
whatever the editor of Drummond meant by it, 
he may be assured that there is no debt on the 
part of Milton to the poet of Hawthornden, which 
the former could be the least impoverished by re- 
turning. Philips, the nephew of Milton, edited 
and extolled Drummond, and pronounced him 
equal to Tasso himself. It has been inferred from 
some passages of the Thearum Poeturum that 
Milton had dictated several critical opinions in 
that pcrformanc* ; and it has been taken for 
granted that Philips's high opinion of Drummond 



was imbibed from the author of " Paradise Lost." 
But the parallel between Drummond and Tasso 
surely could not have been drawn by Milton. 
Philips had a turn for poetry, and in many of his 
critical opinions in the Tliealrum Foe orKwi, showed 
a taste that could not be well attributed to his 
uncle — in none more than in this exaggerated 
comparison of a smooth sonneteer to a mighty 
poet. It is equally improbable that he imbibed 
this absurdity from Milton, as that he caught 
from him his admiration of Drummond's prose 
i compositions and arbitrary principles. 



SONNETS. 
I. 
I KNOW that all beneath the moon decays, 
And what by mortals in this world is brought, 
In Time's great periods shall return to nought; 
That fairest states have fatal nights and days. 
I know that all the Muse's heavenly lays. 
With toil of sp'rit, which are so dearly bought, 
As idle sounds, of few, or none are sought, 
That there is nothing lighter than vain praise. 
I know frail beauty like the purple flower. 
To which one morn oft birth and death affords, 
That love a jarring is of minds' accords, 
Where sense and will envassal Reason's power ; 
Know what I list, all this cannot me move. 
But that, alas ! I both must write and love. 



At me ! and I am now the man whose muse 
In happier times was wont to laugh at love. 
And those who suffer'd that blind boy abuse 
The noble gifts were given them from above. 
What metamorphose strange is this I prove 1 
Myself now scarce I find myself to be, 
And think no fable Circe's tyranny. 
And all the tales are told of changed Jove; 
Virtue hath taught with her philosophy 
My mind into a better course to move : 
Reason may chide her fill, and oft reprove 
Affection's power, but what is that to me ? 
Who ever think, and never think on ought 
But that bright cherubim which thralls my 
thought. 

in. 
How that vast heaven entitled first is roll'd, 
If any glancing towers beyond it be, 
And people living in eternity. 
Or essence pure that doth this all uphold : 
What motion have those fixed sparks of gold. 
The wandering carbuncles which shine from high, 
By sp'rits, or bodies cross-ways in the sky, 
If they be turn'd and mortal things behold. 
How sun posts heaven about, how night's pale 

queen 
With borrow'd beams looks on this hanging round. 
What cause fair Iris hath, and monsters seen 
In air's large fields of light, and seas profound, 
Did hold my wandering thoughts, when thy 

sweet eye 
Bade me leave all, and only think on thee. 



If cross'd with all mishaps be my poor life, 
If one short day I never spent in mirth. 
If my sp'rit with itself holds lasting strife, 
If sorrow's death is but new sorrow's birth ; 
If this vain world be but a mournful stage. 
Where slave-born man plays to the scoffing stars, 
If youth be toss'd with love, with weakness age; 
If knowledge serves to hold our thoughts in 

wars, 
If time can close the hundred mouths of Fame, 
And make what's long since past, like that's to be; 
If virtue only be an idle name, 
If being born I was but born to die ; 

Why seek I to prolong these loathsome days 1 
The fairest rose in shortest time decays. 



Dear Chorister, who from those shadows sends 
Ere that the blushing morn dare show her light, 
Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends, 
(Become all ear) stars stay to hear thy plight. 
If one whose grief even reach of thought transcends, 
Who ne'er (not in a dream) did taste delight, 
May thee importune who like case pretends. 
And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despite. 
Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try, 
And long, long sing) for what thou thus complains, 
Since winter's gone, and sun in dappled sky 
Enamour'd smiles on woods and flowery plains 1 
The bird, as if my questions did her move. 
With trembling wings sigh'd forth, I love, I 
love. 

VT. 

Sweet soul, which in the April of thy years. 
For to enrich the heaven madest poor this round, 
And now with flaming rays of glory crown'd. 
Most blest abides above the sphere of spheres ; 
If heavenly laws, alas ! have not thee bound 
From looking to this globe that all up-bears, 
If ruth and pity there above be found, 
O deign to lend a look unto these tears. 
Do not disdain (dear ghost) this sacrifice. 
And though I raise not pillars to thy praise, 
My oflerings take, let this for me suflice. 
My heart a living pyramid I raise. 

And whilst kings' tombs with laurels flourish 
green, 

Thine shall with myrtles and these flowers be 
I seen. 



THOMAS NABBES. 



251 



SPIRITUAL POEMS. 
I. 
Look, how the flower which ling'ringly doth fade, 
The morning's darling late, the summer's queen, 
Spoil'd of that juice which kept it fresh and green, 
As high as it did raise, bows low the head : 
Right so the pleasures of my life being dead, 
Or in their contraries but only seen, 
With swifter speed declines than erst it spread. 
And (blasted) scarce now shows what it hath been. 
As doth the pilgrim, therefore, whom the night 
By darkness would imprison on his way, 
Think on thy home (my soul) and think aright, 
Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day; 
Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn, 
And twice it is not given thee to be born, 
n. 
The weary mariner so fast not flies 
A howling tempest, harbour to attain ; 
Nor shepherd hastes (when frays of wolves arise) 
So fast to fold, to save his bleating train. 
As I (wing'd with contempt and just disdain) 
Now fly the world, and what it most doth prize, 
And sanctuary seek, free to remain 
From wounds of abject times, and envy's eyes. 
To me this world did once seem sweet and fair. 
While senses' light mind's prospective kept blind ; 
Now, like imagined landscape in the air. 
And weeping rainbows, her best joys I find : 
Or if ought here is had that praise should have, 
It is a life obscure, and silent grave, 
in. 
The last and greatest herald of heaven's king, 
Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild, 
Among that savage brood the woods forth bring, 
Which he more harmless found than man, and mild ; 
H.s food was locusts, and what there doth spring. 
With honey that from virgin hives distill'd, 
Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing, 



Made him appear, long since from earth exiled, 
There burst he forth ; all ye whose hopes rely 
On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn, 
Repent, repent, and fi-om old errors turn ! 
Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry 7 
Only the echoes, which he made relent, 
Rung from their flinty caves, Repent, repent ! 



Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours 
Of winters past or coming, void of care, 
Well-pleased with delights which present are. 
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smeliing 

flowers : 
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers. 
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare. 
And what dear git\s on thee he did not spare, 
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. 
What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs 
(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven 
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites and wrongs, 
And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven ? 
Sweet, artless songster, thou my mind dost raise 
To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays. 

V. 

As when it happeneth that some lovely town 
Unto a barbarous besieger falls. 
Who both by sword and flame himself instals. 
And (shameless) it in tears and blood doth drown. 
Her beauty spo.l'd, her citizens made thralls, 
I His spite yet cannot so her all throw down, 
I But that some statue, pillar of renown. 
Yet lurks unmaim'd within her weeping walls: 
So, after all the spoil, disgrace, and wreck. 
That time, the world, and death, could bring 
' combined. 

Amidst that mass of ruins they did make. 
Safe and all scarless yet remains my mind . 
From this so high transcending rapture springs, 
That I, all else defaced, not envy kings. 



THOMAS NABBES. 



This was an inferior dramatist in the time of 
Charles I. who, besides his plays, wrote a con- 
tinuation of Knolles's History of the Turks. He 
seems to have been secretary or domestic to some 



nobleman or prelate, at or near Worcester, ife 
had a share in the poetical collection called 
Fancy's Theatre, with Tatham, Richard BromP; 
and others. 



SONG BY LOVE AND THE VIRTUES TO PHYSAN- 
DEIl AND BELLANIMA. 

FROM " MlCROCOSMire, A MASQUE." 1637. 

Welcome, welcome, happy pair, 

To these abodes, where spicy air 

Breathes perfumes, and every sense 

Doth find his object's excellence ; 

Where's no heat, nor cold extreme. 

No winter's ice, no summer's scorching beam ; 

Where's no sun, yet never night. 

Day always springing from eternal light. 

Chmus. All mortal sufferings laid aside. 
Here in endless bliss abide. 



Love. Welcome to Love, my new-loved heir, 
Elysium's thine, ascend my chair: 
For following sensuality 
I thought to disinherit thee ; 
But being now reform'd in life. 
And reunited to thy wife, 
Mine only daughter, fate allows 
That Love with stars should crown your brows. 
Join ye that were his guides to this. 
Thus I enthrone you both — now kiss ; 
Whilst you in endless measures move, 
Led on to endless joys by Love. 



THOMAS MAY. 



[Born, 1595. Died, 1650.] 



Thomas May whom Dr. Johnson has pro- 
nounced the best Latin poet of England, was the 
son of Sir Thomas May, of Ma} Held in Sussex. 
During the earlier part of his public life he was 
••ncouraged at the court of Charles the First, in- 
scrilied several poems to his majesty, as well as 
wrote them at his injunction, and received from 
Charles the appellation of " his poet." During 
this connection with royalty he wrote his five 
dramas,* translated the Georgics and Pharsalia, 
continued tlie latter in English as well as Latin, 
and by his imitation of Lucan acquired the repu- 
tation of a modern classic in foreign countries. 
It were much to be wished, that on siding with 
the parliament in the civil wars, he had left a 
valedictory testimony of regret for the necessity 
of opposing, on public grounds, a monarch who 
had been personally kind to him. The change 
was stigmatized as ungrateful, and it was both 
sordid and ungrateful, if the account given by 
his enemies can be relied on, that it was owing 
to the king's refusal of the laureateship, or 
of a pension — for the story is told in different 
ways. All that can be suggested in May's behalf 
is, that no complimentary dedications could pledge 
his principles on a great question of public jus- 
tice, and that the motives of an action are seldom 
traced with scrupulous truth, where it is the bias 
of the narrator to degrade the action itself. Cla- 



rendon, the most respectable of his accusers, is 
exactly in this situation. He begins by praising 
his epic poetry as among the best in our language, 
and inconsistently concludes by pronouncing that 
May deserves to be forgotten. 

The parliament, from whatever motive he em- 
braced their cause, appointed him their secretary 
and historiographer. In this capacity he wrote 
his Breviary, which Warburton pronounces "a 
just composition according to the rules of history." 
It breaks off, much to the loss of the hislory of 
that time, just at the period of the Self-denying Or- 
dinance. Soon after this publication he went to 
bed one night in apparent health, having drank 
freely, and w as found dead in the morning. His 
death was ascribed to his nightcap being tied too 
tightly under his chin. Andrew Marvel imputes 
it to the cheerful bottle. Taken together, they 
were no bad receipt for suffocation. The vampire 
revenge of his enemies in digging him up from 
his grave, is an event too notorious in the history 
of the Restoration. They gave him honourable 
company in this sacrilege, namely, that of Blake. 

He has ventured in narrative poetry on a simi- 
lar ditficulty to that Shakspeare encountered in 
the historical drama, but it is unnecessary to show 
with how much less success. Even in that de- 
partment, he has scarcely equalled Daniel or 
Drayton. 



THE DEATH OF ROSAMOND. 
Fair Rosamond within her bovver of late 
(While these sad storms had shaken Henry's state, 
And he from England last had absent been) 
Retired herself; nor had that star been seen 
To shine abroad, or with her lustre grace 
The woods or walks adjoining to the place. 

About those places, while the times were free, 
Oft with a train of her attendants she 
For pleasure walk'd ; and like the huntress queen. 
With her light nymphs, was by the people seen. 
Thither the country lads and swains, that near 
To Woodstock dwelt, would come to gaze on her. 
Their jolly May-games there would they present, 
Their harmless sports and rustic merriment, 
To give this beauteous paragon delight. 
Nor that officious service would she slight ; 
But their rude pastimes gently entertain 

Now came that fatal day, ordain'd to see 
The eclipse of beauty, and for ever be 
Accursed by woeful lovers, — all alone 
Into her chamber Rosamond was gone ; . . . . 
While thus she sadly mused, a ruthful cry 
Had pierced her tender ear, and in the sound 
Was named (she thought) unhappy Rosamond, 



♦'The Heir, C; Antigon«, T.; Julia Agvippina, T,; 
CluopHtra. T.; Old Coupln, C; to which may be added 
lulius Caisar, a tragedy, still ia luauusoript. 
252 



(The cry was utter'd by her grieved maid, 
From whom that clew was taken, that betray 'd 
Her lady's life,) and while she doubting fear'd. 
Too soon the fatal certainty appear'd : 
For with her train the wrathful queen was there 
Oh ! who can tell what cold and killing fear 
Through every part of Rosamond was struck 1 
The rosy tincture her sweet cheeks forsook. 
And like an ivory statue did she show 
Of life and motion reft. Had she been so 
Transform'd in deed, how kind the Fates had been. 
How pitiful to her ! nay to the queen ! 
Even she herself did seem to entertain 
Some ruth; but straight revenge return'd again, 
And fiii'd her furious breast. "Strumpet, (quoth she) 
I need not speak at all ; my sight may be 
Enough expression of my wrongs, and what 
The consequence must prove of such a hate. 
Here, take this poison'd cup" (for in her hand 
A poison'd cup she had) " and do not stand 
To parley now : but drink it presently. 
Or else by tortures be resolved to die ! 
Thy doom is set." Pale trembling Rosamond 
Receives the cup, and kneeling on the ground. 
When dull amazement somewhat had forsook 
Her breast, thus humbly to the queen she spoke: 
" I dare not hope you should so far relent. 
Great queen, as to forgive the punishment 



RICHARD CRASHAW. 



253 



That to my foul offence is justly due. 

Nor will I vainly plead excuse, to show 

By .what strong arts I was at first betray'd, 

Or tell how many subtle snares were laid 

To catch mine honour. These though ne'er so true, 

Can bring no recompense at all to you, 

Nor just excuse to my abhorred crime. 

Instead of sudden death, I crave but time, .... 

" No more, (replied the furious queen;) have done; 
Delay no longer, lest thy choice be gone. 
And that a sterner death for thee remain." 
No more did Rosamond entreat in vain ; 
But, forced to hard necessity to yield, 
Drank of the fatal potion that she held. 
And with it enter'd the grim tyrant Death : 
Yet gave such respite, that her dying breath 
Might beg forgiveness from the heavenly throne, 
Ami pardon those that her destruction 
Had doubly wrought. " Forgive, O Lord, (said she,) 
Him that dishonour'd, her that murder'd me. 
Yet let me speak, for truth's sake, angry queen ! 
If you had spared my life, I might have been 



In time to come the example of your glory ; 
Not of your shame, as now; for when the story 
Of hapless Rosamond is read, the best 
And holiest people, as they will detest 
My crime, and call it foul, they will abhor, 
And call unjust, the rage of Eleanor. 
And in this act of yours it will be thought 
King Henry's sorrow, not his love, you sought." 
And now so far the venom's force assail'd 
Her vital parts, that life with language fail'd. 
That well-built palace where the Graces made 
Their chief abode, where thousand Cupids play'd 
And couch'd their shafts,whose structure did delight 
Even nature's self, is now demolish'd quite. 
Ne'er to be raised again ; the untimely stroke 
Of death that precious cabinet has broke. 
That Henry's pleased heart so long had held. 
With sudden mourning now the house is fiU'd ; 
Nor can the queen's attendants, though they fear 
Her wrath, from weeping at that sight forbear. 
By rough north blasts so blooming roses fade; 
So crushed falls the lily's tender blade 



RICHARD CRASHAW. 



[Born, 1615? Died, 1652,] 



This poet fell into neglect in his own age. 
He was, however, one of the first of our old minor 
poets that was rescued from oblivion in the fol- 
lowing century. Pope borrowed from him, but 
acknowledged his obligations. Crashaw formed 
his style on the most quaint and conceited school 
of Italian poetry, that of Marino ; and there is a 
prevalent harshness and strained expression in 
his verses ; but there are also many touches of 
beauty and solemnity, and the strength of his 
thoughts sometimes appears even in their distor- 
tion. If it were not grown into a tedious and 
impertinent fashion to discover the sources of 
Paradise Lost, one might be tempted to notice 
some similarity between the speech of Satan in 
the Sospetto di Herode of Marino (which Cra- 
shaw has translated) and Satan's address to the 
Sun in Milton. The little that is known of Cra- 
shaw's life exhibits enthusiasm, but it is not that 
of a weak or selfish mind. His private character 
was amiable ; and we are told by the earliest edi- 
tor of his " Steps to the Temple," that he was 
skilled in music, drawing, and engraving. His 
father, of whose writings an account is given in 
the tenth volume of the Censura Literaria, was a 
preacher at the Temple church, London. His 
son, the poet, was born in London, but at what 
time is uncertain. He was educated at the Char- 
terhouse through the bounty of two friends. Sir 
Henry Yelverton, and Sir Francis Crew. From 



thence he removed to Cambridge, where he 1 e- 
came a fellow, and took a degree of master of 
arts. There he published his Latin poems, in 
one of which is the epigram from a scripture j as- 
sage, ending with the line, so well known, 

Lympha pudica Deum vidit et erubuit, 
"Tlie modest water saw its God, and blush'd :" 

and also his pious effusions, called « Steps to the 
Temple." The title of the latter work was in 
allusion to the church at Cambridge, near his re- 
sidence, where he almost constantly spent his 
time. When the covenant, in 1644, was offered 
to the universities, he preferred ejection and 
poverty to subscribing it. Already he had been 
distinguished as a popular and powerful preacher. 
He soon after embraced the Cathohc religion, and 
repaired to France. In austerity of devotion he 
had no great transition to make to Catholicism ; 
and his abhorrence at the religious innovations he 
had witnessed, together with his admiration of the 
works of the canonized St. Teresa of Spain, still 
more easily account for his conversion. Cowley 
found him at Paris in deplorable poverty, and 
recommended him to his exiled queen, Henrietta 
Maria. Her majesty gave him letters of recom- 
mendation to Italy, where he became a secretary 
to one of the Roman cardinals, and a canon of 
the church of Loretto. Soon after the latter aj 
pointment he died, about the year 1652. 



SOSPETTO D'HERODE. LIB. I. 



Below the bottom of the great abyss, 
There where one centre reconciles all things ; 
The world's profound heart pants ; their placed is 
Mischief's old master, close about him clings 



A curl'd knot of embracing snakes, that kiss 
His correspondent cheeks ; these loathsome stringa 
Hold the perverse prince in eternal ties, 
Fast bound, since first he forfeited the skies. . 
W 



254 



RICHARD CRASHAW. 



From death's sad shades, to the life-breathing air 
This mortal enemy to mankind's good. 
Lifts his maUgnant eyes, wasted with care, 
To become beautiful in human blood. 
Where Jordan melts his crystal, to make fair 
The fields of Palestine with so pure a flood ; 
There does he fix his eyes, and there detect 
JMew matter to make good his great suspect. 

He calls to mind the old quarrel, and what spark . 
Set the contending sons of heaven on fire : 
Oft in his deep thought he revolves the dark 
Sybils' divining leaves ; he does inquire 
Into the old prophecies, trembling to mark 
How many present prodigies conspire 

To crown their past predictions, both he lays 
Together, in his ponderous mind both weighs. 

Heaven's golden-winged herald, late he saw 
To a poor Galilean virgin sent; 
How low the bright youth bow'd,and with what awe 
Immortal flowers to her fair hand present. 
He saw the old Hebrew's womb neglect the law 
Of age and barrenness, and her babe prevent 
His birth by his devotion, who began 
Betimes to be a saint, before a man. 

He saw rich nectar thaws release the rigour 
Of the icy north, from frost-bound Atlas' hands 
His adamantine fetters fall; green vigour 
Gladding the Scythian rocks, and Libyan sands. 
He saw a vernal smile sweetly disfigure 
Winter's sad face, and through the flowery lands 
Of fair Engaddi's honey-sweating fountains, 
With manna, milk, and balm, new broach the 
mountains. 

He saw how in that blest day-bearing night. 
The heaven-rebuked shades made haste away ; 
How bright a dawn of angels with new light, 
Amazed the midnight world, and made a day 
Of which the morning knew not; mad with spite. 
He mark'd how the poor shepherds ran to pay 
Their simple tribute to the babe, whose birth 
W as the great business both of heaven and earth. 

He saw a threefold sun, with rich increase, 
Miikt proud the ruby portals of the east. 
He saw the temple sacred to sweet peace. 
Adore her prince's birth, flat on her breast 
He saw the falling idols all confess 
A coming Deity. He saw the nest 

Of poisonous and unnatural loves, earth-nurst, 
Touch'd with the world's true antidote to 
burst. 

He saw Heaven blossom with a new-born light, 
On which, as on a glorious stranger, gazed 
The golden eyes of night, whose beam made bright 
T he way to Beth'lem, and as boldly blazed 
(Nor ask'd leave of the sun,) by day as night. 
Bv whom (as Heaven's illustrious handmaid) 
raised 

Three kings (or what is more) three wise men 
went 

Westwird. to find the world's true orient. . . . 



That the gteat angel-blinding light should shrink 
His blaze, to shine in a poor shepherd's eye. 
That the unmeasured God so low should sink, 
As pris'ner in a few poor rags to lie. 
That from his mother's breast he milk should drink, 
Who feeds with nectar Heaven's fair family. 
That a vile manger his low bed should prove, 
Who in a throne of stars thunders above. 

That he whom the sun serves, should faintly peep 
Through clouds of infant flesh : that he the old 
Eternal Word should be a child and weep: 
That he who made the fire should fear the cold : 
That Heaven's high Majesty his court should keep 
In a clay cottage, by each blast controll'd : 

That glory's self shouli^ serve our griefs and fears. 

And free eternity submit to years. 

And further, that the law's eternal Giver 
Should bleed hi his own law's obedience; 
And to the circumcising knife deliver 
Himself, the forfeit of his slave's offence. 
That the unblemish'd Lamb, blessed for ever, 
Should take the mark of sin, and pain of sense. 
These are the knotty riddles, whose dark doubt 
Entangles his lost thoughts past getting out : 

While new thoughts boil'd in his enraged breast, 
His gloomy bosom's darkest character 
Was in his shady forehead seen express'd. 
The forehead's shade in grief's expression there, 
Is what in sign of joy among the blest. 
The face's lightning, or a smile is here. 

Those stings of care that his strong heart opprest, 
A desperate Oh me ! drew from his deep 
breast. 

Oh me ! (thus bellow'd he ;) oh me ! what great 
Portents before mine eyes their powers advance ] 
And serve my purer sight, only to beat 
Down my proud thought, and leave it in a trance 1 
Frown I, and can great Nature keep her seat 1 
And the gay stars lead on their golden dance ; 
Can his attempts above still prosperous be, 
Auspicious still, in spite of hell and me ■? 

He has my Heaven (what would he more) whose 

bright 
And radiant sceptre this bold hand should bear. 
And for the never-fading fields of light, 
My fair inheritance, he confines me here 
To this dark house of shades, horror, and night, 
To draw a long-lived death, where all my cheer 
Is the solemnity my sorrow wears. 
That mankind's torment waits upon my tears 

Dark dusky man, he needs would single forth. 
To make the partner of his own pure ray : 
And should we powers of Heaven, spirits of worth, 
Bow our bright heads before a king of clay 1 
It shall not be, said I ; and clomb the north, 
Where never wing of angel yet made way. 
What though I miss'd my blow? yet I struck high, 
And to dare something, is some victory.* 

* Which, if not victory, is yet revenge.— Milton. 



WILLIAM HABINGTON. 



255 



Is he not satisfied ] means he to wrest 
Hell from me too, and sack my territories? 
Vile human nature, means he not t' invest 
(O my despite !) with his divinest glories 1 
And rising with rich spoils upon his breast, 
With his fair triumphs fill all future stories ] 

Must the bright arms of heaven rebuke these eyes? 

Mock me, and dazzle my dark mysteries ? 

Art thou not Lucifer ? he to whom the droves 
Of stars that gild the morn in charge were given ? 
The nimblest of the lightning-winged loves ? 
The fairest, and the first-born smile of Heaven? 
Look in what pomp the mistress planet moves, 
Rcv'rently circled by the lesser seven ; 

Such and so rich, the flames that from thine eyes 
Oppress'd the common people of the skies. 



Ah, wretch ! what boots thee to cast back thy eyes 
Where dawning hope no beam of comlbrt shows ? 
While the reflection of thy forepast joys 
Renders thee double to thy present woes. 
Rather make up to thy new miseries, 
And meet the mischief that upon thee grows. 

If hell must mourn, heaven sure shall sympathize. 

What force cannot effect, fraud shall devise. 

And yet whose force fear I ? have I so lost 
Myself? my strength too with my innocence ? 
Come, try who dares, heaven, earth, whate'er dost 
A borrow'd being, make thy bold defence, [boast 
Come thy Creator too, what though it cost 
Me yet a second fall ? we'd try our strengths. 
Heavens saw us struggle once : as brave a fight 
Earth now shall see, and tremble at the sight. 



WILLIAM HABINGTON. 



[Born, 1605. Died, 1654.] 



The mother of this poet, who was daughter to 
Lord Morley, is reported to have written the famous 
letter of warning, in consequence of which the 
gunpowder plot was discovered. His father, who 
had been suspected of a share in Babington's 
conspiracy, and who had owed his release to his 
being godson to Queen Elizabeth, was a second 
tiuie imprisoned, and condemned to death on the 
charge of having concealed some of the agents 
in the gunpowder plot; but by Lord Morley's 
interest was pardoned, on condition of confining 
himself to Worcestershire, of which county he 
lived to write a voluminous history. 

The family were catholics; and his son, the 
poet, was sent to St. Omer's, we are told, with a 
view to make him a Jesuit, which he declined. 
The same intention never failed to be ascribed to 
all English families who sent their children to 
that seminary. On his return from the Conti- 
nent he Uved chiefly with his father, who was his 



preceptor. Of the subsequent course of his life 
nothing more seems to be on record than his 
marriage and his literary works. The latter con- 
sisted of effusions entitled Castara, the poetical 
name of his mistress ; the Queen of Arragon, a 
tragi-comedy ; a History of Edward IV.; and 
Observations upon History. 

Habington became a poet from the courtship 
of the lady whom he married, Lucy, daughter to 
Lord Powis. There is no very ardent sensibility 
in his lyrics, but they denote a mind of elegant 
and chaste sentiments. He is free as any of the 
minor poets of his age from the impurities which 
were then considered as wit. He is indeed rather 
ostentatiously platonic, but his love language is 
far from being so elaborate as the complimentary 
gallantry of the preceding age. A respectable 
gravity of thought, and succinct fluency of expres- 
sion, are observable in the poems of his later 
life. 



CUPIO DISSOLVI. 
The soul which doth with God unite, 
Those gayeties how doth she slight 

Which o'er opinion sway ! 
Like sacred virgin wax, which shines 
On altars or on martyrs' shrines, 

How doth she burn away ! 

How violent are her throes till she 
From envious earth deliver'd be, 

Which doth her flight restrain ! 
How doth she doat on whips and racks, 
On fires, and the so-dreaded axe. 

And every murdering pain ! 

How soon she leaves the pride of wealth, 
The flatteries of youth and health, 

And fame's more precious breath; 
And every gaudy circumstance 
That doth the pomp of life advance. 

At the approach of death ! 



The cunning of astrologers 
Observes each motion of the stars, 

Placing all knowledge there : 
And lovers in their mistress' eyes 
Contract those wonders of the skies. 

And seek no higher sphere. 

The wandering pilot sweats to find 
The causes that produce the wind. 

Still gazing on the pole. 
The politician scorns all art 
But what doth pride and power impart, 

And swells the ambitious soul. 

But he whom heavenly fire doth warm 
And 'gainst these powerful follies arm, 

Doth soberly disdain 
All these fond human mysteries 
As the deceitful and unwise 

Distempers of our brain. 



WILLIAM HABINGTON. 



He as a burden bears his clay, 
Yet vainly throws it not away 

On every idle cause : 
But with the same untroubled eye 
Can or resolve to live or die, 

Regardless uf th' applause. 
My God ! if 'tis thy great decree 
That this must the last moment be 

Wherein I breathe this air; 
My heart obeys, joy'd to retreat 
From the false favours of the great, 

And treachery of the fair. 
When thou shalt please this soul t', enthrone 
Above impure corruption ; 

What should I grieve or fear. 
To think this breathless body must 
Become a loathsome heap of dust, 

And ne'er again appear. 
For in the fire when ore is tried, 
And by that torment purified, 

Do we deplore the loss 1 
And when thou shalt my soul refine. 
That it thereby may purer shine, 

Shall I grieve for the dross 1 



THE DESCRIPTION OF CASTARA. 
Like the violet, which alone 
Prospers in some happy shade ; 
My Castara lives unknown, 
To no looser eye betray 'd, 
For she's to herself untrue, 
Who delights i' th' public view. 
Such is her beauty, as no arts 
Have enrich'd with borrow'd grace, 
Her high birth no pride imparts, 
For she blushes in her place. 
Folly boasts a glorious blood, 
She is noblest being good. 
Cautious, she knew never yet 
What a wanton courtship meant ; 
Nor speaks loud to boast her wit. 
In her silence eloquent. 

Of herself survey she takes. 
But 'tween men no difference makes. 
She obeys with speedy will 
Her grave parents' wise commands : 
And so innocent, that ill, 
She nor acts, nor understands 
Women's feet run still astray 
If once to ill they know the way 
She sails by that rock, the court. 
Where oft honour splits her mast: 
And retir'dness thinks the port. 
Where her fame may anchor cast. 
Virtue safely cannot sit. 
Where vice is enlhron'd for wit. 
She holds that day's pleasure best. 
Where sin waits not on delight; 
Without mask, or ball, or feast 
Sweetly spends a winter's night. 

O'er that darkness whence is thrust, 
Prayer and sleep oft governs lust. 



She her throne makes reason climb 
While wild passions captive lie ; 
And each article of time. 
Her pure thoughts to heaven fly : 
All her vows religious be. 
And her love she vows to me. 



TO CASTARA, INQUIRING WHY I LOVED HER. 
Why doth the stubborn iron prove 
So gentle to th' magnetic stone? 
How know you that the orbs do move ; 
With music too? since heard of none? 
And I will answer why I love. 

'Tis not thy virtues, each a star 

Which in thy soul's bright sphere do shine, 

Shooting their beauties from afar. 

To make each gazer's heart like thine ; 

Our virtues often meteors are. 

'Tis not thy face, I cannot spy. 
When poets weep some virgin's death. 
That Cupid wantons in her eye. 
Or perfumes vapour from her breath, 
And 'mongst the dead thou once must lie. 

■ Nor is't thy birth. For I was ne'er 
So vain as in that to delight : 
Which, balance it, no weight doth bear, 
Nor yet is object to the sight. 
But only fills the vulgar ear. 

Nor yet thy fortunes : since I know 

They, in their motion like the sea 

Ebb from the good, to the impious flow: 

And so in flattery betray, 

That raising they but overthrow. 

And yet these attributes might prove 
Fuel enough t'inflame desire ; 
But there was something from above, 
Shot without reason's guide, this fire. 
I know, yet know not, why I love. 



SONG. 

FROM "THE QUEEN OP AUKAOON." 

A Tiagi-Comedy. 
Not the Phoenix in his death. 

Nor those banks where violets grow, 

And Arabian winds still blow. 
Yield a perfumfe like her breath. 

But O ! marriage makes the spell, 

And 'tis poison if I smell. 
The twin-beauties of the skies, 

(When the half-sunk sailors haste 

"To rend sail, and cut their mast.) 
Shine not welcome, as her eyes. 

But those beams, than storms more black, 

If they point at me, I wrack. 
Then for fear of such a fire. 

Which kills worse than the long night 

Which benumbs the Muscovite, 
I must from my life retire. 

But O no ! for if her eye 

Warm me not, I freeze, and die. 



JOHN HALL. 

[Born, 1627. Died, 1656.] 



John Hall was born at Durham, and edu- 
cated at St. John's College, Cambridge, where 
in 1646 he pubhshed a volume of verses. He 



had been some time at the bar, when he died, in 
his twenty-ninth year. 



THK MORNING STAR. 
Still Herald of the Morn ! whose ray, 
Being page and usher to the day, 
Doth mourn behind the sun, before him play ; 
Who sett'st a golden signal ere 
The bark retire, and lark appear. 
The early cocks cry comfort, screech-owls fear. 

Who wink'st while lovers plight their troth, 
Then falls asleep, while they are loth 



To part without a more engaging oath ; 

Steal in a message to the eyes 

Of Julia, tell her that she lies 

Too long, — thy lord, the Sun, will quickly rise. 

Yet it is midnight still with me, 
Nay worse, unless that kinder she 
Smile day, and in my zenith seated be ! 
But if she will obliquely run, 
I needs a calenture must shun. 
And, like an Ethiopian, hate my sun. 



WILLIAM CHAMBERLAYNE. 

[Born, 1619. Died, Jan. II, 1689.] 



I BELIEVE the only notice of this poet that is 
to be found is in Langbaine, who informs us that 
he was a physician at Shaftesbury, in Dorset- 
shire, in the reigns of Charles I. and II. He 
wrote a single tragi-comedy, " Love's Victory," 
which was acted after the Restoration under the 
new title of " Wits led by the Nose, or the Poet's 
Revenge." His Pharonnida, an heroic poem, in 
five books, which Langbaine says has nothing to 
recommend it, is one of the most interesting 
stories that was ever told in verse, and contained 
so much amusing matter as to be made into a 
prose novel in the reign of Charles II. What 
Dr. Johnson said unjustly of Milton's Comus, that 
it was like gold hid under a rock, may unfortu- 
nately be applied with too much propriety to 
Pharonnida. Never perhaps was so much beau- 
tiful design in poetry marred by infelicity of exe- 
cution ; his ruggedness of versification, abrupt 
transitions, and a style that is at once slovenly 
and quaint, perpetually interrupted in enjoying 
the splendid figures and spirited passions of this 



romantic tablet, and make us catch them only by 
glimpses. I am well aware that from a story so 
closely interwoven a few selected passages, while 
they may be more than sufficient to exemplify 
the faults, are not enough to discover the full 
worth of Chamberlayne. His sketches, already 
imperfect, must appear still more so in the shape of 
fi-agments ; we must peruse the narrative itself to 
appreciate the rich breadth and variety of its 
scenes, and we must perhaps accustom our vision 
to the thick medium of its uncouth style to enjoy 
the power and pathos of his characters and situa- 
tions. Under all the defects of the poem, the 
reader will then indeed feel its unfinished hints 
affect the heart and dilate the imagination. From 
the fate of Chamberlayne a young poet may learn 
one important lesson, that he who neglects the 
subsidiary graces of taste has every chance of 
being neglected by posterity, and that the pride 
of genius must not prompt him to disdain the 
study of harmony and of style. 



PHARONNIDA, BOOK U. CANTO III. 

Argalia being brought before the Princess Pharonnida on 

a false aci-usalion of murder, they fall in luve with each 

other, although the Princess is obliged, with a reluctant 

heart, to condemn him on false evidence. 

High mounted on an ebon throne on which 
Th' embellish'd silver show'd so sadly rich 
As if its varied form strove to delight 
Those solemn souls which death-pale fear did fright, 
In Tyrian purple clad, the princess sate. 
Between two sterner ministers of fate. 
Impartial judges, whose distinguish'd tasks 
Their various habit to the view unmasks. 
One, in whose looks, as pity strove to draw 
Compassion in the tablets of the law, 



Some softness dwelt, in a majestic vest 
Of state-like red was clothed ; the other, dress'd 
In dismal black, whose terrible aspect 
Declared his office, served but to detect 
Her slow consent, if, when the first forsook 
The cause, the law so far as death did look. 
Silence proclaim'd, a harsh command calls forth 
Th' undaunted prisoner, whose excelling worth 
In this low ebb of fortune did appear 
Such as we fancy virtues that come near 
The excellence of angels — fear had not 
Rifled one drop of blood, nor rage begot 
More colour in his cheeks — his soul in state. 
Throned in the medium, constant virtue sat. . . . 
w2 257 



258 



WILLIAM CHAMBERLAYNE. 



Yet, though now depress'd 
Even in opinion, which oft proves the best 
Support to those whose puhUc virtues we 
Adore before their private guilt we see, 
His noble soul still wings itself above 
Passion's dark fogs ; and like that prosperous dove 
The world's first pilot, for discovery sent. 
When all the floods that bound the firmament 
O'erwhelm'd the earth, conscience' calm joys to 

increase. 
Returns, fi-eight with the olive branch of peace. 
Thus fortified from all that tyrant fear 
O'erawed the guilty with, he doth appear. 

*. Not all 

His virtues now protect him, he must fall 
A guiltless sacrifice, to expiate 
No other crime but their envom'd hate. 
An ominous silence — such as oft precedes 
The fatal sentence — while the accuser reads 
His charge, possess'd the pitying court in which 
Presaging calm Pharonnida, too rich 
In mercy, heaven's supreme prerogative, 
To stifle tears, did with her passion strive 
So long, that what at first assaulted in 
Sorrow's black armour, had so often been 
For pity cherish'd, that at length her eyes 
Found there those spirits that did sympathize 
With those that warm'd her blood,and unseen,raove 
That engine of the world, mysterious love. . . . 
The beauteous princess, whose fi-ee soul had been 
Yet guarded in her virgin ice, and now 
A stranger is to what she doth allow 
Such easy entrance. By those rays that fall 
From either's eyes, to make reciprocal 
Their yielding passions, brave Argalia felt. 
Even in the grasp of death, his functions melt 
To flames, which on his heart an onset make 
For sadness, such as weary mortals take 
Eternal farewells in. Yet in this high 
Tide of his blood, in a soft calm to die, 
His yielding spirits now prepare to meet 
Death, clothed in thoughts white as his winding- 
sheet. 
That fatal doom, which unto heaven affords 
The sole appeal, one of the assisting lords 
Had now pronounced whose horrid thunder could 
Not strike his laurell'd brow; that voice which would 
Have petrified a timorous soul, he hears 
With calm attention. , No disorder'd fears 
Ruflled his fancy, nor domestic war 
Raged in his breast ; his every look so far 
From vulgar passions, that, unless, amazed 
At beauty's majesty he sometime gazed 
Wildly on that as emblems of more great 
Glories than earth afforded, from the seat 
Of resolution his fix'd soul had not 
Been stirr'd to passion, which had now begot 
Wonder, not fear, within him. No harsh frown 
Contracts his brow ; nor did his thoughts pull down 
One fainting spirit, wrapt in smother'd groans. 
To clog his heart. From her most eminent thrones 
Of sense, the eyes, the lightning of his soul 
Flew with such vigour forth, it did control 
All weaker passions, and at once include 
Witu Roman valour Christian fortitude. 



BOOK III. CANTO II. 

The father of Pharonnida, having discoTered her attach- 
ment to Argalia, breaks into rage and thus threatens 
her. 

Silent with passion, which his eyes inflamed. 
The prince awhile beholds her ere he blamed 
The frailty of affection ; but at length. 
Through the quick throng of thoughts, arm'd with 

a strength. 
Which crush'J the soft paternal smiles of love. 
He thus begins — " And must, O must that prove 
My greatest curse on which my hopes ordain'd 
To raise my happiness 1 Have I refrain'd 
The pleasures of a nuptial bed, to joy 
Alone in thee, nor trembled to destroy 
My name, so that advancing thine I might 
Live to behold my sceptre take its flight 
To a more spacious empire 1 Have I spent 
My youth till, grown in debt to age, she hath sent 
Diseases to arrest me that impair 
My strength and hopes e'er to enjoy an heir, 
Which might preserve our name, which only now 
Must in our dusty annals live ; whilst thou 
Transfer'st the glory of our house on one. 
Which had not I warm'd into life, had gone, 
A wretch forgotten of the world, to th' earth 
From whence he sprung 1 But tear this monstrous 

birth 
Of fancy from thy soul, quick as thou'dst fly 
Descending wrath if visible, or I 
Shall blast thee with my anger till thy name 
Rot in my memory ; not as the same 
That once thou wert behold thee, but as some 
Dire prodigy, which to foreshow should come 
All ills which through the progress of my life 
Did chance were sent. I lost a queen and wife, 
Thy virtuous mother, who for goodness might 
Have here supplied, before she took her flight 
To heaven, my better angel's place ; have since 
Stood storms of strong affliction ; still a prince 
Over my passions until now, but this 
Hath proved me coward. Oh ! thou dost amiss 
To grieve me thus, fond girl." — With that he 

shook 
His reverend head ; beholds her with a look 
Composed of grief and anger, which she sees 
With melting sorrow : but resolved love frees 
Her from more yielding pity — 

She falls 
Prostrate at's feet ; to his remembrance calls 
Her dying mother's will, by whose pale dust 
She now conjures him not to be unjust ' 
Unto that promise, with which her pure soul 
Fled satisfied from earth — as to control 
Her freedom of affection. — 

She then 
Calls to remembrance who relieved him when 
Distress'd within Aleythius' walls; the love 
His subjects bore Argalia, which might prove 
Her choice, her happiness ; with all, how great 
A likelihood, it was but the retreat 
Of royalty to a more safe disguise 
Had show'd him to their state's deluded eyes 
So mean a thing. Love's boundless rhetoric 
About to dictate more, h*-, with a quick 



WILLIAM CHAMBERLAYNE. 



25a 



And furious haste, forsakes the room, his rage 
Thus boiling o'er — " And must my wretched age 
Be thus by thee tormented ] but take heed, 
Correct thy passions, or their cause must bleed, 
Until he quench the flame — " 

Her soul, opprcss'd, 

Sinks in a pale swoon, catching at the rest 

It must not yet enjoy ; swift help lends light, 

Though faint and glimmering, to behold what night 

Of grief o'ershadow'd her. You that have been 

Upon the rack of passion, tortured in 

The engines of forbidden love, that have 

Shed fruitless tears, spent hopeless sighs, to crave 

A rigid parent's fair aspect, conceive 

What wild distraction seized her. I must leave 

Her passions' volume oidy to be read 

Within the breasts of such whose hearts have bled 

At the like dangerous wounds. 



BOOK III. CANTO III. 
Through the dark path of dusty annals we. 
Led by his valour's light, return to see 
Argalia's story, who hath, since that night 
Wherein he took that strange distracted flight 
From treacherous Ardenna, perform'd a course 
So full of threat'ning dangers, that the force 
Of his protecting angel trembled to 
Support his fate, which crack'd the slender clew 
Of destiny almost to death : his stars. 
Doubting their influence when such horrid wars 
The gods proclaim'd, withdrew their languish'd 

beams 
Beneath heaven's spangled arch ; in pitchy streams 
The heavy clouds unlade their wombs, until 
The angry winds, fearing the floods should fill 
The air, the region where they ruled, did break 
'J'heir marble lodgings; Nature's self grew weak 
With these distemperatures, and seem'd to draw 
Tow'rd dissolution — her neglected law 
Each element forgot. The imprison'd flame, 
When the clouds' stock of moisture could not tame 
Its violence, in sulp'hury flashes broke 
Thorough the glaring air ; the swoln clouds spoke 
In the loud voice of thunder ; the sea raves 
And foams with anger, hurls his troubled waves 
High as the moon's dull orb, whose waning light 
Witlidrew to add more terror to the night. 



ARGALIA TAKEN PRISONER BY THE TURKS. 

The Turks had ought 

Made desperate onslaughts on the isle, but brought 

JN'ought back but wounds and inliimy ; but now, 

Wearied with toil, they 'are resolved to bow 

Their stubborn resolutions with the strength 

Of not-to-be-resisted want: the length 

Of the chronical disease extended had 

To some few months, since to oppress the sad 

But constant islanders, the army lay. 

Circling their confines. Whilst this tedious stay 

'^rom battle rusts the soldier's valour in 

His tainted cabin, there had often been. 

With all variety of fortune, fought 

Brave single combats, whose success had brought 



Honour's unwither'd laurels on the brow 
Of either party ; but the balance, now 
Forced by the hand of a brave Turk, inclined 
Wholly to them. Thrice had his valour shined 
In victory's refulgent rays, thrice heard 
The shouts of conquest; thrice on his lance appear'd 
The heads of noble Rhodians, which had struck 
A general sorrow 'mongst the knights. All look 
Who next the lists should enter ; each desires 
The task were his, but honour now requires 
A spirit more than vulgar, or she dies 
The next attempt, their valour's sacrifice ; 
To prop whose ruins, choseji by the free 
Consent of all, Argalia comes to be 
Their happy champion. Truce proclaim'd, until 
The combat ends, th' expecting people fill 
The spacious battlements ; the Turks forsake 
Their tents, of whom the city ladies take 
A dreadful view, till a more noble sight 
Diverts their looks ; each part behold their knight 
With various wishes, whilst in blood and sweat 
They toil for victory. The conflict's heat 
Raged in their veins, which honour more inflamed 
Than burning calentures could do ; both blamed 
The feeble influence of their stars, that gave 
No speedier conquest ; each neglects to save 
Himself, to seek advantage to offend 

His eager foe 

But now so long 

The Turks' proud champion had endured the strong 
Assaults of the stout Christian, till his strength 
Cool'd, on the ground, with his blood — he fell at 

length. 
Beneath his conquering sword. The barbarous crew 
O' the villains that did at a distance view 
Their champion's fall, -all bands of truce forgot, 
Running to succour him, begin a hot 
And desperate combat with those knights that stand 
To aid Argalia, by whose conquering hand 
Whole squadrons of them fall, but here he spent 
His mighty spirit in vain, their cannons rent 

His scatter'd troops 

Argalia lies in chains, ordain'd to die 

A sacrifice unto the cruelty 

Of the fierce bashaw, whose loved favourite in 

The combat late he slew ; yet had not been 

In that so much unhappy, had not he. 

That honour'd then his sword with victory, 

Half-brother to Janusa been, a bright 

But cruel lady, whose refined delight 

Her slave (though husband) Ammurat, durst not 

Ruffle with discontent ; wherefore, to cool that hot 

Contention of her blood, which he foresaw 

That heavy news would from her anger draw, 

To quench with the brave Christian's death, h«; 

sent 
Him living to her, that her anger, spent 
In flaming torments, might not settle in 
The dregs of discontent. Staying to win 
Some Rhodian castles, all the prisoners were 
Sent with a guard into Sardinia, there 
To meet their wretched thraldom. From the re^' 
Argalia sever'd, soon hopes to be blest 
With speedy death, though waited on by all 
1 The hell-instructed torments that could fall 



26U 



WILLIAM CflAMBERLAYNE. 



Within invention's reach ; but he's not yet 

Arrived to his period, his unmoved stars sit 

Thus in their orbs sec;red. It was the use 

Of th' Turliish pride, which triumphs in th' abuse 

Of suffering Christians, once, before they take 

The ornaments of nature off, to make 

Their prisoners pubhc to the view, that all 

Might mock their miseries: tliis sight did call 

Janusa to her palace-window, where, 

Whilst she beholds them, love resolved to bear 

Her ruin on her treacherous eye-beams, till 

Her heart infected grew ; their orbs did fill. 

As the most pleasing object, with the sight 

Of him whose sword open'd a way for the flight 

Of her loved brother's soul. At the first view 

Passion had struck her dumb, but when it grew 

Into desire, she speedily did send 

To have his name — which known, hate did defend 

H er heart ; besieged with love,she sighs,and straight 

Commands him to a dungeon ; but love's bait 

Cannot be so cast up, though to efface 

Her image from her soul she strives. The place 

For execution she commands to be 

'Gainst the next day prepared ; but rest and she 

Grow enemies about it: if she steal 

A slumber from her thoughts, that doth reveal 

Her passions in a dream, sometimes she thought 

She saw her brother's pale grim ghost, that brought 

His grisly wounds to show her, smear'd in blood, 

Standing before her sight ; and by that flood 

Those red streams wept, imploring vengeance, then. 

Enraged, she cries, " O, let him die !" But when 

Her sleep-imprison'd fancy, wandering in 

The shades of darken'd reasort, did begin 

To draw Argalia's image on her soul. 

Love's sovereign power did suddenly control 

The strength of those abortive embryos, sprung 

From smother'd anger. The glad birds had sung 

A lullaby to night, the lark was fled. 

On dropping wings, up from his dewy bed, 

To fan them in the rising sunbeams, ere 

Whose early reign Janusa, that could bear 

No longer lock'd within her breast so great 

An army of rebellious passions, beat 

From reason's conquer'd fortress, did unfold 

Her thoughts to Manto, a stout wench ; whose bold 

Wil, join'd with zeal to serve her, had endear'd 

Her to her best aflections. Having clear'd 

All doubts with hopeful promises, her maid, 

]iy whose close wiles this })lot must be convey'd. 

To secret action of her council makes 

Two eunuch pandars, by whose help she takes 

Argalia from his keeper's charge, as to 

Sutler more torments than the rest should do, 

And lodged him in that castle to affright 

And soften his great soul with fear. The light, 

Which lent its beams into the dismal place 

[n which he lay, without presents the face 

Of horror smear'd in blood ; a scaffold built 

'I'o be the stage of murder, blush'd with guilt 

Of Christian blood, by several torments let 

From th' imprisoning veins. This object set 

'J'o startle his resolves if good, and make 

His future joys more welcome, could not shake 

'I'he heaven-built pillars of his soul, that stood 



Steady, though in the slippery paths of blood. 
The gloomy night now sat enthroned in dead 
And silent shadows, midnight curtains spread 
The earth in black for what the falling day 
Had blush'd in fire, whilst the brave pris'ner lay, 
Circled in darkness, yet in those shades spends 
The hours with angels, whose assistance lends 

Strength to the wings of faith 

He beholds 
A glimmering light, whose near approach unfolds 
The leaves of darkness. While his wonder grows 
Big with amazement, the dim taper shows 
False Manto enter'd, who, prepared to be 
A bawd unto her lustful mistress, came, 
Not with persuasive rhetoric to inflame 

A heart congeal'd with death's approach 

Most blest of men ! 
Compose thy wonder, and let only joy 
Dwell in thy soul. My coming's to destroy, 
Not nurse thy trembling fears: be but so wise 
To follow thy swif\ fate, and thou niayst rise 
Above the reach of danger. In thy arms 
Circle that power whose radiant brightness charms 
Fierce Ammurat's anger, when liis crescents shine 
In a full orb of forces ; what was thine 
Ere made a prisoner, though the doubtful state 
Of her best Christian monarch, will abate 
Its splendour, when that daughter of the night, 
Thy feeble star, shines in a heaven of light. 
If life or liberty, then, bear a shape 
Worthy thy courting, swear not to escape 
By the attempts of strength, and I will free 
The iron bonds of thy captivity. 
A solemn oath, by that great power he served, 
Took, and believed : his hopes no longer starved 
In expectation. From that swarthy seat 
Of sad despair, his narrow jail, replete 
With lazy damps, she leads him to a room 
In whose delights joy's summer seem'd to bloom 
There left him to the brisk society 
Of costly baths and Corsic wines, whose high 
And sprightly tempers from cool sherbets found 
A calm ally ; here his harsh thoughts unwound 
Themselves in pleasure, as not fearing fate 
So much, but that he dares to recreate 
His spirit, by unwieldy action tired, 
With all that lust into no crime had fired. 
By mutes, those silent ministers of sin, 
His sullied garments were removed, and in 
'i'heir place such various habits laid, as pride 

Would clothe her favourites with 

Unruflled here by the rash wearer, rests 

Fair Persian mantles, rich Sclavonian vests. . . . 

'i'hough on this swifl variety of fate 

He looks with wonder, yet his brave soul sate 

Too safe within her guards of reason, to 

Be shook with passion; that there's something 

new 
And strange approaching afler such a storm. 

This gentle calm assures him 

His limbs from wounds but late recover'd, now 
Refresh'd with liquid odours, did allow 
Their suppled nerves no softer rest, but in 
Such robes as wore their ornament within, 
Veil'd o'er their beauty 



WILLIAM CHAMBERLAYNE. 



2^1 



His guilty conduct now had brought him near 
Janusa's room, the glaring lights appear 
Thorough the window's crystal walls, the strong 
Perfumes of balmy incense mix'd among 
The wandering atoms of the air did fly. 

The open doors allow 

A free access into the room, where come, 
Such real Ibrnis he saw as would strike dumb 
The Alcoran's tales of Paradise, the fair 
And sparklmg gems i' the gilded roof impair 
Their taper's tire, yet both themselves confess 
Weak to those flames Janusa's eyes possess 
With such a joy as bodies that do long 
For souls, shall meet them in the doomsday throng, 
She that ruled princes, though not passions, sate 
Waiting her lover, on a throne whose state 
Epitomized the empire's wealth ; her robe, 
With costly pride, had robb'd the chequer'd globe 
Of its most fair and orient jewels, to 
Enhance its value ; captive princes who 
Had lost their crowns, might there those gems 

have seen 

Placed in a seat near her bright throne, to stir 

His settled thoughts she thus begins : " From her 

Your sword hath so much injured as to shed 

Blood so near kin to mine, that it was fed 

By the same milky fountains, and within 

One womb warm'd into life, is such a sin 

I could not pardon, did not love commit 

A rape upon my mercy : all the wit 

Of man in vain inventions had been lost. 

Ere thou redeem'd ; which now, although it cost 

The price of all my honours, I will do : 

Be but so full of gratitude as to 

Repay my care with love. Why dost thou thus 

Sit dumb to my discourse ? it lies in us 

To raise or ruin thee, and make my way 

Thorough their bloods that our embraces stay." . . . 

To charm those sullen spirits that within 

The dark cells of his conscience might have been 

Yet by religion hid — that gift divine, 

The soul's composure, music, did refine 

The lazy air, whose polish'd harmony, 

Whilst dancing in redoubled echoes, by 

A wanton song was answer'd, whose each part 

Invites the hearing to betray the heart. 

Having with all these choice flowers strevv'd the way 

That leads to lust, to shun the slow decay 

Of his approach, her sickly passions haste 

To die in action. " Come," she cries, " we waste 

"I'he precious minutes. >iow thou know'st lor what 

1'hou'rt sent for hither." 

Brave Argalia sits, 

W^ith virtue cool'd And must my freedom then 

At such a rate be purchased ] rather, when 
My life expires in torments, let my name 
Forgotten die, than live in black-mouth'd fame, 
A servant to thy lust. Go, tempt thy own 
Damn'd infidels to sin, that ne'er had known 
The way to virtue : not this cobweb veil 
3f beauty, which thou wear'st but as a jail 
To a soul pale with guilt, can cover o'er 

Thy mind's deformity 

Kent from these gdded pleasures, send me to 
A dungeon dark as hell, where shadows do 



Reign in eternal silence ; let these rich 

And costly robes, the gaudy trappings which 

Thou mean'st to clothe my s n in, be exchanged 

For sordid rags. When thy fierce spleen hath ranged 

Througli all invented torments, choose the worst 

To punish my denial ; less accurst 

I so shall perish, than if by consent 

I taught thy guilty thoughts how to augment 

Their sin in action, and, by giving ease 

To thy blood's lever, took its loath'd disease. 

Her look, 

Cast like a felon's 

Was sad; with silent grief the room she leaves. 



BOOK III. CANTO IV. 
OuE noble captive, to fair virtue's throne 
In saf(3ty past, though through lust's burning zone. 
Finds in his dungeon's lazy damps a rest 
More sweet, though with the heavy weights 

oppress'd 
Of iron bondage, than if they had been 
Love's amorous wreaths. 

But she breathes curses in 

Her soul's pale agony. ..... And now she steeps 

Her down in tears — a flood of sorrow weeps, 
Of power (if penitent) to expiate 
Youth's vigorous sins ; but all her mourning sate 
Beneath a darker veil than that which shades 
Repentant grief. .... 

So far the fair Janusa in this sad 
Region of grief had gone, till sorrow had 
That fever turn'd, upon whose flaming wings 
At flrst love only sate, to one which brings 
Death's symptoms near the heart. 

The rose had lost 

His ensigns in her cheeks, and though it cost 
Pains near to death, the lily had alone 
Set his pale banners up ; no brightness shone 
Within her eye's dim orbs, whose fading light 
Being quench'd in death, had set in endless night. 
Had not the wise endeavours of her maid. 
The careful Manto, grief's pale scouts betray'd, 
By sly deceit. 

Although she cures not, yet gives present ease. 
By laying opiates to the harsh disease. 
A letter, which did for uncivil blame 
His flrst denial, in the stranger's name 
Disguised, she gives her ; which, with eyes that did 
O'erflow with joy read o'er, had soon forbid 
Grief's sullen progress, whose next stage had been 
O'er life's short road, the grave — death's quiet inn. 
From whose dark terror, by this gleam of light, 
Like trembling children by a lamp's weak light. 
Freed from night's dreadful shadows, she embraced 
Sleep, nature's darkness — . . . and upon the wing." 
Of airy hope, that wanton bird which sings 
As soon as fledged, advanced her to survey 

The dawning beauties of a loiig'd-lbr day 

But ere this pyramid of pleasure to 
Its height arrives — with's presence to undo 
The golden structure — dreadful Ammurat, 
From his floating mansion lately landed at 
The city's port, impatient love had brought 
In an untimely visit 



202 



WILLIAM CHAMBERLAYNE. 



tie enters, uiid she faints ! in which pale trance 
His pity finils her, but to no such chance 
Imputes the cause : rather conceives it joy. 
Whose rushing torrent made her heart employ 
Its nimble servants, all her spirits, to 
Prevent a deluge, which might else undo 
Love's new made commonwealth. But whilst 

his care 
Hastens to help, her fortune did declare 
Her sorrow's dark enigma; from her bed 
The letter dropt — which, when life's army fled. 
Their frontier garrisons neglected, had 
Been left within't — this seen, declares a sad 
'I'ruth to th' amazed Bassa, though 'twere mix'd 
With subtle falsehood. While he stands, betwixt 
High rage and grief distracted, doubtful yet 
In what new dress to wear revenge, the fit 
Forsakes Janusa; who, not knowing she 
Detected stood of lust's conspiracy 
'Gainst honour's royal charter, from a low 
Voice strains a welcome, which did seem to flow 
From fickle discontent, such as the weak 
Lungs breathe their thoughts in whilst their fibres 
break. 
To counterfeited slumbers leaving her, 
He's gone with silent anger to confer ; 
With such a farewell as kind husbands leave 
Their pregnant wives, preparing to receive 
A mother's first of blessings, he forsakes 
The room, and into strict inquiry takes 
The wretched Manto, who, ere she could call 
Excuse to aid, surprised, discovers all. 



The captive Argalia is as;ain brought before Janusa, who 
is unconscicius ttiat the Bassa had read the letter. Am- 
murat, in the meau time, is coucealeU, to watch the 
iulerview. 

Placed, by false Manto, in a closet, which, 
Silent and sad, had only to enrich 
Its roof with light, some few neglected beams 
Sent from Janusa's room, which serve as streams 
To watch intelligence ; here he beheld. 
Whilst she who with his absence had expell'd 
All thoughtful cares, was with her joy swell'dhigh, 
As captives are when call'd to liberty. 
Perfumed and costly, her fair bed was more 
Adorn'd than shrines which costly kings adore ; 
Incense, in smoky curls, climbs to the fair 
Roof, whilst choice music rarifies the air ; 
Each element in more perfection here, 
Than in the first creation did appear. 
Yet lived in harmony : the wing'd fire lent 
Perfumes to the air, that to moist cordials pent 
In crystal vials, strength ; and those impart 
Their vigour to that ball of earth, the heart. 
The nice eye here epitomized might see 
Rich Persia's wealth, and old Rome's luxury. 

But now, like Nature's new-made favourite, 
Wlio, until all created for delight 
W as framed, did ne'er see Paradise, comes in 
Deceived Argalia, thinking he had been 

dall'd thither to behold a penitent 

With such a high 
Heioic scorn as aged saints that die, [slights 

Heaven's fav'rites, leave the trivial world — he 



That gilded pomp ; no splendent beam invites 
His serious eye to meet their objects in 
An amorous glance, reserved as he had been 
Before his grave confessor : he beholds 
Beauty's bright magic, while its art unfolds 
Great love's mysterious riddles, and commands 
Captive Janusa to infringe the bands 
Of matrimonial modesty. When all 
Temptation fails, she leaves her throne to fall. 
The scorn of greatness, at his feet : but prayer, 
Like flattery, expires in useless air. 
Too weak to batter that firm confidence 
Their torment's thunder could not shake. From 

hence 
Despair, love's tyrant, had enforced her to 
More wild attempts, had not her Ammurat, who, 
Unseen, beheld all this, prevented, by 
His sight, the death of bleeding modesty. 

Made swift with rage, the rufiled curtain flies 
His angry touch — he enters — fix'd his eyes, 
From whence some drops of rage distil, on her 
Whose heart had lent her face its character. 
Whilst he stood red with flaming anger, she 
Looks pale with fear — passion's disparity 
Dwelt in their troubled breasts ; his wild eyes stood 
Like comets, when attracting storms of blood 
Shook with portents sad, the whilst hers sate 
Like the dull earth, when trembling at the fate 
Of those ensuing evils — heavy fix'd 
Within their orbs. Passions thus strangely mix'd, 
No various fever e'er created in [been 

The phrenzied brain, when sleep's sweet calm had 

From her soft throne deposed 

So having paused, his dreadful voice thus broke 

The dismal silence. 

Thou curse of my nativity, that more 

AflTects me than eternal wrath can do — 

Spirits condemn'd, some fiends, instruct me to 

Heighten revenge to thy desert; but so 

I should do more than mortals may, and throw 

Thy spotted soul to flames. Yet I will give 

Its passport hence ; for think not to outlive 

This hour, this fatal hour, ordain'd to see 

More than an age before of tragedy 

Fearing tears should win 
The victory of anger, Ammurat draws 
His scimitar, which had in blood writ laws 
For conquer'd provinces, and with a swift 
And cruel rage, ere penitence could lift 
Her burden'd soul in a repentant thought 
Tow'rds heaven, sheathes the cold steel in her soft 
And snowy breast : with a loud groan she falls 
Upon the bloody floor, half breatliless, calls 
For bis untimely pity : but perceiving 
The fleeting spirits, with her blood, were leaving 
Her heart unguarded, she implores that breath 
Which yet remain'd, not to bewail her death, 
But beg his life that caused it — on her knees. 
Struggling to rise. But now calm'd Ammurat frees 
Her from disturbing death, in his last great work 
And thus declares some virtue in a Turk. 

I have, brave Christian, by perusing thee 
In this great art of honour learnt to be. 
Too late, thy follower : this ring (with that 
I Gives him his signet) shall, when question'd at 



RICHARD LOVELACE. ' 263 


The castle guards, thy safety be. And now 
I see her Wood's low water doth allow 
Me only time to launch my soul's black bark 
Into death's rubric sea — for to the dark 
And silent region, though we here were by 
Passion divorced, fortune shall not deny 
Our souls to sail together. From thy eyes 
Remove death's load, and see what sacrifice 
My love is offering. With that word, a stroke 
Pierces his breast, whose speedy pains invoke 
Death's opiates to appease them : he sinks down 
By 's dying wife, who, ere the cold flood drown 
Life in the deluge of her wounds, once more 
Betrays her eyes to the light ; and though they wore 
The weight of death upon their lids, did keep 
Them so long open, till the icy sleep 
Began to seize on him, and then she cries — 
see, just heaven ! see, see my Ammurat dies, 
To wander with me in the unknown shade 
Of immortality — But I have made 


The wounds that murther'd both; his hand that gave 

Mine, did but gently let me blood to save 

An everlasting fever. Pardon me. 

My dear, my dying lord. Eternity 

Shall see my soul white-wash'd in tears ; but oh 

I now feel time's dear want — they will not flow 

Fast as my stream of blood. Christian, farewell 

Whene'er thou dost our tragic story tell. 

Do not extenuate my crimes, but let 

Them in their own black characters be set. 

Near Ammurat's bright virtues, that, read by 

Th' unpractised lover, which posterity. 

Whilst wanton winds play with our dust, shall raise 

On beauties; that the good may justice praise 

By his example, and the bad by mine 

From vice's throne be scared to virtue's shrine. 

This 


She cries, is our last interview — a kiss 

Then joins their bloodless lips — each close the eyes 

Of the other, whilst the parting spirit flies. 


RICHARD 

[Dora, 1618 

This gallant, unfortunate man, who was much 
distinguished for the beauty of his person, was 
the son of Sir William Lovelace, of Woolwich, 
in Kent. After taking a master's degree at Cam- 
bridge, he was for some time an officer in the army ; 
but returned to his native country after the paci- 
fication of Berwick, and took possession of his 
paternal estate, worth about 500/. per annum. 
About the same time he was deputed by the 
county of Kent to deliver their petition to the 
House of Commons, for restoring the king to 
his rights, and settling the government. This 
petition gave such offence that he was committed 
to the Gate-house prison, and only released on 
finding bail to an enormous amount not to pass 
beyond the lines of communication. During his 


LOVELACE. 

Died, 1658.] 

confinement to London his fortune was wasted u 
support of the royal cause. In 1646 he formed 
a regiment for the service of the French king, 
was colonel of it, and was wounded at Dunkirk. 
On this occasion his mistress, Lucasta, a Miss 
Lucy Sacheverel, married another, hearing that 
he had died of his wounds. At the end of two 
years he returned to England, and was again im- 
prisoned till after the death of Charles I. He 
was then at liberty ; but, according to Wood, was 
left in the most destitute circumstances, his estate 
being gone. He, who had been the favourite of 
courts, is represented as having lodged in the most 
obscure recesses of poverty,* and died in great 
misery in a lodging near Shoe-lane. 


A LOOSE SARABAND. 
Ah me, the little tyrant thief 

As once my heart was playing, 
He snatch'd it up, and flew away. 

Laughing at all my praying. 
Proud of his purchase, he surveys, 

And curiously sounds it; 
And though he sees it full of wounds, ^ 

Cruel still on he wounds it. 
And now this heart is all his sport, 

Which as a ball he boundeth. 
From hand to hand, from breast to lip, 

And all its rest confoundeth. 
Then as a top he sets it up. 

And pitifully whips it ; 
Sometimes he clothes it gay and fine, 

Then straight again he strips it. 
He cover'd it with false belief, 

Which gloriously show'd it ; 
And for a morning cushionet 

On 's mother he bestow'd it. 


Each day with her small brazen stings 
A thousand times she raced it ; 

But then at night, bright with her gems. 
Once near her breast she placed it. 

Then warm it 'gan to throb and bleed. 
She knew that smart and grieved ; 

At length this poor condemned heart, 
With these rich drugs reprieved. 

She wash'd the wound with a fresh tear. 

Which my Lucasta dropped ; 
And in the sleeve silk of her hair 

'Twas hard bound up and wrapped. 

She probed it with her constancy. 
And found no rancour nigh it; 

Only the anger of her eye 

Had wrought some proud flesh nigh it- 

* The compiler of the Biographia Dramatica remarks 
that Wood must have exagKerat»d LoTelaoe's poverty, 
for hisdau){hter and sole heir married the son of Lord 
Chief Justice Coke, and brought to her husband the estataa 
of her father at Kiug's-dowu in Kent. 



264 



RICHARD LOVELACE. 



Then press'd she hard in e^ery vein, 
Which from her kisses thrill'd, 

And with the balm heal'd all its pain 
That from her hand distill d. 

But yet this heart avoids me still, 
Will not by me be owned ; 

But, fled to its physician's breast. 
There proudly sits enthroned. 



SONG. 
Amakantha, sweet and fair, 
Forbear to braid that shining hair: 
As my curious hand or eye, 
Hovering round thee, let it fly : 

Let it fly as unconfined 
As its ravisher the wind. 
Who has left his darling east 
To wanton o'er this spicy nest. 

Every tress must be confess'd 
But neatly tangled at the best, 
Like a clew of golden thread 
Most excellently ravelled : 

Do not then wind up that light 

In ribands, and o'erdoud the night ; 

Like the sun in his early ray. 

But shake your head and scatter day. 



TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON. 

When Love, with unconfined wings, 

Hovers within my gates, 
And my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at my grates ; 
When I lie tangled in her hair. 

And fetter'd to her eye, — 
The birds, that wanton in the air 

Know no such liberty. 

When flowing cups run swiftly round 

With no allaying Thames, 
Our careless head with roses bound. 

Our hearts with loyal flames ; 
When thirsty grief in wine we steep. 

When healths and draughts go free,- 
Fishes, that tipple in the deep. 

Know no such liberty. 

When, like committed linnets, I 

With shriller throat shall sing 
The sweetness, mercy, majesty, 

And glories of my King;* 
When I shall voice aloud how good 

He is, how great should be, — 
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, 

Know no such liberty. 



[* Charles I., in whose cavise Lovelace was then in 
prison. — C] 



Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage. 
If I have freedom in my love. 

And in my soul am free, — 
Angels alone, that soar above, 

Enjoy such liberty. 



THE SCRUTINY. 
Why should you swear I am forsworn 1 

Since thine I vow'd to be ; 
Lady, it is already morn. 

And 'twas last night I swore to thee 

That fond impossibility. 

Have I not loved thee much and long, 
A tedious twelve hours' space 1 

I must all other beauties wrong, 
And rob thee of a new embrace. 
Could I still dote upon thy face. 

Not but all joy in thy brown hair. 
By others may be found ; 

But I must search the black and fair. 
Like skilful minerahsts that sound 
For treasure in unplough'd-up ground. 

Then, if when I have loved my round. 
Thou provest the pleasant she ; 

Witlj spoils of meaner beauties crown'd 
I laden will return to thee, 
Ev'n sated with variety. 



TO LUCASTA.-GOING TO THE WARS. 
Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind. 

That from the nunnery 
Of thy chaste breast, and quiet mind 

To war and arms I fly. 

True ; a new mistress now I chase. 

The first foe in the field ; 
And with a stronger faith embrace 

A sword, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this imjonstancy is such 

As you too shall adore ; 
I could not love thee, dear, so much, 

Loved I not honour more. 



TO SIR PETER LELY, ON HIS PICTURE OF 
CHARLES I. 

See ! what an humble bravery doth shine 
And grief triumphant breaking through each line. 
How it commands the face ! so sweet a scorn 
Never did happy misery adorn ! 
So sacred a contempt ! that others show 
To this (o' th' height of all the wheel) below 
That mightiest monarchs by this shaded book 
May copy out their proudest, richest look. . . 
Thou sorrow canst design without a teat 
And, with the man, his very hope or fear. . . 



KATHERINE PHILIPS. 



[Born, 1631. Died, 1664.] 

Mrs. Katherine Philips, wife of James 
Philips, Esq., of the Priory of Cardigan 



Her 
maiden name was Fowler. She died of the 
small-pox, in her thirty-third year. The match- 
less Orinda, as she was called,* cannot be said to 
have been a woman of genius ; but her verses 
betoken an interesting and placid enthusiasm of 
heart, and a cultivated taste, that form a beauti- 



ful specimen of female character. She translated 
two of the tragedies of Corneille, and left a vo- 
lume of letters to Sir Charles Cotterell, which 
were published a considerable time after her 
death. Jeremy Taylor addressed to her his 
'< Measures and Offices of Friendship," and Cow- 
ley, as also Flatman, his imitator, honoured her 
memory with poetical tributes. 



THE INQUIRY. 
If we no old historian's name 

Authentic will admit, 
But think all said of friendship's fame 

But poetry or wit ; 
Yet what's revered by minds so pure 
Must be a bright idea sure. 

But as our immortality 

By inward sense we find, 
Judging that if it could not be. 

It would not be design'd : 
So here how could such copies fall, 
If there were no original 1 

But if truth be in ancient song, 

Or story we believe ; 
If the inspired and greater throng 

Have scorned to deceive ; 
There have been hearts whose friendship gave 
Them thoughts at once both soft and grave. 

Among that consecrated crew 

Some more seraphic shade 
Lend me a favourable clew. 

Now mists my eyes invade. 
Why, having fiU'd the world with fame, 
Left you so little of your flame ] 

Why is't so difficult to see 

Two bodies and one mind 1 
And why are those who else agree 

So difficultly kindl 
Hath nature such fantastic art. 
That she can vary every heart ] 

Why are the bands of friendship tied 

With so remiss a knot, 
That by the most it is defied. 

And by the most forgot? 
Why do we step with so light sense 
From friendship to indifference ? 



[* But thus Orinda died: 

Heaven, by the same disease, did both translate; 
As e^ual were their souls, so equal was their fate. 

Deyd£N, Ode to Mrs. Anne KiUigrew.—C] 



If friendship sympathy impart. 

Why this ill-shuffled game. 
That heart can never meet with heart. 

Or flame encounter flame"? 
What does this cruelty create 1 
Is't the intrigue of love or fate 1 

Had friendship ne'er been known to men, 

(The ghost at last confest) 
The world had then a stranger been 

To all that heaven possest. 
But could i^ all be here acquired. 
Not heaven itself would be desired. 



A FRIEND. 

Love, nature's plot, this great creation's soul. 
The being and the harmony of things. 

Doth still preserve and propagate the whole. 
From whence man's happiness and safety 
springs : 

The earliest, whitest, blessed'st times did draw 

From her alone their universal law. 

Friendship 's an abstract of this noble flame, 
'Tis love refined and purged from ail its dross. 

The next to angel's love, if not the same. 
As strong in passion is, though not so gross : 

It antedates a glad eternity, 

And is an heaven in epitome 

Essential honour must be in a friend. 

Not such as every breath fans to and fro ; 

But born within, is its own judge and end. 
And dares not sin though sure that none should 
know. 

Where friendship 's spoke, honesty 's understood ; 

For none can be a friend that is not good 

Thick waters show no images of things ; 

Friends are each other's mirrors, and should be 
Clearer than crystal or the mountain springs. 

And free from clouds, design or flattery. 
For vulgar souls no part of friendship share ; 
Poets and friends are born to what they are. 



WILLIAM HEMINGE. 



This writer was the son of John Heminge 
the famous player, who was contemporary with 
Shakspeare, and whose name is prefixed, together 
with that of Condeli, to the folio edition of the 



great poet's works. He was bom in 1602, and 
received his education at Oxford. 'I'his is all 
that is mentioned of him by the compilers of the 
Biographia Dramatica. 



FROM "THE FATAL CONTRACT." ACT II. SCENE II. 

ApVielia has boen contracted by mutual vows to Clovis, 
younger brother of the young kinjj of Fiance, Clotair, 
and imagines in ttiis scene that she is to be brought 
into tlie presence of Clovis, instead of whom she is 
brought to Clotair by the treachery of the Kuuuch. 

Enter Aphelia, and the. Eunuch, with a wax-taptr. 
Jlpli. Into what labyrinth do you lead me, sir 1 
What by, perplexed ways? I should much fear, 
Had you not used his name, which is to me 
A strength 'gainst terror, and himself so good, 
Occasion cannot vary, nor the night. 
Youth, nor his wild desire ; otherwise 
A silent sorrow from mine eyes would steal, 
And tell sad stories for me. 

Euii. You are too tender of your honour, lady, 
Too full of aguish trembling ; the noble prince 
Is as December frosty in desire ; 
Save what is lawful, he not owns that heat, 
Which, wereyou snow, would thaw a tear from you. 
^ph. This is the place appointed: pray heavens 
Go well ! [all things 

Eun. I will go call him : please you rest yourself: 
Here lies a book will bear you company 
Till I return, which will be presently. — 

[Aphelia reads the book. 
Hither I'll send the king ; not that I mean [Aside. 
To give him leave to cool his burning lust, 
For Clovis shall prevent him in the fact, 
And thus I shall endear myself to both, 
Clovis, enraged, perhaps will kill the king, 
Or by the king will perish ; if both fall, 
Or either, both ways make for me. 
The queen as rootedly does hate her sons 
As I her ladyship. To see this fray 
She must be brought by me : she'll steel them on 
To one another's damage ; for her sake 
I'll say I set on foot this hopeful brawl. 
Thus on all sides the eunuch will play foul, 
And as his face is black he'll have his soul. 
Jph. (PieiidiTig.) How witty sorrow has found 
out discourse 
Fitting a midnight season : here I see 
One bathed in virgin's tears, whose purity 
Might blanch a black-a-moor, turn nature's stream 
Back on itself; words pure, and of that strain 
Might move the Parcae to be pitiful. 
£nter Clotaib. 
Clot. Methinks I stand like Tarquin in the night 
When he defiled the chastity of Rome, 
Doubtful of what to do ; and like a thief, 
I take each noise to be an officer. 

[S!ie still reads on. 
She nas a ravishing feature, and her mind 
Is of a purer temper than her body : 
2b6 



Her virtues more than beauty ravish'd me, 

And I commit, even with her piety, 

A kind of incest with religion. 

Though I do know it is a deed of death, 

Condemn'd to torments ii\the other world. 

Such tempting sweetness dwells in every limb 

That I must venture 

Jph, Alack, poor maid ! 
Poor ravish'd Philomel ! thy lot was ill 
I'o meet that violence in a brother, which 
I in a stranger doubt not ; yet methinks 
I am too confident, for I feel my heart 
Burden'd with something ominous : these men 
Are things of subtle nature, and their oaths 
Inconstant like themselves. Clovis may prove 

unkind, 
Alack, why not? say he should offer foul, 
The evil counsel of a secret place. 
And night, his friend, might overtempt his will. 
I dare not stand the hazard ; guide me, light. 
To some untrodden place, where poor I may 
Wear out the night with sighs till it be day. 

Clot. I am resolved, I will be bold and resolute : 
Hail, beauteous damsel ! 

Jph. Ha ! VN'hat man art thou. 
That hast thy countenance clouded with thy cloak, 
And hidest thy face from darkness and the night 
If thy intents deserve a muflier too, 
W^ithdraw, and act them not — What art thou 1 

speak, 
And wherefore earnest thou hither ? 

Ctol. 1 came to find one beautiful as thou — . . . . 

^ph. I understand you not. 

Clot. But you must; yea, and the right way too. 

Jph. Help! help! help! 

Clo:. Peace ! none of your loud music, lady : 
If you raise a note, or beat the air with clamour, 
You see your death. [Draws his dagger, 

Jph. What violence is this, inhuman sir .' 
Why do you threaten war, fright my soft peace 
With most ungentle steel ? What have I done 
Dangerous, or am like to do ? Why do you wrack 

me thus ] 
Mine arms are guilty of no crimes, do not torment 

'em ; 
Mine heart and they have been heaved up together 
For mankind that was holy ; if in that act 
They have not pray'd for you, mend, and be holy. 
The fault is none of theirs. 

Ch:. Come, do not seem more holy than you are, 
I know your heart. 

Jlph. Let your dagger too, noble sir, strike home, 
And sacrifice a soul to chastity. 
As pure as is itself, or innocence. 



WILLIAM HEMINGE. 



Clot. This is not the way : knowyou me, beauty ■? 
[DiscouiTS himself. 

Jph. The majesty of France ! 

Clot. Be not afraid. 

Jlph. I dare not fear ; it's treason to suspect 
My king can harbour thoughts that tend to ill : 
I know your godlike good, and have but tried 
How far weak woman durst be virtuous. 

Clo'. Cunning simplxity, thou art deceived ; 
Thy wit as well as beauty wounds me, and thy 

tongue 
In pleading for thee pleads against thyself: 
It is thy virtue moves me, and thy good 
Tempts me to acts of evil ; wert thou bad. 
Or loose in thy desires, I could stand 
And only gaze, not surfeit on thy beauty; 
But as thou art, there's witchcraft in thy face. . . . 

Jljih. You are my king, and may command 
my life. 
My will to sin you cannot ; you may force 
Unhallow'd deeds upon me, spot iny fame, 
And make my body suffer, not my mind. 
When you have done this unreiigious deed, 
Conquer'd a poor weak maid, a trembling maid. 
What trophy, or what triumph will it bring 
More than a living scorn upon your name 1 
The ashes in your urn shall suffer for't. 
Virgins will sow their curses on your grave. 
Time blot your kingly parentage, and call 
Your birth in question.. Do you think 
This deed will lie conceal'd ] the faults kings do 
Shine like the fiery beacons on a hill. 
For all to see, and, seeing, tremble at. 
It's not a single ill which you commit; 
What in the subject is a petty fault 
Monsters your actions, and 's a foul offence : 
You give your subjects license to offend 
When you do teach them how. 

Clot. I will endure no longer : come along, 
Or by the curious spinstry of thy head. 
Which nature's cunningest finger twisted out, 
I'll drag thee to my couch. Tempt not my fury. 

Ctovis. Hold ! — hold, my heart ; can I endure 

this 1 

Monster of men ! 
Thou king of darkness ! down unto thy hell ! 
I have a spell will lay thy honesty, 
And this abused goodness 

EuH. Beat down their swords — what do the 
princes mean 1 
Ring out the 'iarum-bell — call up the court — 



ANOTHER SCENE FROM THE SAME. 

Persons. — Clovis, Clotair, Strephon. Lamot the Physician, 
Eunuch, Aphelia. 

In the sequel of the story, the guards of the king having 
fallnn upon Clovis, he is aipaivntly killed, hut is uever- 
thfless secretly cured of his wounds, and assumr'S a 
disguise. In the mean time, the qm-en mother, anxious 
to get rid of Aphelia, cau.«es one of her own paramours 
to dress in the armour of Prince Clovi.s, ami t" demand, 
in tlie charactir of his ghost, that Aphelia shall be sa- 
crificed upon his hear.*e. Clotair pretends to comply 
with this sacrifioe. and Aphelia is brought out to exe- 
cution; but when all is ready, he takes the sword from 
the headsmnn. lavs it p.t her feet, and declares her his 
queen, CiOvis attends in disguise, and the poet makes 



him behare with rather more composure than we should 
exjiect from his trying s.tuation; but when he Si-es his 
mistress accept the Land of his royal brother, he atlas* 
breaks out. 

Clovis. Where am I T 
Awake ! for ever rather let me sleep. 
Is this a funeral? that I were a hearse, 
And not the mock of what is pageanted.* 

Clotair. Amazement quite confounds me — Clo 
vis alive ! [desin 

Lamct. Yes, sir, by my art he lives, though his 
Was not to have it known ; this chest contains 
Nothing but spices sweetly odoriferous. 

Clotair, Into my soul I welcome thee, dear 
brother.; 
This second birth of thine brings me more joy 
Than had Aphelia brought me forth an heir, 
Whom now you must remember as a sister. 

Clovis. O that in nature there was left an art 
Could teach me to forget I ever loved 
This her great masterpiece ! well-built frame. 
Why dost thou harbour such unhallow'd guests, 
To house within thy bosom perjury"! 
If that our vows are register'd in heaven. 
Why are they broke on earth ] Aphelia, 
This was a hasty match, the subtle air 
Has not yet cool'd the breath with which thou 

sworest 
Thyself into my soul ; and on thy cheeks 
The print and pathway of those tears remain, 
That woo'd me to believe so ; fly me not, 
I am no spirit ; taste my active pulse, 
And you shall find it make such harmony 
As youth and health enjoy. 

Euii. 'J'he queen ! she faints. 

Clovis. Is there a God left so propitious 
To rid me of my fears 1 still let her sleep, 
For if she wake (O king!) she will appear 
Too monstrous a spectre for frail eyes 
To see and keep their senses. 

Lumot. Are you mad ] [were ! 

Clovis. Nothing so happy, Strephon ; would I 
In time's first progress I despair the hour 
That brings such ibrtune with it ; I should then 
Forget that she was ever pleasing to me ; 
I should no more remember she would sit 
And Sing me into dreams of Paradise ; 
Never more hang about her ivory neck, 
Believing such a one Diana's was ; 
Never more doat she breathes Arabia, 
Or kiss her coral lips into a paleness. [gaze, 

Lamot. See, she's return'd, and with majestic 
In pity rather than contempt, beholds you. 

Clovis. Convey me hence, some charitable man, 
Lest this same creature, looking like a saint. 
Hurry my soul to hell ; she is a fiend 
AppareU'd like a woman, sent on earth 
For man's destruction. 

CloLair. Rule your disorder'd tongue ; 
Clovis, what's past we are content to think 
It was our brother spoke, and not our subject. 

Clovis. I had forgot myself, yet well remember 
Yon gorgon has transforin'd me into stone ; 

* .\ hearse, supyiosed to contain the corpse of Clovis, 
forms a part of the pagi-aut here introduced. 



JAMES SHIRLEY. 



And since that time my language has been harsh, 

My words too heavy for my tongue, too earthly ; 

I was not born so, trust me, Aphelia ; 

Before I was possess'd with these black thoughts, 

I could sit by thy side, and rest my head 

Upon the rising pillows of thy breast. 

Whose natural sweetness would invite mine eyes 

To sink in pleasing slumbers, wake, and kiss 

The rose-beds that aflbrded me such bliss ; 

But thou art now a general disease 

That eat'st into my marrow, turn'st my blood. 

And makest my veins run poison, that each sense 

Groans at the alteration. Am I the Monsieur ? 

Docs Clovis talk his sorrows, and not act ] 

man bewomanized ! Wert thou not mine] 

How comes it thou art his? 

Clolair. You have done ill. 
And must be taught so ; you capitulate 
Not with your equal, Clovis, she's thy queen. 

Clovis. Upon my knees I do acknowledge her 
Queen of my thoughts and my affections. 

pardon me, if my ill-tutor'd tongue 
Has forfeited my head ; if not, behold 
Before the sacred altar of thy feet 

1 lie, a willing sacrifice. 

Aphelia. Arise: 
And henceforth, Clovis, thus instruct thy soul; 
There lies a depth in fate which earthly eyes 
May faintly look into, but cannot fathom ; 
You had my vow till death to be your wife, 
You being dead my vows were cancelled. 



And I, as thus you see, begtow'd. 

Clovis. Farewell ; 
I will no more ott'end you : would to God 
These cruel hands, not enough barbarous. 
That made these bleeding witnesses of love, 
Had set an endless period to my life too ! 

Clotair. Where there's no help its bootless to 
complain ; 
Clovis, she's mine : let not your spirit war 
Or mutiny within you ; because I say 't ; 
Nor let thy tongue from henceforth dare presume 
To say she might or ever should be thine; 
What's past once more I pardon, 'tis our wedding- 
day. 

Clovis. A long farewell to love ; thus do I break 
[Breaks, the ring. 
Your broken pledge of faith ; and with this kiss. 
The last that ever Clovis must print here, 
Unkiss the kiss that seal'd it on thy lips. 
Ye powers, ye are unjust, for her wild breath, 
That has the sacred tie of contract broken. 
Is still the same Arabia that it was. 

[Tlie king, Clotair, puUs Mm. 
Nay, I have done : beware of jealousy ! 
I would not have you nourish jealous thoughts; 
Though she has broke her faith to me, to you, 
Against her reputation, she'll be true : 
Farewell my first love lost, I'll choose to have 
No wife till death shall wed me to my grave. 
Come, Strephon, come and teach me how to die, 
That gavest me life so unadvisedly. 



JAMES SHIRLEY. 



[Born, 1596. 

James Shirley was born in London. He was 
educated at Cambriilge,* where he took the de- 
gree of A. M., and had a curacy for some time 
at or near St. Alban's, but embracing popery, 
became a schoolmaster [1623] in that town. 
Leaving this employment, he settled in London 
as a dramatic writer, and between the years 1625 
and 1666 published thirty-nine plays. In the 
civil wars he followed his patron, the Earl of 
Newcastle, to the field ; but on the decline of the 
royal cause, returned to London, and as the 



Died, 1666.} 

theatres were now shut, kept a school in W^hite- 
fiiars, where he educated many eminent charac- 
ters. At the reopening of the theatres he must 
have been too old to have renewed his dramatic 
labours'; and what benefit the Restoration 
brought him as a royalist, we are not informed. 
Both he and his wife died on the same day, im- 
mediately after the great fire of London, by which 
they had been driven out of their house, and pro- 
bably owed their deaths to their losses and terror 
on that occasion-t 



FROM THE TRAGEDY OF "THE CARDINAL." 

Pi:rsons. — The Duchess and her Ladies. 
Valet ia. Sweet madam, be less thoughtful; 
this obedience 
To passion will destroy the noblest frame 
Of beauty that this kingdom ever boasted. 

Celmdu. This sadness might become your 
other habit, 

* He had studied also at Oxford, where Wood pays that 
Laud objected to his takiui^ oidc-rs. on aooouiit of a mole 
on his left iheek, which fjreatly liiffijiured him. This fas- 
tidiousness aliout per.«onal beauty, is certainly beyond the 
Levitical law. [As no mention of Shirley occurs in any 
of the public records of Oxford, the duration of his resi- 
dnnce al St. Joha's College caunot be determiued.— Dyc£S 
Lije, p. v.] 



And ceremonies black for him that died. 
The times of sorrow are expired, and all 
The joys that wait upon the court — your birth. 
And a new Hymen that is coming towards you. 
Invite a change. 

Duvh. Ladies, I thank you both. 
I pray excuse a little melancholy 
That is beh'nd. My year of mourning ha'h not 
So clear'd my account with sorrow, but there may 
Some dark thoughts stay with sad reflections 



[t Shirley was the last of a jrreat race, all of whom spoke 
nearly the same languag-e, and had a .'et of moral feelin^js 
and notions in common. A new langua;;e. and quite a 
new turn of tragic and comic intereBt, came in with the 
Kestorat.on.— L.vMD.] 



JAMES SHIRLEY. 



209 



Upon my heart, for him I lost. Even this 
New dress and smiling garment, meant to show 
A peace concluded 'twixt my grief and me, 
Is but a sad remembrance : but I resolve 
To entertain more pleasing thoughts, and if 
You wish me heartily to smile, you must 
Not mention grief: not in advice to leave it. 
Such counsels open but afresh the wounds 
You would close up, and keep alive the cause 
Whose bleeding you would cure ; let's talk of 

something 
That may delight. You two are read in all 
The histories of our court ; tell me, Valeria, 
Who has thy vote for the most handsome man. 
Thus I must counterfeit a peace, when all [Aside. 
Within me is at mutiny. 

Val. I have examined 
All that are candidates for praise of ladies, 
But find — may I speak boldly to your grace, 
And will you not return it, in your mirth. 
To make me blush 1 

Durh. No, no ; speak freely. 

Val. I will not rack your patience, madam, but 
Were I a princess, I should think Count D'Alvarez 
Had sweetness to deserve me from the world. 

Duch. Alvarez ! she's a spy upon my heart. 

[Aside. 

Val. He's young and active, and composed 
most sweetly. 

Duch. I have seen a face more tempting. 

Val. It had then 
Too much of woman in 't ; his eyes speak movingly. 
Which may excuse his voice, and lead away 
All female pride his captive. His black hair, 
Which naturally falling into curls 

Duch. Prithee no more, thou art in love with him. 
The man in your esteem, Celinda, now. 

Cel. Alvarez is, 1 must confess, a gentleman 
Of handsome composition, but with 
His mind (the greater excellence) I think 
Another may delight a lady more. 
If man be well consider'd, that's Columbo, 
Now, madam, voted to be yours. 

Duch. My torment ! [Aside. 

Vul. She affects him not. 

Ccl. He has a person and a bravery beyond 
All men that I observe. 

J'al He is a soldier, 
A rough-hewn man, and may show well at distance , 
His talk will fright a lady : war and grim- 
Faced Honour are his mistresses — he raves 
To hear a lute — Love meant him not his priest. 
Again your pardon, madam : we may talk, 
But you have art to choose and crown affection. 

[Exeunt. 

Duch. What is it to be born above these ladies, 
And want their freedom 1 They are not constrain'd, 
Nor slaved by their own greatness, or the king's, 
But let their free hearts look abroad and choose 
By their own eyes to love. I must repair 
My poor afflicted bosom, and assume 
The privilege I was born with, which now 

prompts me 
To tell the king he hath no power nor art 
To steer a lover's soul. 



FROM THE SAME. 

Tlie D.chess's conf rence with AlTaress. 

Enter Secretary. 

Sec. The Count D'Alvarez, madam. 

Durh. Admit him, 
And let none interrupt us. [Exit Sec] How shall J 
Behave my looks 1 the guih of my neglect. 
Which had no seal from hence, will call up blood 
To write upon my cheeks the shame and story 
In some red letter. 

Enter D'Alvarez. 

D'Jlv. Madam, I present 
One that was glad to obey your grace, and como 
To know what your commands are. 

Duch. Where I once 
Did promise love, a love that had the power 
And office of a priest, to chain my heart 
To yours, it were injustice to command. 

D'Alv. But I can look upon you, madam, as 
Becomes a servant, with as much humility. 
In tenderness of your honour and great fortune, 
Give up, when you call back your bounty, all that 
Was mine, as I had pride to think them favours. 

Duch. Hath love taught thee no more assur- 
ance in 
Our mutual vows, thou canst suspect it possible 
I should revoke a promise made to heaven 
And thee, so soon 1 This must arise from some 
Distrust of thy own faith. 

D^Jllv. Your grace's pardon : 
To speak with freedom, I am not so old 
In cunning to betray, nor young in time 
Not to see where and when I am at loss, 
And how to hear my fortune and my wounds ; 
Which, if I look for health, must still bleed inward, 
A hard and desperate condition. 
I am not ignorant your birth and greatness 
Have placed you to grow up with the king's grace 
And jealousy, which to remove his power 
Hath chosen a fit object for your beauty 
To shine upon — Columbo, his great favourite. 
I am a man on whom but late the king 
Has pleased to cast a beam, which was not meant 
To make me proud, but wisely to direct 
And light me to my safety. Oh, dear madam, 
I will not call more witness of my love, 
If you will let me still give it that name, 
Than this, that I dare make myself a loser, 
And to you will give all my blessings up. 
Preserve your greatness, and forget a trifle. 
That shall at best, when you have drawn me up, 
But hang about you like a cloud, and dim 
The glories you are born to. 

Duch. Misery 
Of birth and state ! that I could shift into 
A meaner blood, or find some art to purge 
That part which makes my veins unequal. Ytl 
Those nice distinctions have no place in us ; 
There's but a shadow difference, a title ; 
Thy stock partakes as much of noble sap 
As that which feeds the root of kings ; and he 
'i'hat writes a lord, hath all the essence of 
Nobility. 

D'Mv. 'Tis not a name that makes 
I Our separation — the king's displeasure 



270 



JAMES SHIRLEY. 



Hangs a portent to fright us, and the matter 
That feeds this exhalation is the cardinal's 
Plot to advance his nephew ; then Columbo, 
A man made up for some prodigious act. 
Is fit to be consider'd : in all three 
There is no character you fix upon 
But has a form of ruin to us both. 

Duch. Then jou do look on them with fear 1 

D'jIIv. With eyes , 

That should think tears a duty to lament 
Four least unkind fate ; but my youth dares boldly 
Meet all the tyranny of the stars, whose black 
Malevolence but shoot my single tragedy; 
You are above the value of many worlds 
Peopled with such as I am. 

Durh. What if Columbo, 
Engaged in war, in his hot thirst of honour, 
Find out the way to death 1 

D'Aiv. 'Tis possible. 

Durh. Or say, no matter by what art or motive, 
He gives his title up, and leave me to 
My own election. 

D'AiV. If I then be happy 
To have a name within your thought, there can 
Be nothing left to crown me with new blessing. 
But I dream thus of heaven, and wake to find 
My am'rous soul a mockery, when the priest 
Shall tie you to another, and the joj s 
Of marriage leave no thought at leisure to 
Look back upon Alvarez, that must wither 
For loss of you: yet then I cannot lose 
So much of what I was once in your favour. 
But in a sigh pray still you may live happy. 

Duch. My heart is in a mist; some good star smile 
Upon my resolution, and direct 
Two lovers in their chaste embrace to meet. 
Col umbo's bed contains my winding-sheet. 



FROM THE SAME. 

Conference of the Duchefs and tlie Cardinal, after the 

Ducliegs lias sent a letter to Coluaibo. praying him to 

renounce her. and has received an answer from the 

cauip, complying with the request. 

Curriinal. M.\DAM. 

Duchess. My lord. 

Card. The king speaks of a letter that has brought 
A riddle in 't 

Duch. 'Tis easy to interpret. 

Card. From my nephew. May I deserve the 
favour ? [Gives him the letter. 

Duch. He looks as though his eyes would fire 
the paper ; 
They are a pair of burning-glasses, and 
His envious blood doth give them flame. 

Curd. What lethargy could thus unspirithim? 
I !im all wonder. Do not believe, madam. 
But that Columbo's love is yet more sacred 
To honour and yourself, than thus to forfeit 
What I have heard him call the glorious wreath 
To all his merits, given him by the king. 
From whom he took you with more pride than ever 
He came from victory ; his kisses hang 
Yet panting on your lips, and he but now 
E>ichanged religious farewell, to return 
B It with more triumph to be yours. 



Duch, My lord. 
You do believe your nephew's hand was not 
Surprised or strain'd to this 1 

Card. Strange arts and windings in the world — 
most dark 
And subtle progresses. Who brought this letter ? 

Duch. I inquired not his name. I thought it not 
Considerable to take such narrow notice. 

Card. Desert and honour urged it here, nor can 
I blame you to be angry ; yet his person 
Obliged you should have given a nobler pause 
Before you made your faith and change so violent 
From his known worth, into the arms of one, 
However fashion'd to your amorous wish, 
Not equal to his cheapest fame, with all 
The gloss of blood and merit. 

Duch. This compassion. 
My good lord cardinal, I cannot think 
Flows from an even justice, it betrays 
You partial where your blood runs. 

Card. I fear, madam. 
Your own takes too much license, and will soon 
Fall to the censure of unruly tongues. 
Because Alvarez has a softer cheek, 
Can, like a woman, trim his wanton hair. 
Spend half a day with looking in the glass 
To find a posture to present himself. 
And bring more elleminacy than man 
Or honour, to your bed — must he supplant him 1 
Take heed, the common murmur, when it catches 
The scent of a lost fame, 

Duch. My fame, lord cardinal ! 
It stands upon an innocence as clear 
As the devotions you .pay to heaven. 
I shall not urge, my lord, your soft indulgence 
At my next shrift. 

Card. You are a fine court lady. 

Duch. And you should be a reverend churchm.an. 

Curd. One that, if you have not thrown oif 
Would counsel you to leave Alvarez, [modesty, 

Duch. 'Cause you dare do worse 
Than marriage, must not I be admitted what 
The church and law allow me? 

Card. Insolent ! then you dare marry him ? 

Duch. Dare ! let your contracted flame and 
malice with 
Columbo's rage higher than that, meet us 
When we approach the holy place, clasp'd hand 
In hand, — we'll break through all your force, and fix 
Our sacred vows together there. 

Card. I knew 
When with as chaste a brow you promised fair 
To another — You are no dissembhng lady. 

Duch. Would all your actions had no falser lights 
About 'em 

Card. Ha! [loud. 

Duch. The people would not talk and curse so 

Card. I'll have you chid into a blush for this. 

Duch. Begin at home, great man, there's cause 
enough. 
You turn the wrong end of the perspective 
Upon your crimes to drive them to a far 
And lesser sight ; but let your eyes look r'vght. 
What giants would your pride and surfei- seem, 
How gross your avarice, eating up whole families. 



How vast, are your corruptions and abuse 

Of a king's ear, at which you hang a penilant, 

Not to adorn, but ulcerate ; whilst the honest 

Nobility, like pictures in the arras, 

Serve only for court-ornament : if they speak, 

'Tis when you set their tongues, which you wind up 

Like clocks to strike at the just hour you please. 

Leave, leave, my lord, these usurpations, 

And be what you were meant, a man to cure, 

Not let in agues to religion. 

Look on the church's wounds 

Card. You dare presume. 
In your rude spleen to me, to abuse the church ? 

Duih. Alas ! you give false aim, my lord ; 'tis your 
Ambition and scarlet sins that rob 
Her altar of the glory, and leave wounds 
Upon her brow which fetches grief and paleness 
Into her checks ; making her troubled bosom 
Pant with her groans, and shroud her holy blushes 
Within your reverend purples. 

Card. Will you now take breath? 

Dudi. In hope, my lord, you will behold yourself 
In a true glass, and see those unjust acts 
That so deform you, and by timely cure 
Prevent a shame before the short-hair'd men 
Do crowd and call for justice, I take leave. [Exit. 

Curd. This woman has a spirit that may rise 
To tame the devil's, — there's no dealing with 
Her angry tongue, — ^'tis action and revenge 
Must calm her fury. Were Columbo here 
I could resolve, — but letters shall be sent 
To th' army, which may wake him into sense 
Of his rash folly, or direct his spirit 
Some way to snatch his honour from this flame ; 
All great men know " the soul of life is fame." 



FROM "THE ROYAL MASTER." 

Thp Duke of Florence, being engagpd to marry the sister 
of llie King of Naples, is treacluTously lej Ut distrust 
her cliai-aeler, and, on showing symptoms of bis disre- 
gard, is ibus called to account by Ibe Kiug. 

King. There's another 
Whom though you can forget. My sister, sir, 
Deserves to be remember'd. 

Duke. You are jealous 
That I visit this lady. 

King. That were only 
To doubt. I must be plain ; Plorence has not 
Been kind to Naples to reward us with 
Aflront for love ; and Theodosia must not 
Be any prince's mockery. 

Duke. I can 
Take boldness too, and tell you, sir, it were 
More lor her honour she would mock no prince. 
I am not lost to Florence yel, though I 
Be Naples' guest; and I must tell him here, 
I came to meet with fair and princely treaties 
Of love, not to be made the tale of Italy, 
The ground of scurril pasquils, or the mirth 
Of any lady who shall pre-engage 
Her heart to another's bosom, and then sneak 
Off like a tame despised property 
When her ends are advanced. 

King. I understand not 
This passion, yet it points at something 



That may be dangerous ; to conclude, Theodosia 
Is Naples' s ster, and I must not see 
Hei lost to honour, though my kingdom bleed 
To rescue her. 

DiiLe. Now you are passionate. 
This must be repair'd, my name is wounded, 
And my affection betray 'd : your sister. 
That looks like a fair star within love's sky, 
Is fell'n, and by the scattering of her fires 
Declares she has alliance with the earth. 
Not heavenly nature. 

King. Are my senses perfect? 
Be clearer, sir : teach me to understand 
This prodigy. You do not scorn our sister? 

Duke. Not I! as she has title to your blood, 
She merits all ambition; she's a princess, 
Yet no stain to her invention, we are parallels, 
Equal, but never made to meet. 
King. How's this ? 

Duke Truth is my witness, I did mean 
No ceremonious love until I found 
Her heart was given from me, though your power 
Contract our bodies. 

A'(/i^. Stay and be advised; 
And if your doubts, by some malicious tongue 
Framed to abuse my sister and yourself. 
Have raised this mutiny in your thoughts, I have 
A power to cure all. 
Duke. Sir, you cannot. 

King. Not to court thee for her husband, wert 
posscss'd 
Of all o'er which our eagle shakes his wings. 
But to set right her honour; and ere I challenge 
Thee by thy birth, by all thy hopes and right 
To fame, to tell me what malicious breath 
Has poison'd her, hear what my sister sends 
By me so late. Time is not old in minutes, [tell 
The words yet warm with her ovau breath — Pray 
The duke, she says, although I know not from 
What root his discontents grow to devote him 

To Domitilla ' 

Duke. How does she know that? [fancy; 

King. Whose beauty has more spell upon his 
I did contract my heart when I thought his 
Had been no stranger to his tongue, and can 
Not find within it since what should divert 
His princely thoughts from my first innocence. 
Yet such is my stern fate I must still love him. 
And though he frame his heart to unkind distance, 
It hath embracing virtue upon mine. 
And with his own remove draws my soul after him. 
If he forget I aui a princess, pray 
Let Naples do .so too, for my revenge 
Shall be in prayers, that he may find my wrong. 
And teach him soft repentance and more faith. 
Duke. All this must not betray my freedom, sir. 
A"i/ig. You'll not accuse our sister of dishonour? 
Duke'. I would not grieve you, sir, to hear what I 
Could say ; and press me not, for your own peace; 
Fames must be gently touch'd. 

Knig. As thou art Florence, speak. 
Dnki: I shall displease, 
Yel I but tell her brother that doth press me, 
Lucrece was chaste after the rape, but where 
The blood consents there needs no ravisher 



JAMES SHIRLEY. 



King. I do grow faint with wonder. Here's 
To blast an apprehension, and shoot [enough 
A quaking through the vaUant soul of man. 
My sister's blood accused, and her fair name. 
Late chaste as trembling snow, whose fleeces clothe 
Our Alpine hills — sweet as the rose's spirit, 
Or violet's cheek, on which the morning leaves 
A tear at parting, — now begins to wither 
As it would haste to death and be forgotten. 
This Florence is a prince that does accuse her, 
And such men give not faith to every murmur 
Or slight intelHgence that wounds a lady 
In her dear honour. But she is my sister ; 
Think of that too, credit not all, but ask 
Of thy own veins what guilty flowings there 
May tempt thee to believe this accusation. 



FROM "THE GENTLEMAN OF A'ENICE." 
Claudiana, on receiving a proposition from her husband 
Cornari, which she supposes to arise from his suspicion 
of her infidelity. 

Claudiana. Let me fall [Kneels. 

Beneath that which sustains me, ere I take 
In a belief that will destroy my peace ; 
Not in the apprehension of what 
You frame t' accuse yourself, but in fear 
My honour is betray'd to your suspicion. 

Cornari. Rise ! with thy tears I kiss 
Away thy tremblings. I suspect thy honour 1 
My heart will want faith to believe an angel. 
That should traduce thy fair name ; thou art chaste 
As the white down of heaven, whose feathers play 
Upon the wings of a cold winter's gale. 
Trembling with fear to touch th' impurer earth. 
How are the roses frighted in thy cheeks 
To paleness, weeping out transparent dew, 
When a loose story is but named 1 thou art 
The miracle of a chaste wife, from which fair 
Original, drawn out by Heaven's own hand, 
To have had one copy I had writ perfection. 



FROM "THE DOUBTFUL HEIR." 

Per.fnna. — Ferdinand in prison for asserting his right to the 
kuKjdom of Murcia. Kosania, hii mistress, disguised 
like a rage. 

Rosania. Prat do not grieve for me. I have 
a heart 
That can for your sake suffer more ; and when 
The tyranny of your fate calls me to die, 
I can as willingly resign my breath 
As go to sleep. 

Ferdinand. Can I hear this 
Without a fresh wound, that thy love to me 
Should be so ill rewarded ] thou hast engaged 
Thysi'lf too much already ; 'tis within 
Thy will yet to be safe, — reveal thyself, [ness, 
Throw off the cloud that doth eclipse that bright- 
And they will court thy person, and be proud 
With all becoming honour to receive thee ; 
No fear shall rob thy cheek of her chaste blood. 
Oh, leave tne to my own stars, and expect, 
Whate'er become of wretched Ferdinand, 
A happy fate. 



Rna. Your counsel is unkind ; 
This language would become your charity 
To a stranger, but my interest is more 
In thee, than thus with words to be sent off. 
Our vows have made us one, nor can the names 
Of father, country, or what can be dear 
In nature, bribe one thought to wish myself 
In heaven without thy company : it were poor, then, 
To leave thee here. Then, by thy faith I charge thee ; 
By this, the first and last seal of our love ; [Kisseshim, 
By all our promises, when we did flatter 
Ourselves, and in our fancy took the world 
A pieces, and collected what did like 
Us best, to make us a new paradise ; 
By that the noblest ornament of thy soul, 
Thy honour, I conjure thee, let me still 
Be undiscover'd. W^hat will it avail 
To leave me, whom thou lovest, and walk alone, 
Sad pilgrim, to another world 1 We will 
Converse in soul, and shoot like stars whose beams 
Are twisted, and make bright the sullen groves 
Of lovers, as we pass. 

Fer, These are but dreams 
Of happiness: be wise, Rosania, 
Thy love is not a friend to make thee miserable; 
Society in death, where we affect. 
But multiplies our grief. Live thou, oh live ! . 
And if thou hast a tear, when I am dead, 
But drop it to my memory, it shall 
More precious than embalming dwell upon me, 
And keep my ashes pure ; my spirit shall 
At the same instant, in some innocent shape, 
Descend upon that earth thou hast bedew'd, 
And, kissing the bright tribute of thine eye. 
Shall after wait like thy good angel on thee. 
There will be none to speak of Ferdinand 
Without disdain if thou diest too. Oh, live 
A little to defend me, or at least 
To say I was no traitor to thy love ; 
And lay the shame on death and my false stars, 
That would not let me live to be a king. 

Ros. Ferdinand ! 
Thou dost not love me now ? 

Fer. Not love, Rosania 1 
If wooing thee to live will not assure thee. 
Command me then to die, and spare the cruelty 
Of the fair queen. Not love, Rosaniji ! 
If thou wilt but delight to see me bleed, 
I will at such a narrow passage let 
Out life, it shall be many hours in ebbing; 
And my soul, bathing in the crimson stream. 
Take pleasure to be drown'd. I have small time 
To love and be alive, but I will carry 
So true a faith to woman hence as shall 
Make poor the world, when I am gone to tell 
The story yonder. — We are interrupted. 
Enter Keeper. 

Keeper. You must prepare yourself for present 
I have command t' attend you to the judges, [trial; 
That gentleman, and all that did adhere 
To your conspiracy, are by the queen's 
Most gracious mercy pardon'd. 

Fer. In that word 
Thou hast brought me more than life. I shall betray, 
And with my too much joy undo thee again. 



JAMES SHIRLEY. 



273 



Heaven does command thee live, I must obey 
This summons. I shall see thee again, Tiberio,* 
Before I die. 

Jios. I'll wait upon you, sir ; 
The queen will not deny me that poor office. 
I know not how to leave you. 

Fer. Death and I 
Shall meet and be made friends ; but when we part, 
The world shall find thy story in my heart. 



FERDINAND'S TRIAL. 



FROM TBE SAME. 



Persons, besides the Prisoner at the bar and his Page, are 
Olivi\, (7<e.>.«p/iosf:dQuiiEN of JIukcia; Officers; Kr.vksto, 
RoDKiGUEZ. hEANDRO, awdliEONARlo; Noblemen, Ladies, 
Gentlemen, and Guurd. 

Queen. Is that the prisoner at the bar ? 

Leon. He that pretended himself Ferdinand, 
Your uncle's son. 

Queen. Proceed to his arraignment. My lord 
You know our pleasuTe. [Leandro, 

Leandro. Although the queen in her own royal 
power. 
And without violating sacred justice, where 
Treason comes to invade her and her crown 
With open war, need not insist upon 
The forms and circumstance of law, but use 
Her sword in present execution. 
Yet such is the sweet temper of her blood 
And calmness of her nature, though provoked 
Into a storm, unto the greatest oflender 
She shuts up no defence, willing to give 
A satisfaction to the world how much 
She doth delight in mercy. Ferdinand, 
For so thou dost pretend thyself, thou art 
Indicted of high treason to her majesty. 
In that thou hast usurp'd relation to 
Her blood, and, under name of being her kinsman. 
Not only hast contrived to blast her honour 
With neighbouring princes, but hast gather'd arms 
To wound the precious bosom of her country. 
And tear the crown, which heaven and just suc- 
cession 
Hath placed upon her royal head. What canst 
Thou answer to this treason I 

Fer. Boldly thus : 
As I was never, with the height of all 
My expectations and the aid of friends, 
Transported one degree above myself, [irown'd. 
So must not Ferdinand, though his stars have 
And the great eye of Providence seem to slumber 
While your force thus compell'd and brought me 

hither. 
With mockery of my fate, to be arraign'd 
For being a prince, have any thought beneath 
The title I was born to. Yet I'll not call 
This cruelty in you, nor in the queen, 
(If I may name her so without injustice 
To my own right;) a kingdom is a garland 
Worth all contention, and where right seals not 
The true possession nature is forgotten. 
And blood thought cheap to assure it. There is 
something 

* The assumed name of the page. 
34 



Within that excellent figure that restrains 
A passion here, that else would forth like lightning • 
'Tis not your shape, which yet hath so much sweet 
Some pale religious hermit might suspect [ness , 
You are the blessed saint he pray'd to : no. 
The magic's in our nature and our blood. 
For both our veins, full of one precious purple. 
Strike harmony in their motion ; I am Ferdinand, 
And you the fair Olivia, brother's children. 

Leon. What insolence is this ? 

Queen. Oh, my lord, let him 
Be free to plead ; for, if it be no dream. 
His cause will want an orator. By my blood 
He does talk bravely. 

Rodrig. These are flourishes. 

Em. Speak to the treason you are charged with, 
And confess a guilt. 

Leon. He justifies himself. 

Fer. If it be treason to be born a prince, 
To have my father's royal blood move here ; 
If it be treason in my infancy 
To have escaped by Divine providence, 
When my poor life should have been sacrificed 
To please a cruel uncle, whose ambition 
Surprised my crown, and after made Olivia, 
His daughter, queen ; if it be treason to 
Have been a stranger thus long from my country, 
Bred up with silence of my name and birth, 
And not till now mature to own myself 
Before a sunbeam ; if it be treason. 
After so long a banishment, to weep 
A tear of joy upon my country's bosom 
And call her mine, my just inheritance. 
Unless you stain my blood with bastardy ; 
If it be treason still to love this earth. 
That knew so many of my race her kings, 
Though late unkindly arm'd to kill her sovereign, 
As if the effusion of my blood were left 
To make her fertile ; if to love Olivia, 
My nearest pledge of blood, although her power 
Hath chain'd her prince, and made her lord her 
Who sits with expectation to hear [prisoner. 

That sentence that must make the golden wreath 
Secure upon her brow by blasting mine : 
If this be treason, I am guilty. Ferdinand, 
Your king's become a traitor, and must die 
A black and most inglorious death. 

Em. You offer 
At some defence, but come not home. By what 
Engine were you translated hence, or whither 
Convey'd ] "There was some trust deceived when 

you 
Were carried forth to be presers-ed, and much 
Care taken since in bringing of you up. 
And giving secret fire to this ambition. 

Fer. There wants no testimony here of what 
Concerns the story of my birth and infancy. 
If one dare speak and be an honest lord 

Leund. How's that] . [tyrannv, 

Fer. Whose love and art secured me from all 
Though here my funeral was believed ; while I, 
Sent to an honourable friend, his kinsman, 
Grew safely to the knowledge of myself 
At last, till fortune of the war betray'd me 
To this captivity. 



JAMES SHIRLEY. 



Leand. I blush at thee, 
Young man, whose fall has made thee desperate, 
And carest not what mail's blood thou draw'st 
As hateful as thy crimes. [along, 

Em. That confederate 
Sure has some name : declare him, that he may 
l.iank you for his award, and lose his head for't. 

Queen. We always see that men, in such high 
nature 
Deform'd and guilty, want no specious shapes 
To gain their practice, friendship, and compassion ; 
But he shall feel the punishment. D' you smile 1 

Fer. A woman's anger is but worth it, madam ; 
And if I may have freedom, I must say, 
Not in contempt of what you seem, nor help'd 
By overcharge of passion, which but makes 
A fruitless noise, I have a S3nse of what 
I am to lose, a life ; but I am so fortified 
With valiant thoughts and innocence, I shall, 
When my last breath is giving up to lose 
Itself in the air, be so remote from fear, 
That I will cast my face into a smile, 
Which shall, when I am dead, acquit all trembling, 
And be a story to the world how free 
From paleness Ferdinand look leave of earth. 

Eos. Alas ! my lord, you forget me, that can 
Part with so much courage. 

Fer. I forget indeed : 
I thought of death with honour, but my love 
Hath found a way to chide me. Oh, my boy ! 
I can weep now. 

Leon. A sudden change : he weeps. 

Qiteei). What boy is that 1 

Fer. I prithee take thyself away. 

Queen. Your spirit does melt, it seems, and you 
begin to think 
A life is worth preserving though with infamy. 

Fer. Goodness, thy aid again, and tell this great. 
Proud woman, I have a spirit scorns her pity. 
Come hither, boy, and let me kiss thee : thus. 
At parting with a good and pretty servant, 
I can without my honour stain'd shed tears. 
I took thee from thy friends to make thee mine — 
Is it not truth, boy 1 

Hvs. Yes, my lord. 

Fer. And meant, when I was king, to make thee 
And shall I not, when I can live no longer [great ; 
To cherish thee, at farewell drop a tear. 
That I could weep my soul upon theel But 
You are too slow, methinks ; I am so far 
Fiom dread, I think your forms too tedious. 
i expect my sentence. 

Queen. Let it stay awhile. [protect me. 

(.^side.) What secret flame is this] Honour 
Your grace's fair excuse ; for you I shall 
Return again. [Exit. 

Fer. And I, with better guard, 
Afler my silence in the grave, to meet 
And plead this cause. 

Em. He is distracted, sure. 
His person I could pity, but his insolence 
Wants an example. IVhat if we proceed 
To sentence ? 

Leon. I suppose the queen will clear 
Your duties m't. 



[Exit. 



Leand. But I'll acquaint her. 

Leon. My lord, Leandro's gone. 

Em. His censure will 
Be one with ours. — 

Fer. Yet shall I publish who 
Thou art? I shall not die with a calm soul 
And leave thee in this cloud. 

Enter Queen and Lean-dro. 

Jtos. By no means, sir. The queen. 

Qtieen. Whose service is so forward to our state, 
That when our pleasure 's known not to proceed, 
They dare be officious in his sentence? Are 
We queen, or do we move by your protection] 

Em. Madam, the prince 

Queen. My lord, you have a queen : 
I not suspect his wisdom, sir, but he 
Hath no commission here to be a judge; 
You were best circumscribe our regal power, 
And by yourselves condemn or pardon all. 
And wc sign to your will. The oHence which you 
Call treason strikes at us, and we release it. 
Let me but see one curl in any brow ; 
Attend the prisoner hither — Kiss our hand. 
Are you so merciless to think this man 
Fit for a scaflTold] — You shall, sir, be near us; 
And if in this confusion of your fortunes 
You can find gratitude and love, despair not : 
These men, that now oppose, may find your title 
Clear to the kingdom too. Be, sir, collected. 
And let us love your arm. 

[Ejrit, iwppoi-Ud by Ferdinand. 

Ros. What change is here ? 

Leand. What think you of this, lords] 

JRodrig. I dare not think. 

Leon. Afl'ronted thus ! Oh, my vex'd heart ! 

J\os, I'll follow still ; and, if this be no dream, 
We have 'scaped a brook to meet a greater stream. 



THE GAY WORLD. 

FROM "THE LADT OF PLEASURE." 

Aretina, Sir Thomas Borxwell'8 Itif/i/, and his StRward. 

Steward. Be patient, madam, you may have 
your pleasure. 

.^rel. 'Tis that I came to town for : I would not 
Endure again the country conversation 
To be the lady of six shires ! the men. 
So near the primitive making, they retain 
A sense of nothing but the earth ; their brains 
And barren heads standing as much in want 
Of ploughing as their ground : to hear a fellow 
Make himself merry and his horse with whistling 
Sellinger's Round ; t' observe with what solemnity 
They keep their wakes, and throw for pewtei 

candlesticks ; 
How they become the morris, with whose bells 
They ring all into Whitsun ales, and swear 
Through twenty scarfs and napkins, till the hobby 

horse 
Tire, and the maid-mariah, dissolved to a jelly. 
Be kept for spoon-meat. 

S:eir. These, with your pardon, are no argumen 
To make the country life appear so hateful. 
At least to your particular, who enjoy'd 
A blessing in that calm, would you be pleased 



To think so, and the pleasure of a kingdom : 
W hile your own will commanded what should move 
Delights, your husband's love and power join'd 
To give your life more harmony. You lived there 
Secure and innocent, beloved of all ; 
Praised for your hospital.ty, and pray'd for: 
You might be envied, but malice knew 
Not where you dwelt. — I would not prophesy, 
But leave to your own apprehension 
What may succeed your change. 

Aret. You do imagine. 
No doubt, you have talk'd wisely, and confuted 
London past all defence. Your .master should 
Do well to send you back into the country 
With title of superintendent baililT. 

S.ew. How, madam ] 

Aiel. Even so, sir. [servant. 

&tw. I am a gentleman, though now your 

Aiet. A country gentleman. 
By your affection to converse with stubble : 
His tenants will advance you wit, and plump it so 
With beef and bag-pudding 

S,ew. You may say your pleasure, 
It becomes not me dispute. [master. 

Arel. Complain to the lord of the soil, your 

S ew. Y' are a woman of an ungovern'd passion, 
And I pity you. 

Enter Sir Thomas Bornwell. 

Born. How now, what's the matter 1 
Angry, sweetheart 1 

Aret. I am angry with myself. 
To be so miserably restrain'd in things 
Wherein it doth concern your love and honour 
To see me satisfied. 

Eorn. In what, Aretina, 
Dost thou accuse me 1 have I not obey'd 
All thy desires against mine own opinion? 
Quitted the country, and removed the hope 
Of our return by sale of that fair lordship 
We lived in ; changed a calm and retire life 
For this wild town, composed of noise and charge 1 

Aiel. What charge more than is necessary 
For a lady of my birth ?nd education ] 

liorn. I am not ig^norant how much nobility 
Flows in your blood; your kinsmen, great and 

powerful 
r th' state, but with thi.= lose not your memory 
Of being my wife I shall be studious. 
Madam, to give the dignity of your birth 
All the best ornaments which become my fortune, 
But would not flatter it to ruin both. 
And be the fable of the town, to teach 
Other men loss of wit by mine, employ'd 
To serve your vast expenses. 

Are'. Am I then 
Brought in the balance so, sir 1 

Lorn. Though you weigh 
Me in a partial scale, my heart is honest, 
And must take liberty to think you have 
Obey'd no modest counsel to affect, 
Nay study, ways of pride and costly ceremony. 
Your change of gaudy furniture, and pictures 
Of this Italian master and that Dutchman's ; 
Your mighty looking-glasses, like artillery, 
Brought horiie on engines; the superfluous plate. 



Antique and novel; vanities of tires; [man 

Fourscore pound suppers for my lord, your kins- 
Banquets for t' other lady aunt, and cousins; 
And perfumes that exceed all: train of servants. 
To stiHe us at home and show abroad. 
More motley than the French or the Venetian, 
About your coach, whose rude postilion 
Must pester every narrow lane, till passengers 
And tradesmen curse your choking up their stalls, 
And common cries pursue your ladyship 
For hind'ring o' the market. 

Aret. Have you done, sir ? 

Born. I could accuse the gayety ofyour wardrobe 
And prodigal embroideries, under which 
Rich satins, plushes, cloth of silver, dare 
Not show their own complexions. Your jewels. 
Able to burn out the spectator's eyes, 
And show like bonfires on you by the tapers. 
Something might here be spared, with safety of 
Your birth and honour, s;nce the truest wealth 
Shines from the soul, and draws up just admirers. 
I could urge something more. 

Aret. Pray do ; I like 
Your homily of thrift. 

Born. I could wish, madam, 
You would not game so much. 

Arel. A gamester too] 

Bor/i. But you are not to that repentar.ce yet 
Should teach you skill enough to raise your profit ; 
You look not through the subtlety of cards 
And mysteries of dice, nor can you save 
Charge With the box, buy petticoats and pearls. 
And keep your family by the precious income. 
Nor do I wish you should. My poorest servant 
Shall not upbraid my tables, nor his hire 
Purchased beneath my honour. You may play. 
Not a pastime but a tyranny, and vex 
Yourself and my estate by 't. 

Are:. Good, — proceed. [more 

Bom. Another game you have, which consumes 
Your fame than purse ; your revels in the night. 
Your meetings call'd the Ball, to which appear, 
As to the court of pleasure, all your gallants 
And ladies, thither bound by a subpoena 
Of Venus and small Cupid's high displeasure; 
'Tis but the Fam.ly of Love translated 
Into a more costly sin. There was a play on 't, 
And had the poet not been bnbed to a modest 
Expression of your antic gambols in 't, 
Some deeds had been discover'd, and the deeds too 
In time he may repent and make some blush 
To see the second part danced on the stage. 
My thoughts acquit you for dishonouring me 
By any foul act, but the virtuous know 
'Tis not enough to clear ourselves, but the 
Suspicions of our shame. 

Are!. Have you concluded 
Your lecture ] 

Born. I have done ; and howsoever 
My language may appear to you, it carries 
No other than my fair and just intent 
To your delights, without curb to their fair 
And modest freedom. 

Are . I'll not be so tedious 
In my reply, but without art or elegance 



273 JAMES SHIRLEY. 


Assure jon I still keep my first opinion ; 


S ew. No, sir. 


And though you veil your avaricious meaning 


lorn. It matters not, they must be welcome. 


With handsome names of modesty, and thrift, 


Jret. Fie, how this hair's disorder'd; here'sacurl 


I find you would intrench and wound the liberty 


Straddles most impiously. I must to my closet. 


I was born with : were my desires unprivileged 


[ExU. 


By example, while my judgment thought 'em fit, 


Born. Wait on them ; my lady will return again. 


You ought not to oppose ; but when the practice 


I have to such a height fulfiU'd her humour, 


And tract of every honourable lady 


All application's dangerous ; these gallants 


Authorize me, I take it great injustice 


Must be received, or she will fall into 


To have my pleasure circumscribed and taught me. 


A tempest, and the house be shook with names 


A narrow-minded husband is a thief 


Of all her kindred. 'Tis a servitude 


To his own fame, and his preferment too ; 


I may in time shake ofiT. 


He shuts his parts and fortunes from the world, 


Enter Mr. Alexander Kickshaw and Littleworth. 


While from the popular vote and knowledge men 


Kick. a,.d Lit. Save you, Sir Thomas. 


Rise to employment in the state. 


Born. Save you, gentlemen. 


Born. I have 


Kick. I kiss your hand. 


No great ambition to buy preferment 


Born. What day is it abroad 1 


At so dear a rate. 


Lit. The morning rises from your lady's eye; 


Jrel. Nor I to sell my honour 


If she look clear, we take the happy omen 


By living poor and sparingly. I was not 


Of a fair day. 


Bred in that ebb of fortune, and my fate 


Born. She'll instantly appear 


Shall not compel me to 't. 


To the discredit of your compliment ; 


Eorn. I know not, madam, 


But you express your wit thus. 


But you pursue these ways. 


Kick. And you modesty, 


Jrel. What ways 1 


Not to affect the praises of your own. [afoot ? 
Born. Leaving this subject, what game s now 


Born. In the strict sense of honesty I dare 


Make oath they are innocent. 


What exercise carries the general vote 


Jret. Do not divert. 


0' the town now ? Nothing moves without your 


By busy troubling of your brain, those thoughts 


knowledge. 


That should preserve them. 


Kick. The cocking now has all the noise. I'll have 


Born. How was that 1 


A hundred pieces of one battle. Oh, 


Jret. 'Tis English. 


These birds of Mars ! 


Born. But carries some unkind sense 


Lit. Venus is Mars his bird too. 


£n<.r Steward. 


Kick. Why, and the pretty doves are Venuses, 


Jret. What's your news, sir 1 


To show that kisses draw the chariot. 


S.ew. Madam, two gentlemen. 


Lit. I'm for that skirmish. 


Jret. What gentlemen; have they no names'? 


Born. When shall we have 


Stew. They are 


More booths and bagpipes upon Banstead downs 1 


The gentleman with his own head of hair. 


No mighty race is expected 1 But my lady returns. 


Whom you commended for his horsemanship 


Enter Aretina. 


In Hyde Park, and becoming [so] the saddle, 


Jret. Fair morning to you, gentlemen ; 


The other day. 


You went not late to bed, by your early visit. 


Jret. What circumstance is this 


You do me honour. 


To know him by 1 


Kirk. It becomes our service. [intelligence. 
Jret. What news abroad] You hold precious 


Slew. His name 's at my tongue's end^ 


He hked the fashion of your pearl chain, madam, 


Lit. All tongues are so much busy with your 


And borrow'd it for his jeweller to take 


praise. 


A copy by. 


They have not time to frame other discourse. 


Born. What cheating gallant 's this 1 


Wilt please you, madam, taste a sugar-plum 1 


Stew. That never walks without a lady's busk, 


Born. What does the goldsmith think the pearl 


And plays with fans: — Mr. Alexander Kickshaw. 


You borrow'd of my lady 1 [is worth 


I thought I should remember him. 


Kick. 'Tis a rich one. 


Jret. What's the other 1 


Born. She has many other toys, whose fashion 


Slew. What an unlucky memory I have — 


Will like extremely. You have no intention [you 


The gallant that still danceth in the street, 


To buy any of her jewels'! 


And wears a gross of ribbon in his hat; 


Kick. Understand me. [this. 


That carries oringado in his pocket, 


Eorn. You had rathersell, perhaps? Butleaving 


And sugar-plums to sweeten his discourse ; 


I hope you'll dine with us '? 


That studies compliment, defies all wit 


Kick. I came on purpose. 


On black, and censures plays that are not bawdy — 


Jrel. And where were you last night 1 


Mr. John Littleworth 


Kick. I, madam ! where 


Jret. Thev ar«> welcome; but 


I slept not : it had been sin : where so much 


Pray entertain them a small time, lest I 


Delight and beauty was to keep me waiting. 


Be unprovided. 


There is a lady, madam, will be worth 


Born. Did they ask for me 1 


Your free society ; my conversation 



JAMES SHIRLEY. 



277 



Ne'er knew so elegant and brave a soul, 
With most incomparable flesh and blood : 
So spirited, so courtly, speaks the languages, 
Sings, dances, plays o' the lute to admiration; 
Is fair, and paints not ; games too, keeps a table, 
And talks most witty satire ; has a wit 
Of a clean Mercury. 

Lit. Is she married 1 

Kick. No. 

Aret. A virgin ] 

Kick. Neither. 

Lit. What, a widow 1 Something 
Of this wide commendation might have been 
Excused this such a prodigy. 

Kick. Repent, 
Before I name her. She did never see 
Yet full sixteen ; an age in the opinion 
Of wise men not contemptible. She has 
Mourn'd out her year too fdr the honest knight 
That had compassion of her youth and died 
So timely. Such a widow is not common ; 
And now she shines [abroad] more fresh and 
Than any natural virgin. [tempting 

Aret. What's her name ? 

Kick. She was christen'd Celestina; by her 
husband 
The lady Belamour. This ring was hers. 

Born. You borrow'd it to copy out the posy ? 

Kick. Are they not pretty rubles T 'Twas a 
grace 
She was pleased to show me, that I might have one 
Made of the [self] same fashion, for I love 
All pretty forms. 

Aret. And is she glorious 1 

Kick. She is full of jewels, madam ; but I am 
Most taken with the bravery of her mind, [ment. 
Although her garments have all grace and orna- 

Aret. You have been high in praises. 

Kick. I come short; 
No flattery can reach her. 

Born. Now my lady 
Is troubled, as she fear'd to be eclipsed. 
This news will cost me somewhat. [Aside. 

Aret. You deserve 
Her favour for this noble character. 

Kick. And I possess it by my star's benevolence. 

Aret. You must bring us acquainted. 

Born. I pray do, sir ; 
I long to see her too. Madam, I have 
Thought upon't, and corrected my opinion ; 
Pursue what ways of pleasure your desires 
Incline you to. Not only with my state, 
But with my person I will follow you : 
I see the folly of my thrift, and will 
Repent in sack and prodigality 
To your own heart's content. 

Are:. But do not mock. 

Born. Take me to your embraces, gentlemen. 
And tutor me. 

Lit. And will you kiss the ladies 7 [beauty — 

Born. And sing, and dance. — I long to see this 
( would fain lose an hundred pounds at dice now — 
Thou shalt have another gown and petticoat 
fo-morrow — Will you sell my running horses ? — 
We have no Greek wine in the house, I think ; 



Pray send one of our footmen to the merchant, 
And throw the hogshead of March beer into 
The kennel, to make room for sack and claret. 
What think you to be drunk yet before dinner ? 
We will have constant music, and maintain 
Them and their fiddles in fantastic liveries — 
I'll tune my voice to catches — I must have 
My dining-room enlarged t' invite ambassadors— 
We'll feast the parish in the fields, and teach 
The military men new discipline. 
Who shall charge all their [great] artillery 
With oranges and lemons, boy, to play 
All dinner upon our capons. 

Kick. He's exalted. 

Born. I will do any thing to please my lady. 
Let that suffice, and kiss o' the same condition. 
I am converted, do not you dispute. 
But patiently allow the miracle. 

Aret. I am glad to hear you sit in so good tune. 
Elder Strvant. 

So-v. Madam, the painter. 

Are!. I am to sit this morning. [sitting's but 

A'(r^. With your favour, we'll wait on you; 
A melancholy exercise without 
Some company to discourse. 

Aret. It does conclude 
A lady's morning work ; we rise, make fine. 
Sit for our picture, and 'tis time to dine. 



EXTRAVAGANCE OF CELESTINA. 

FROM THE SAME. 

Elder Ceudstina und tier Steward. 

Cel. Fie, what an air this room has ] 

Steiv. 'Tis perfumed. [thrift 

Cel. With some cheap stufT: is it your wisdom's 
To infect my nostrils thus, or is 't to favour 
The gout in your worship's hand ? You are afraid 
To exercise your pen in your account-book, 
Or do you doubt my credit to discharge 
Your bills ! 

Stew. Madam, I hope you have not found 
My duty with the guilt of sloth or jealousy 
Unapt to your command. 

Cel. You can extenuate 
Your faults with language, sir ; but I expect 
To be obey'd. What hangings have we here 1 

S ew. They tire arras, madam. 

Cel. Impudence, I know't, 
I will have fresher and more rich, not wrought 
With faces that may scandalize a Christian, 
With Jewish stories, stuflT'd with corn and camels; 
You had best wrap all my chambers in wild Irish, 
And make a nursery of monsters here, 
To fright the ladies come to visit me. 

S eu\ Madam, I hope 

Cel. I say I will have other. 
Good master steward, of a finer loom. 
Some silk and silver, if your worship please 
To let me be at so much cost : I'll have 
Stories to fit the seasons of the year. 
And change as often as I please. 

Sew. You shall, madam. 

Cel. I am bound to your consent forsooth! Andu» 
My coach brought home 1 

S.eti: This morning I expect it. 
Y 



JAMES SHIRLEY. 



Cd. Tl ', inside, as I gave direction, 
Of crimson plush? 

S.ew. Of crimson camel plush, [ride through 
Cel. Ten thousand moths consume 't! Shall I 
The streets in penance, wrapt up round in hair- 
cloth ? 
Sell 't to an alderman, — 'twill serve his wife 
'Vo go a feasting to their country house, — 
Or fetch a merchant's nurse-child, and come home 
Laden with fruit and cheesecakes. I despise it. 

Stew. The nails adorn it, madam, set in method 
And pretty forms. 

Cel. But single-gilt, I warrant 

Sew. No, madam. 

Cel. Another solecism. O fie ! 
This fellow will bring me to a consumption 
With fretting at his ignorance. Some lady 
Had rather never pray than go to church in 't. 
The nails not double-gilt ! — to market with it ! 
'Twill hackney out to Mile End, or convey 
Your city tumblers to be drunk with cream 
And prunes at Islington. 

S'.ew. Good madam, hear me. 

Cel. I'll rather be beholding to my aunt. 
The countess, for her mourning coach, than be 
Disparaged so. Shall any juggling tradesman 
Be at charge to shoe his running horse with gold, 
And shall my coach-nails be but single-gilt 1 
How dare these knaves abuse me so ! 

S.ew. Vouchsafe 
To hear me speak. 

Cel. Is my sedan yet finish'd 
As I gave charge ! 

S ew. Yes, madam, it is finish'd. 
But without tilting plumes at the four corners ; 
The scarlet "s pure, but not embroider'd. 

Cel. What mischief were it to your conscience 
Were my coach lined with tissue, and my harness 
Cover'd with needlework 1 if my sedan 
Had all the story of the prodigal 
Embroider'd with pearl 1 

Siew. Alas, good madam, 
I know 'tis your own cost ; I'm but your steward, 
And would discharge my duty the best way. 
You have been pleased to hear me, 'tis not for 
My profit that I manage your estate 
And save expense, but for your honour, madam. 

Cel. How, sir, my honour? 

S ew. Though you hear it not, 
Men's tongues are liberal in your character 
Since you began to live thus high. I know 
Your fame is precious to you. 

Cel. I were best 
Make you my governor ! Audacious varlet. 
How dare you interpose your doting counsel ? 
Mind your alfairs with more obedience. 
Or I shall ease you of an office, sir. 
Must I be limited to please your honour. 
Or for the vulgar breath confine my pleasures? 
I will pursue 'em in what shapes I fancy 
Here and abroad. My entertainments shall 
Be oft'ner, and more rich. Who shall control me ? 
1 live i' the Strand, whither few ladies come 
To live and purchase more than fame — I will 
Be hospitable then, and spare no cost 



That may engage all generous report 
To trumpet forth my bounty and my bravery 
Till the court envy and remove — I'll have 
My house the academy of wits, who shall 
Exalt [their genius] with rich sack and sturgeon, 
Write panegyrics of my feasts, and praise 
The method of my witty superfluities — 
The horses shall be taught, with frequent waiting 
Upon my gates, to stop in their career [fury i 
Toward Charing Cross, spite of the coachman's 
And not a tilter but shall strike his plume 
When he sails by my window. — My balcony 
Shall be the courtiers' idol, and more gazed at 
Than all the pageantry at Temple Bar 
By my country clients. 

S.ew. Sure my lady 's mad. 

Cel. Take that for your ill manners. [Stril-es him. 

S:ew. Thank you, madam : 
I would there were less quicksilver in your fingers. 

[Hxit. 

Cel. There's more than simple honesty in a 
servant 
Required to his full duty. None should dare 
But with a look, much less a saucy language, 
Check at their mistress's pleasure. I'm resolved 
To pay for some delight, my estate will bear it ; 
I'll rein it shorter when I please. 



ARETINA'S KECEPTION OF HER NEPHEW 
FKEDEKICK. 

FROM THE SAME. 

Persons. — Bornweil, Frederick, and Steward. 
Enter Mr. Frederick. 

Stew. Mb. Frederick, welcome. I expected not 
So soon your presence. What 's the hasty cause ? 

Fred. These letters from my tutor will acquaint 
• . . Where's my aunt? . [you. 

Slew. She's busy about her painting in her closet; 
The outlandish man of art is copying out 
Her countenance. 

Fred. She's sitting for her picture 1 [hang'd 

S.ew. Yes, sir ; and when 'tis drawn, she will be 
Next the French cardinal in the dining-room. 
But wheiv she hears you're come, she will dismiss 
The Belgic gentleman to entertain 
Your worship. 

Fred. Change of air has made you witty. 

Bom . Your tu tor gives y ou a handsome character, 
Frederick, and is sorry your aunt's pleasure 
Commands you from your studies; but I hope 
You have no quarrel to the liberal arts? 
Learning is an addition beyond 
Nobility of birth ; honour of blood. 
Without the ornament of knowledge, is 
A glorious ignorance. 

Fred. I never knew more sweet and happy Lou 
Than I employ'd upon my books. I heard 
A part of my philo.-ophy, and was so 
Delighted with the harmony of nature, 
I could have wasted my whole hfe upon 't. 

Foni. 'Tib pity a rash indulgence should conupi 
So fair a genius. She 's here ; — I'll observe. 
Enter Aketina. Kickshaw, LiiTUiwORTH. 

Fred. My most loved aunt. 



JAMES SHIRLEY. 



279 



Aret. Support me, — I shall faint ! 

Lit. What ails your ladyship 1 

Jret. Is that Frederick 
In black ? 

Kick. Yes, madam ; but the doublet 's satin. 

Aret. The boy 's undone. 

Freil. Madam, you appear troubled. 

Aret. Have I not cause? Was I not trusted with 
Thy education, boy, and have they sent thee 
Home like a very scholar ? 

Kick. 'Twas ill done, 
Howe'er they used him in the university, 
To send him home to his friends thus. 

Fred. Why, sir, black 
(For 'tis the colour that offends your eyesight) 
Is not, within my reading, any blemish ; 
Sables are no disgrace in heraldry. 

Kick. 'Tis coming from the college thus that 
makes it 
Dishonourable. While you wore it for 
Your father it was commendable, or were 
Your aunt dead you might mourn and justify. 

Aret. What luck* I did notsend him into France ! 
They would have given him generous education. 
Taught him another garb, to wear his lock 
And shape as gaudy as the summer, how 
To dance and wag his feather alamode. 
To compliment and cringe, to talk not modestly, 
Like ay forsooth and no forsooth, to blush 
And look so like a chaplain ; there he might 
Have learnt a brazen confidence, and observed 
So well the custom of the country, that 
He might by this time have invented fashions 
For us, and been a benefit to the kingdom ; 
Preserved our tailors in their wits, and saved 
The charge of sending into foreign courts 
For pride and antic fashions. Observe 
In what a posture he does hold his hat now ! 

Fred. Madam, with your pardon, you have 
practised 
Another dialect than was taught me when 
I was commended to your care and breeding. 
I understand not this ; Latin or Greek 
Are more familiar to my apprehension ; 
Logic was not so hard in my first lectures 
As your strange language. 

./iret. Some strong waters, — oh ! 

Lit. Comfits will be as comfortable to your 
stomach, madam. [Offers his box. 

Aret. I fear he's spoil'd for ever : he did name 
Logic, and may, for ought I know, be gone 
So far to understand it. I did always 
Suspect they would corrupt him in the college. 
Will your Greek saws and sentences discharge 
The mercer ? or is Latin a fit language 
To court a mistress in 1 Master Alexander, 
If you have anj^ charity, let me 
Commend him to your breeding ; I suspect 
I must employ my doctor first to purge 
The university that lies in 's head 
To alter 's complexion. 

Kirk. If you dare 
Trust me to serve him — 

* Luck evidently means misfortune here. 



Aret. Mr. Littleworth, 
Be you join'd in commission. 

Lit. I will teach him 
Postures and rudiments. 

A}-et. I have no patience 
To see him in this shape, it turns my stomach 
When he has cast his academic skin. 
He shall be yours. I am bound in conscience 
To see him bred, his own 'state shall maintain 
The charge while he 's my ward. Come hither, sir. 

Freil. What does my aunt mean to do with me ? 

S:ew. To make you a fine gentleman, and trans- 
late you 
Out of your learned language, sir, into 
The present Goth and Vandal, which is French. 

Born. Into what mischief will this humour ebb] 
She will undo the boy ; I see him ruin'd. 
My patience is not manly, but I must 
Use stratagem to reduce her, open ways 
Give me no hope. 

Slew. You shall be obey'd, madam. 

[Exruttt all but Frederick and the Steward 

J'Verf. Mr. Steward, areyou sure we do not dream? 
Was 't not my aunt you talk'd to? 

Sew. One that loves you 
Dear as her life. These clothes do not become you ; 
You must have better, sir. 

Fred. These are not old. [keep 

Sew. More suitable to the town and time. We 
No Lent here, nor is 't my lady's pleasure you 
Should fast from any thing you have a mind to. 
Unless it be your learning, which she would 

have you 
Forget with all convenient speed that may be 
For the credit of your noble family. 
The case is alter'd since we lived in the country • 
We do not [now] invite the poor o' the parish 
To dinner, keep a table for the tenants ; 
Our kitchen does not smell of beef, the cellar 
Defies the price of malt and hops; the footmen 
And coach-drivers may be drunk like gentlemen 
With wine ; nor will three fiddlers upon holidays 
With aid of bagpipes, that call'd in the country 
To dance and plough the hall up with their hobnails 
Now make my lady merry ; we do feed 
Like princes, and feast nothing [else] but princes, 
And are those robes fit to be seen amongst 'emi 

Fred. My lady keeps a court then ] Is Sir Thomas 
Affected with this state and cost? 

S:ew. He was not. 
But is converted. But I hope you will not 
Persist in heresy, but take a course 
Of riot to content your friend* ; you shall 
Want nothing. If you can be proud and spend it 
For my lady's honour, here are a hundred 
Pieces will serve you till you have new clothes ; 
I will present you with a nag of mine, 
Poor tender of my service — please to accept, 
My lady's smile more than rewards me for it. 
I must provide fit servants to attend you, 
Monsieurs for horse and foot. 

Fred. I shall submit. 
If this be my aunt's pleasure, and be ruled. 
My eyes are open'd with this purse already. 
And sack will help to inspire me. I must spend it. 



280 



JAMES SHIRLEY. 



FROM "CHABOT, ADMIRAL OF FRANCE."* 

The Queen insulting the Wife and Father of the accused 

Admiral in their misfortunes. 

Perions.— The Constable of France, Queen, Wife and 

Father of Chabot. 

Constable introducing Vie Wife n/ Chabot. 

Cons. She attends you, madam. 

Qiicen. This humbleness proceeds not from 
your heart ; [thoughts ; 

Why, you are a queen yourself in your own 
The admiral's wife of France cannot be less; 
You have not state enough, you should not move 
Without a train of friends and servants. 

Wife. There is some mystery 
M'ithin your language, madam. I would hope 
You have more charity than to imagine 
My present condition worth your triumph, 
In which I am not so lost but I have 
Some friends and servants with proportion 
To my lord's fortune ; but none within the lists 
Of those that obey me can be more ready 
To express their duties, than my heart to serve 
Your just commands. 

Queen. Then pride will ebb, I see ; 
There is no constant flood of state and greatness; 
The prodigy is ceasing when your lord 
Comes to the balance ; he, whose blazing fires 
Shot wonders through the kingdom, will discover 
What flying and corrupted matter fed him. 

Wife. My lord ] 

Queen. Your high and mighty justicer, 
The man of conscience, the oracle 
Of state, whose honourable titles [mortal ; 

Would crack an elephant's back, is now turn'd 
Must pass examination and the test 
Of law, have all his offices ripp'd up, 
And his corrupt soul laid open to the subjects ; 
His bribes, oppressions, and close sins, that made 
So many groan and curse him, now shall find 
Their just reward ; and all that love their country 
Bless Heaven and the king's justice, for removing 
Such a devouring monster. 

Father. Sir, your pardon. 
Madam, you are the queen, she is my daughter, 
And he that you have character'd so monstrous 
My son-in-'aw, now gone to be arraign'd. 
The king is just, and a good man ; but 't does not 
Add to the graces of your royal person 
To tread upon a lady thus dejected 
By her own grief: her lord's not yet found guilty. 
Much less condemn'd, though you have pleased 
to execute him. 

Queen. What saucy fellow's this 1 

Father. I must confess 
I am a man out of this element. 
No courtier, yet I am a gentleman, 
That dare speak honest truth to the queen's ear, 
(A duty every subject will not pay you,) 
And justify it to all the world; there's nothing 
Doth more eclipse the honours of our soul 



[■*= As Chapman had certainly the larger share in this 
trajjeily. the specimen should have been placed by Mr, 
CamptJell under Chapman, (lifford at first thought ■' Cha- 
bot"' was tscarce admissible in a collection of Shirley's 
Works.] 



Than an ill-grounded and ill-follow'd passion, 
Let fly with noise and license against those 
Whose hearts before are bleeding. 

Cons. Brave old man ! [a woman 

Father. 'Cause you are a queen, to trample o'er 
Whose tongue and faculties are all tied up ; 
Strike out a lion's teeth, and pare his claws. 
And then a dwarf may pluck him by the beard — 
'Tis a gay victory. 

Queen. Did you hear, my lord 1 

Father. I ha' done. 

Wife. And it concerns me to begin. 
I have not made this pause through servile fear, 
Or guilty apprehension of your rage, 
But with just wonder of the heats and wildness 
Has prepossess'd your nature 'gainst our innocence. 
You are my queen, unto that title bows 
The humblest knee in France, my heart made lower 
With my obedience and prostrate duty, 
Nor have I powers created for my use 
When just commands of you expect their sen'ice; 
But were you queen of all the world, or something 
To be thought greater, betwixt Heaven and us. 
That I could reach you with my eyes and voice, 
I would shoot both up in defence of my 
Abused honour, and stand all your lightning. 

Queen. So brave 1 

Wife. So just and boldly innocent. 
I cannot fear, arm'd with a noble conscience, 
The tempest of your frown, were it more frightful 
Than ever fury made a woman's anger, [mony ; 
Prepared to kill with death's most horrid cere- 
Yet with what freedom of my soul I can 
Forgive your. accusation of my pride, [language? 

Queen. Forgive ? What insolence is like this 
Can any action of ours be capable 
Of thy forgiveness] Dust! how I despise thee! 
Can we sin to be object of thy mercy 1 [stain 

Wife. Yes, and have done 't already, and no 
To your greatness, madam ; 'tis my charity, 
I can remit ; when sovereign princes dare 
Do injury to those that live beneath them, 
They turn worth pity and their prayers, and 'tis 
In the free power of those whom they oppress 
To pardon 'em ; each soul has a prerogative 
And privilege royal that was signed by Heaven. 
But though, in th' knowledge of my disposition. 
Stranger to pride, and what you charge me with, 
I can forgive the injustice done to me. 
And striking at my person, I have no 
Commission from my lord to clear you for 
The wrongi you have done him, and till he pardon 
The wounding of his loyalty, with which life 
Can hold no balance, I must talk just boldness 
To say [ter, 

Father. No fnore ! Now I must tell you, daugh- 
Lest you forget yourself, she is the queen, 
And it becomes you not to vie with her 
Passion for passion : if your lord stand fast 
To the full search of law. Heaven will revenge him, 
And give him up precious to good men's loves. 
If you attempt by these unruly ways 
To vindicate his justice, I'm against you ; 
Dear as I wish your husband's life and i irae, 
Subjects are bound to suffer, not conV3st 



ANONYMOUS. 



281 



With princes, since their will and acts must be 
Accounted one day to a Judge supreme. 

Wife. I ha' done. If the devotion to my lord. 
Or pity to his innocence, have led me 
Beyond the awful limits to be observed 
By one so much beneath your sacred person, 
I thus low crave your royal pardon, madam ; 

[Kneels. 
I know you will remember, in your goodness, 
My life-blood is concern'd while his least vein 
Shall run black and polluted, my heart fed 
With what keeps him alive ; nor can there be 
A greater wound than that which strikes the life 
Of our good name, so much above the bleeding 
Of this rude pile we carry, as the soul 
Hath excellence above this earth-born frailty. 
My lord, by the king's will, is led already 
To a severe arraignment, and to judges 
Will make no tender search into his tract 
Of Ijfe and state ; stay but a little while. 
And France shall echo to his shame or innocence. 
This suit I beg with tears, I shall have sorrow 
Enough to hear him censured foul and monstrous 
Should you forbear to antedate my sufferings. 

Queen. Your conscience comes about, and you 
incline 
To fear he may be worth the law's condemning. 

IVt/e [rising.'] I sooner will suspect the stars 
may lose 
Their way, and crystal heaven return to chaos; 
Truth sits not on her square more firm than he ; 
Yet let me tell you, madam, were his life 
And action so foul as you have character'd 
And the bad world expects, though as a wife 
'Twere duty I should weep myself to death 



To know him fall'n from virtue, yet so much 
I, a frail woman, love my king and country, 
I should condemn him too, and think all honours, 
The price of his lost faith, more fatal to me 
Than Cleopatra's asps warm in my bosom, 
And as much boast their killing. 



DEATH'S CONQUEST. 

The glories of our birth and state 

Are shadows, not substantial things ; 
There is no armour against fate. 
Death lays his icy hands on kings ; 
Sceptre and crown 
Must tumble down. 
And, in the dust, be equal made 
With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 

Some men with swords may reap the field, 
And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; 
But their strong nerves at last must yield; 
They tame but one another still : 
Early or late 
They stoop to fate. 
And must give up their murm'ring breath, 
When they, pale captives, creep to death. 

The garlands wither on your brow, 

Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; 
Upon Death's purple altar now 

See where the victor victim bleeds ; 
All hands must come 
To the cold tomb, 
Only the actions of the just, 
Smell sweet and blossom in the dust. 



ANONYMOUS. 



FROM "SELECT AYRES AND DIALOGUES," BY 
LAWES. 1659. 

I DO confess thou 'rt smooth and fair. 

And I might have gone near to love thee, 

Had I not found the slightest prayer 

That lip could move had power to move thee ; 

But I can let thee now alone. 

As worthy to be loved by none. 

I do confess thou 'rt sweet, yet find 
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, 

Thy favours are but like the wind. 
Which kisseth every thing it meets ; 

And since thou canst with more than one, 

Phou'rt worthy to be loved by none. 

The morning-rose, that untouch'd stands 
Arm'd with her briers, how sweetly smells ! 

But pluck'd and strain'd through ruder hands, 
Her sweet no longer with her dwells ; 

"iut scent and beauty both are gone. 

And leaves fall from her one by one. 
36 



Such fate ere long will thee betide. 

When thou hast handled been awhile ; 

With sear flowers to be thrown aside, 
And I will sigh when some will smile 

To see thy love for more than one 

Hath brought thee to be loved by none.* 



From p. 11 of "Cromwell's Conspira'-y, a tragicomedy, 
relating to our latter Times; beginning at the death of 
King Charles the First, and ending with the happy Re- 
stauration of King Charle.<s the Second. Written by a 
Person of Quality." 4to, Lond. 1660. 

How happy 's the pris'ner that conquers his fate 
With silence, and ne'er on bad fortune complains. 

But carelessly plays with his keys on the grate. 
And makes a sweet concert with them and his 
chains ! [oppress'd, 

He drowns care with sack, while his thoughts are 

And makes his heart float like a cork in his breast. 

[* To this song, which was written by Sir Robert Ayton, 
Burns gave a SMts dress, but failed to improve.] 
t2 



282 



ANONYMOUS. 



Then since w' are all slaves who islanders be, 
And the world 's a large prison enclosed with 

the sea, 
We will drink up the ocean, and set ourselves free, 
For man is the world 's epitome. 

Let tyrants wear purple, deep dyed in the blood 

Of them they have slain, their sceptres to sway : 
If our conscience be clear, and our title be good 
To the rags that hang on us, w' are richer than 
they: 
We'll drink down at night what we beg or can 
borrow, [morrow. 

And sleep without plotting for more the next 
Then since w' are all slaves, &c. 

Come, drawer, and fill us a peck of Canary, 
One brimmer shall bid all our senses good night. 

When old Aristotle was frolic and merry. 

By the juice of the grape he turn'd Stagyrite ; 

Copernicus once in a drunken fit found [round. 

By the course of his brains that the world turned 
Then since w' are all slaves, &c. 

'Tis sack makes our faces like comets to shine, 
And gives beauty beyond a complexion mask ; 

Diogenes fell so in love with his wine. 

That when 'twas all out he still lived in the cask ; 

And he so loved the scent of the wainscotted room, 

That dying he desired a tub for his tomb. 
Then since w'are all slaves, &c. 

LOYALTY CONFINED. 

FROM THE SAME. 

Ascribed to Sir Roger L'Estrange. 
Beat on, proud billows ; Boreas, blow ; 

Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's roof; 
Your incivility doth show 

That .Knnocence is tempest-proof: 
Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm ; 
Then strike. Affliction, for thy wounds are balm. 

That which the world miscalls a jail, 

A private closet is to me ; 
Whilst a good conscience is my bail, 

And innocence my liberty: 
Locks, bars, and solitude, together met, 
Makes me no prisoner, but an anchoret. 

T, whilst I wish'd to be retired. 

Into this private room was turn'd, 
As if their wisdoms had conspired 

The salamander should be burn'd; 
Or like a sophy, that would drown a fish, 
I am constrained to suffer what I wish. 

Thy cynic hugs his poverty. 

The pelican her wilderness; 
And 'tis the Indian's pride to be 

Naked on frozen Caucasus: 
Contentment cannot smart, stoics we see 
Make torments easy to their apathy. 

Tnese manacles upon my arm 

I as my mistress' favours wea^; 
And for to keep my ankles warm, 

I have some iron shackles there. 



These walls are but my garrison ; this cell, 
Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel. 

I'm in this cabinet lock'd up, 

Like some high-prized Margaret ; 
Or, like some Great Mogul, or Pope, 

Am cloister'd up from public sight: 
Retirement is a piece of majesty. 
And thus, proud sultan, I'm as great as thee. 

Here sin for want of food must starve. 
Where tempting objects are not seen ; 

And these strong walls do only ser\e 
To keep vice out, and keep me in : 

Malice of late's grown charitable sure, 

I'm not committed, but I'm kept secure 

Have you not seen the nightingale, 

A pilgrim coop'd into a cage. 
How doth she chant her wonted tale 

In that her narrow hermitage? 
Even there her charming melody doth prove* 
That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove. 

My soul is free as th' ambient air. 
Although my baser part's immured, 

Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair, 
T' accompany my solitude: 

And though immured, yet I can chirp and sing 

Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king. 

What though I cannot see my king. 
Neither in his person or his coin 1 

Yet contemplation is a thing. 

That renders what I have not mine. 

My king from me what adamant can part. 

Whom I do wear engraven on my heart 1 

I am that bird whom they combine 

Thus to deprive of liberty ; 
But though they do my corpse confine, 

Yet, maugre hate, my soul is free. 
Although rebellion do my body bind. 
My king can only captivate my mind. 



UPON AMBITION. 



From the "Rump," a collection of poems and songs relat- 
ing to the times front 1639 to 1661. Lond. 1662. 

How uncertain is the state 
Of that greatness we adore ; 
When ambitiously we soar. 
And have ta'en the glorious height, 

'Tis but ruin gilded o'er. 
To enslave us to our fate. 
Whose false delight is easier got than kept, 
Content ne'er on its gaudy pillow slept. 

Then how fondly do we try, 
With such superstitious care, 
To build fabrics in the air; 
Or seek safety in that feky. 

Where no stars but meteors are 
That portend a ruin nigh: 
And having reach'd the object of our aim. 
We find it but a pyramid of flame. 



ALEXANDER BROME. 



[Born, 1620. Died, 1666.] 



Alexander Brome was an attorney in the 
Lord Mayor's Court. From a verse in one of 
his poems, it would seem that he had been sent 
once in the civil war, (by compulsion no doubt,) 
on the parliament side, but had stayed only three 
days, and never fought against the king and the 
cavaliers. He was in truth a strenuous loyalist, 
and the bacchanalian songster of his party. Most 
of the songs and epigrams that were published 
against the Rump have been ascribed to him. 
He had, besides, a share in the translation of 
Horace, with Fanshawe, Holiday, Cowley, and 
others, and published a single comedy, the Cun- 



ning Lovers, which was acted in 1651, at the pr. 
vate house in Drury. There is a playful variety 
in his metre, that probably had a better effect in 
song than in reading. His thoughts on love and 
the bottle have at least the merit of being decently 
jovial, though he arrays the trite arguments of 
convivial invitation in few original images. In 
studying the traits and complexion of a past age, 
amusement, if not illustration, will often be found 
from the ordinary effusions of party ridicule. In 
this view, the Diurnal, and other political satires 
of Brome, have an extrinsic value as contempo- 
rary caricatures. 



THE RESOLVE. 

Tell me not of a face that's fair, 

Nor lip and cheek that's red, 
Nor of the tresses of her hair, 

Nor curls in order laid ; 
Nor of a rare seraphic voice, 

That like an angel sings ; 
Though if I were to take my choice, 

I would have all these things. 
But if that thou wilt have me love, 

And it must be a she ; 
The only argument can move 

Is, that she will love me. 

The glories of your ladies be 

But metaphors of things, 
And but resemble what we see 

Each common object brings. 
Roses out-red their lips and cheeks. 

Lilies their whiteness stain : 
What fool is he that shadows seeks. 

And may the substance gain ! 
Then if thou 'It have me love a lass. 

Let it be one that's kind, 
Else I'm a servant to the glass 

That's with Canary lined. 



ON CANARY. 
Of all the rare juices 
That Bacchus or Ceres produces, 
There's none that I can, nor dare I 
Compare with the princely Canary. 
For this is the thing 

That a fancy infuses ; 
This first got a king. 

And next the nine Muses : 
Twas this made old poets so sprightly to sing. 

And fill all the world with the glory and fame on't ; 
They Helicon call'd it, and the Thespian spring, 
But this was the drink, though they knew not 
the name on't. 



Our cider and perry 
May make a man mad, but not merry; 
It makes people windmill-pated. 
And with crackers sophisticated ; 

And your hops, yeast, and malt, 
When they're mingled together. 

Make our fancies to halt. 
Or reel any whither ; 
It stuffs up our brains with froth and with vest, 

That if one would write but a verse for a bellman. 
He must study till Christmas for an eight-shilling 
jest; 
These liquors won't raise, but drown, and o'er- 
whelm man. 

Our drowsy metheglin 
Was only ordained to inveigle in 

The novice that knows not to drink yet. 
But is fuddled before he can think it; 
And your claret and white 
Have a gunpowder fury; 
They're of the French spright. 
But they won't long endure you. 
And your holiday muscadine, Alicant and tent, 

Have only this property and virtue that's fit in't. 

They 'II make a man sleep till a preachment be spent. 

But we neither can warm our blood nor wit in't. 

The bagrag and Rhenish 
You must with ingredients replenish; 
'Tis a wine to please ladies and toys with ; 
But not for a man to rejoice with. 
But 'tis sack makes the sport, 

And who gains but that flavour. 
Though an abbess he court. 
In his high-shoes he'll have her; 
'Tis this that advances the drinker and drawer: 
Though the father came to town in his hobmils 
and leather, 
He turns it to velvet, and brinp:s up an heir, 
In the town in his chain, in the field with h'ls 
feather. 



284 



ROBERT HERRICK. 



TO A COY LADY. 
I PRITHEE leave this peevish fashion, 

Don't desire to be high prized ; 
Love's a princely noble passion, 

And doth scorn to be despised. 
Though we say you're fair, you know 
We your beauty do bestow, 
For our fancy makes you so. 

Don't be proud 'cause we adore you, 
We do 't only for our pleasure ; 

And those parts in which you glory 
We by fancy weigh and measure. 

When for deities you go, 

For angels or for queens, pray know 

'Tis our fancy makes you so. 

Don't suppose your majesty 
By tyranny's best signified, 

And your angelic natures be 
Distinguish'd only by your pride. 



Tyrant.s make subjects rebels grow. 
And pride makes angels devils below, 
And your pride may make you so. 



THE MAD LOVER. 
I HAVE been in love, and in debt, and in drink — 

This many and many a year; [think. 

And those three are plagues enough, one would 

For one poor mortal to bear. 
'Twas drink made me fall into love. 

And love made me run into debt ; [strove. 

And though I have struggled, and struggled and 

I cannot get out of them yet. 

There's nothing but money can cure me, 
And rid me of all my pain : 
'Twill pay all my debts. 
And remove all my lets ! 
And my mistress that cannot endure me. 

Will love me, and love me again : 
Then I'll fall to loving and drinking again. 



ROBERT HERRICK. 



fBorn, 1391. Died, about 1674.] 



Heerick's vein of poetry is very irregular ; 
but where the ore is pure, it is of high value. 
His song beginning, " Gather ye rose-buds, while 
ye may," is sweetly Anacreontic. Nichols, in his 
History of Leicestershire, has given the fullest 
account of his history hitherto published, and 
reprinted many of his poems, which illustrate his 
family connections. He was the son of an emi- 
nent goldsmith in Cheapside, was born in London, 
and educated at Cambridge. Being patronized 



by the Earl of Exeter, he was, in 1629, presented 
by Charles I. to the vicarage of Dean Prior, in 
Devonshire, from which he was ejected during 
the civil war, and then having assumed the habit 
of a layman, resided in Westminster. After 
the Restoration he was replaced in his vicar- 
age. To his Hesperides, or Works Human and 
Divine,* he added some pieces on religious sub- 
jects, where his volatile genius was not in her 
element. 



TO MEADOWS. ' 
Ye have been fresh and green, 

Ye have been fill'd with flowers ; 
And ye the walks have been. 

Where maids have spent their hours. 

Ye have beheld where they 
With wicker arks did come. 

To kiss and bear away 
The richer cowslips home. 

You've heard them sweetly sing. 
And seen them in a round. 



[* Whjit is " Divine" has murh of the essence of poetry ; 
that whieh is human, of the friiilty of the flesh. Some 
are p'avfully pastoral, some sweetly Anacreontic, some 
in the "hiijher key of religion, others lasciviously wanton 
8url unclean. The whole collection seems to have passed 
Into oblivion till about the year 1786. and since then we 
3ave had a separate volume of selicliniis. and two com- 
plete reprints. His several excellences have preserved his 
many indecencies, the divinity of his verse (poetiially 
Boeaking) the dunghill of his obsceuer moods. Southey, 



Each virgin like a Spring 
With honeysuckles crowned. 

But now we see none here, 
Whose silvery feet did tread. 

And, with dishevell'd hair, 
Adorn'd this smoother mead. 

Like unthrifts, having spent 
Your stock, and needy grown, 

Ye're left here to lament 
Your poor estates alone. 



admittinfc the perennial beauty of many of his poems, 
has styled him, not with too much si-verity, "a coarse- 
minded and beastly writer." Jones' Attempts in lirse, 
p. i-."); see also Qwir. Jin: vol. iv p. 171.— C] 

[The last and best edition of Herrick was published by 
II. G. Clarke, Lomlon. lf^44. in two volumes. The life of 
Ilenick, we are in<liiied to think, was as licentious as his 
verse, and both disgraced the church and served well to 
round the periods of Puritan lamentations and anatb'r 
mas. — G.] 



ROBERT HERRICK. 



285 



SONG. 
Gather ye rose-buds, while ye may, 

Old Time is still a flying; 
And this same flower that smiles to-day. 

To-morrow will be dying. 

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, 

The higher he 's a getting, 
The sooner will his race be run. 

And nearer he's to setting. 

The age is best which is the first. 
When youth and blood are warmer ; 

But being spent, the worse and worst 
Times still succeed the former. 

Then be not coy, but use your time, 
And, whilst ye may, go marry ; 

For having lost but once your prime, 
You may for ever tarry. 



TO DAFFODILS. 
Fair daffodils, we weep to see 
You haste away so soon ; 
As yet, the early-rising sun 
Has not attain'd its noon. 

Stay, stay 
Until the hasting day 

Has run 
But to the even song ; 
And having pray'd together, we 
Will go with you along. 

We have short time to stay as you, 
We have as short a spring ; 
As quick a growth to meet decay, 
As you or any thing. 

We die. 
As your hours do, and dry 

Away, 
Like to the summer's rain, 
Or as the pearls of morning dew, 
Ne'er to be found again. 



TO BLOSSOMS. 
Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 
Why do you fall so fast? 
Your date is not so past ; 
But you may stay yet here awhile. 
To blush and gently smile. 
And go at last. 

What, were ye born to be 

An hour or half's delight, 
And so to bid good-night ! 

'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth 
Merely to show your worth. 
And lose you quite. 

But you are lovely leaves, where we 
May read how soon things have 
Their end, though ne'er so brave : 

And after they have shown their pride. 
Like you, awhile, they glide 
Into the grave. 



THE NIGHT-PIECE.— TO JULIA. 
Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, 
The shooting stars attend thee ; 
And the elves also. 
Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

No Will o' th' Wisp mislight thee ; 
Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee ; 

But on, on thy way, 

Not making a stay. 
Since ghost there is none to affright theo 

Let not the dark thee cumber ; 

What though the moon does slumber 1 
The stars of the night 
Will lend thee their light. 

Like tapers clear without number. 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee. 
Thus, thus, to come unto me ; 

And when I s"hall meet 

Thy silvery feet, 
My soul I'll pour into thee. 



THE COUNTRY LIFE. 
Sweet country life, to such unknown 
Whose lives are others', not their own ! 
But, serving courts and cities, be 
Less happy, less enjoying thee ! 
Thou never plough'st the ocean's foam 
To seek and bring rough pepper home ; 
Nor to the Eastern Ind dost rove. 
To bring from thence the scorched clove : 
Nor, with the lost of thy loved rest, 
Bring'st home the ingot from the West. 
No : thy ambition's master-piece 
Flies no thought higher than a fleece ; 
Or how to pay thy hinds, and clear 
All scores, and so to end the year; 
But walk'st about thy own dear bounds, 
Not envying others' larger grounds : 
For well thou know'st 'tis not th' extent 
Of land makes life, but sweet content. 
When now the cock, the ploughman's honi, 
Calls forth the lily-wristed morn, 
Then to thy corn-fields thou dost go. 
Which though well-soil'd, yet thou dost know 
That the best compost for the lands 
Is the wise master's feet and hands. 
There at the plough thou find'st thy team, 
With a hind whistling there to them; 
And cheer'st them up by singing how 
The kingdom's portion is the plough. 
This done, then to th' enamell'd meads 
Thou go'st ; and as thy foot there treads, 
Thou see'st a present godlike power 
Imprinted in each herb and flower ; 
And smell'st the breath of great-eyed kinc, 
Sweet as the blossoms of the vine. 
Here thou behold'st thy large sleek neat, 
Unto the dewlaps up in meat ; 
And, as thou look'st, the wanton steer, 
The heifer, cow, and ox, draw near. 
To make a pleasing pastime there 



JJ86 



ABRAHAM COWLEY. 



These sejn, thou go'st to view thy flocks 

Of sheep, safe from the wolf and fox ; 

And find'st their bellies there as full 

Of short sweet grass, as backs with wool ; 

And leavest them as they feed and fill ; 

A shepherd piping on a hill. 

For sports, for pageantry, and plays, 

Thou hast thy eves and holidays ; 

On which the young men and maids meet, 

To exercise their dancing feet; 

Tripping the comely country round, 

With daffodils and daisies crown'd. 

Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast; 

Thy May-poles too, with garlands graced ; 

Thy morris-dance, thy Whitsun-ale, 

Thy shearing feast, which never fail ; 

Thy harvest-home, thy wassail-bowl, 

That's tost up after fox i' th' hole ; 

Thy mummeries, thy Twelfth-night kings 

And queens, thy Christmas revellings ; 

Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit ; 

And no man pays too dear for it. 

To these thou hast thy times to go, 

And trace the hare in the treacherous snow; 

Thy witty wiles to draw, and get 

The lark into the trammel net; 

Thou hast thy cockrood, and thy glade 

To take the precious pheasant niade ; 

Thy lime-twigs, snares, and pit-falls, then 

To catch the pilfering birds, not men. 

O happy life, if that their good 
The husbandmen but understood! 
Who all the days themselves do please, 
And younglings, with such sports as these ; 
And, lying down, have nought to affright 
Sweet sleep that makes more short the night. 



LITANY TO THE HOLY SPIRIT. 
In the hour of my distress. 
When temptations me oppress, 
And when I my sins confess, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 



When I lie within my bed, 
Sick at heart, and sick at head, 
And with doubts discomforted, 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 

When the house doth sigh and weep, 
And the world is drowned in sleep, 
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep ; 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 

When the passing-bell doth toll. 
And the furies in a shoal 
Come to fright a parting soul, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 

When God knows I'm tossed about. 
Either with despair or doubt. 
Yet before the glass be out. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 

When the tapers now burn blue. 
And the comforters are few, 
And that number more than true, 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 

When the priest his last hath prayed. 
And I nod to what is said, 
'Cause my speech is now decayed. 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 

When the tempter me pursueth 
With the sins of all my youth, 
And half damns me with untruth, 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 

When the flames and hellish cries 
Fright mine ears and fright mine eyes. 
And all terrors me surprise. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 

When the judgment is revealed, 
And that opened which was sealed, 
When to Thee I have appealed 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 



ABRAHAM COWLEY. 



IBorn, 1618. Died, 1667.] 



Abraham Cowley was the posthumous son 
of a grocer in London. His mother, though left 
a poor widow, found means to get him educated 
at Westminster School, and he obtained a scholar- 
ship at Cambridge. Before leaving the former 
stMuinary, he published his Poetical Blossoms. 
He wrote verses while yet a child ; and amidst 
his best poetry as well as his worst, in his touch- 
ing and tender as well as extravagant passages, 
there is always something that reminds us of 
childhood in Cowley. From Cambridge he was 
ejected in 1643, for his loyalty ; after a short 
retirement, he was induced by his principles to 
follow the queen to Paris, as secretary to the 



Earl of St. Albans, and during an absence of 
ten years from his native country, was employed 
in confidential journeys for his party, and in de- 
ciphering the royal correspondence. The object 
of his return to England, in 1656, 1 am dit^posed 
to think, is misrepresented by his biographers; 
they tell us that he came over under pretence of 
privacy, to give notice of the posture of affairs. 
Cowley came home indeed, and published an edition 
of his poems, in the preface to which he decidedly 
declares himself a quietist under the existing 
government, abjures the idea of all political hos- 
tility, and tells us that he had not only abstained 
from printing, but had burnt the very copirs of 



ABRAHAM COWLEl. 



287 



his verses that alluded to the civil wars. " The 
eninities of I'ellow-citizens," he continues, "should 
be like those of lovers, the redintegration of their 
amity." If Cowley employed this language to 
make his privacy the deeper pretence for giving 
secret intelligence, his office may be worthily 
named that of a spy ; but the manliness and pla- 
cidity of his character render it much more pro- 
bable that he was sincere in those declarations ; 
nor were his studious pursuits, which were chiefly 
botanical, well calculated for political intrigue. 
He took a doctor's degree, but never practised, 
and was one of the earhest members of the phi- 
losophical society. While Butler's satire was un- 
worthily employed in ridiculing the infancy of that 
institution, Cowley's wit took a more than ordi- 
nary stretch of perversion in the good intention of 
commending it. Speaking of Bacon, he calls him 

th9 mighty man, 
Whom a wise Itiiig aud nature chose 
To be the chancellor of both their laws. 

At his first arrival in England he had been 
imprisoned, and obliged to find bail to a great 
amount. On the death of Cromwell, he con- 
sidered himself at liberty, and went to France, 
where he stopped till the Restoration. At that 
event, when men who had fought under Crom- 
well were rewarded for coming over to Charles 
II., Cowley was denied the mastership of the 
Savoy on pretence of his disloyalty, and the 
Lord Chancellor told him that his pardon was 
his reward. The sum of his oflence was, that 



he had lived peaceably under the usurping 
government, though without having published 
a word, even in his amiable and pacific preface, 
that committed his principles. But an absurd 
idea prevailed that his Cutter of Coleman-street 
was a satire on his party, and he had published 
an ode to Brutus ! It is impossible to contrast 
this injured honesty of Cowley with the success- 
ful profligacy of Waller and Dryden, and not to 
be struck with the all-prevailing power of impu- 
dence. In such circumstances, it is little to be 
wondered at that Cowley should have sighed for 
retirement, and been ready to accept of it even 
in the deserts of America. Misanthropy, as far as 
so gentle a nature could cherish it, naturally 
strengthened his love of retirement, and in- 
creased that passion for a country life which 
breathes in the fancy of his poetry, and in the 
eloquence of his prose. By the influence of 
Buckingham and St. Albans, he at last obtained 
a competence of about 300/. a year from a lease 
of the queen's lands, which enabled him to retire, 
first to Barnes Elms, and afterwards to Chertsey, 
on the Thames. But his health was now de- 
clining, and he did not long experience either 
the sweets or inconvenience of rustication. He 
died, according to Dr. Sprat, in consequence of 
exposing himself to cold one evening that he 
st;iyed late among his labourers. Another account 
ascribes his death to being benighted in the 
fields, after having spent too convivial an evening 
with the same Dr. Sprat.* 



THE CHRONICLE, A BALLAD.f 
Margarita first possess'd, 
If I remember well, my breast, 
Margarita first of all ; 
But when a while the wanton maid 
With my restless heart had play'd, 
Martha took the flying ball. 

Martha soon did it resign 
To the beauteous Catharine : 
Beauteous Catharine gave place 
(Though loth and angry she to part 
With the possession of my heart) 
To Eliza's conquering face. 

Eliza to this hour might reign. 
Had she not evil counsels ta'en : 
Fundamental laws she broke 
And still new favourites she chose, 
Till up in arms my passions rose, 
And cast away her yoke. 

Mary then, and gentle Anne, 
Both to reign at once began ; 



f* "Cowley is a writer of great sens", ingpnuity, and 
Icarnins;." says Ilazlitt, "but as a poet his f:inry is quaint, 
far-fetched and mechanical." The Siinie critic, however. 
Bays of his AnacrennticR, that they are jierfect, breathing 
"the very spirit of love and wine." — O] 

[t " The Chronicle" is a composition unrivalled and 
fcloue: such gayety of fancy, such facility of expression. 



Alternately they sway'd, 
And sometimes Mary was the fair. 
And sometimes Anne the crown did wear 
And sometimes both I obey 'd. 

Another Mary then arose. 

And did rigorous laws impose ; 

A mighty tyrant she ! 

Long, alas ! should I have been 

Under that iron-sceptred queen, 

Had not Rebecca set me free. 

When fiiir Rebecca set me free, 

'Twas then a golden time with me: 

But soon those pleasures fled ; 

For the gracious princess died 

In her youth and beauty's pride, 

And Judith reigned in her stead. 

One month, three days, and half an hour, 

Judith held the sovereign power : 

Wondrous beautiful her face. 

But so weak and small her wit, 

That she to govern was unfit. 

And so Susanna took her place. 



such varied similitude, such a succession of imasf'S. and 
such a dance of words, it is in vain to expect except from 
Co\yley. To such a perform;in(e, Suckling could have 
brought the gayety, but not the knowledge ; Oryden 
could have oupplied the kuowledge; but not the gayetv 

— JOHNgCN,] 



ABRAHAM COWLEY. 



But when Isabella came, 
Arm'd with a resistless flame ; 
And th' artillery of her eye, 
Whilst she proudly march'd about, 
Greater conquests to find out, 
She beat out Susan by-the-by. 

But in her place I then obey'd 
Black-eyed Bess, her viceroy maid, 
To whom ensued a vacancy. 
Thousand worst passions then possess'd 
The interregnum of my breast. 
Bless me from such an anarchy ! 

Gentle Henrietta then, 
And a third Mary, next began : 
Then Joan, and Jane, and Audria; 
And then a pretty Thomasine, 
And then another Catharine, 
And then a long et cetera. 

But should I now to you relate 
The strength and riches of their state, 
The powder, patches, and the pins, 
The ribands, jewels, and the rings. 
The lace, the paint, and warlike things, 
That make up all their magazines : 

If I should te>l the politic arts 
To take and keep men's hearts. 
The letters, embassies, and spies, 
The frowns, the smiles and flatteries, 
The quarrels, tears, and perjuries, 
Numberless, nameless mysteries ! 

And all the little lime-twigs laid 
By Mach'avel the waiting-maid ; 
I more voluminous should grow 
(Chiefly if I like them should tell 
All change of weathers that befell) 
Than Holinshed or Stow. 

But I will briefer with them be, 
Since few of them were long with me. 
A higher and a nobler 
My present emperess does claim, 
Heleonora ! first o' the name, 
Whom God grant long to reign. 



THE COMPLAINT.* 
In a deep vision's intellectual scene, 
Beneath a bower for sorrow made, 
Th' uncomfortable shade 
Of the black yew's unlucky green, 
Mix'd with the morning willow's careful gray. 
Where rev'rend Cam cuts out his famous way 
The melancholy Cowley lay ; 
And, lo ! a Muse appeared to his closed sight 
(The Muses oft in lands of visions play,) 
Bodied, array'd, and seen by an internal light: 
A golden harp with silver strings she bore, 
A wondrous hieroglyphic robe she wore. 



[* Written on the rijjid censures passed upon "his 
conieiiy callnd ' Cutter of Coleman-street.' '• He published 
his pretensions and his discontent." says Johnson, "in an 
Ode called -The Complaint;' in which he styles himself 



In which all colours and all figures were 
That nature or that fancy can create. 
That art can never imitate. 
And with loose pride it wanton'd in the air: 
In such a dress, in such a well-clothed dream, 
She used of old near fair Ismenus' stream 
Pindar, her Theban favourite, to meet; [feet. 
A crown was on her head, and wings were on her 

She touched him with her harp and raised him 

from the ground; 
The shaken strings melodiously resound. 
" Art thou return'd at last," said she, 
"To this forsaken place and me? 
Thou prodigal ! who didst so loosely waste 
Of all thy youthful years the good estate ; 
Art thou return'd, here to repent too late 1 
And gather husks of learning up at last. 
Now the rich harvest-time of life is past, 
And winter marches on so fast ? 
But when I meant t' adopt thee for my son, 
And did as learn'd a portion assign 
As ever any of the mighty nine 
Had to their dearest children done ; 
When I resolved t' exalt thy anointed name 
Among the spiritual lords of peaceful fame ; 
Thou changeling ! thou, bewitch'd with noise and 

show, 
Wouldst into courts and cities from me go ; 
Wouldst see the world abroad, atid have a share 
In all the follies and the tumults there ; 
Thou wouldst, forsooth, be something in a state, 
And business thou wouldst find, and wouldst 
Business ! the frivolous pretence [create : 

Of human lusts to shake off innocence ; 
Business ! the grave impertinence ; 
Business ! the thing which I of all things hate, 
Business ! the contradiction of thy fate. 

Go, renegado ! cast up thy account, 

And see to what amount 

Thy foolish gains by quitting me : 

The sale of knowledge, fame, and liberty. 

The fruits of thy unlearn'd apostasy, [past. 

Thou thoughtst, if once the public storm were 

All thy remaining life should sunshine be : 

Behold the public storm is spent at last. 

The sovereign is toss'd at sea no more. 

And thou with all the noble company. 

Art got at last to shore: 

But whilst thy fellow-voyagers I see. 

All march'd up to possess the promised land. 

Thou still alone, alas ! dost gaping stand. 

Upon the naked beach, upon the barren sand. 

As a fair morning of the blessed spring. 

After a tedious stormy night. 

Such was the glorious entry of our king ; 

Enriching moisture dropp'd on every thing : 

Plenty he sow'd below, and cast about him light. 

But then, alas! to thee alone 

One of old Gideon s miracles was shoWn, 



the meJanchnly Oiwle.y. This met with the usual fortune 
of complaints, and seems to have excited more contempt 
thau pity."j 



ABRAHAM COWLEY. 



289 



For ev'ry tree, and ev'ry hand around, 

With pearly dew v/as crown'd, 

And upon all the quicken'd ground 

The fruitful seed of heaven did brooding lie 

And nothing but the Muse's fleece was dry. 

It did all other threats surpass, 

When God to his own people said, [led,) 

(The men whom thro' long wanderings he had 

That he would give them even a heaven of brass : 

They look'd up to that heaven in vain, [strain 

That bounteous heaven ! which God did not re- 

Upon the most unjust to shine and rain. 

The Rachel, for which twice seven years and more, 

Thou didst with faith and labour serve. 

And didst (if faith and labour can) deserve, 

Though she contracted was to thee. 

Given to another, thou didst see, 

Given to another, who had store 

Of fairer and of richer wives before. 

And not a I^eah left, thy recompense to be. 

Go on, twice seven years more, thy fortune try. 

Twice seven years more God in his bounty may 

Give thee to fling away 

Into the court's deceitful lottery : 

But think how likfiJy 'iis that thou. 

With the dull work of thy unwieldy plough, 

Shouldst in a hard and barren season thrive, 

Shouldst even able be to live ; 

Thou ! to whose share so little bread did fall 

In the miraculous year when manna rain'd on all." 

Thus spake the Muse, and spake it with a smile. 

That seem'd at once to pity and revile: 

And to her thus, raising his thoughtful head, 

The melancholy Cowley said : 

"Ah, wanton foe! dost thou upbraid 

The ills which thou thyself hast made t 

When in the cradle innocent I lay, 

Thou, wicked spirit, stolest me away, 

And my abused soul didst bear 

Into thy new-found worlds, I know not where, 

Thy golden Indies in the air ; 

And ever since I strive in vain 

My'ravish'd freedom to regain; 

Still I rebel, still thou dost reign ; 

Lo, still in verse, against thee I complain. 

There is a sort of stubborn weeds. 

Which if the earth but once it ever breeds, 

No wholesome herb can near them thrive, 

No useful plant can keep alive ; 

The foolish sports I did on thee bestow 

Make all my art and labour fruitless now ; [grow. 

Where once such fairies dance, no grass doth ever 

When my new mind had no infusion known, 

Thou gavest so deep a tincture of thine own, 

That ever since I vainly try 

To wash away th' inherent dye : 

Long work, perhaps, may spoil thy colours quite. 

But never wiH reduce the native white. 

To all the ports of honour and of gain 

I often steer my course in vain ; 

Thy gale comes cross, and drives me back again. 

Thou slacken'st all my nerves of industry, 

By making them so oft to be 



The tinkling strings of thy loose minstrelsy 

Whoever this world's happiness would see 

Must as entirely cast off thee, 

As they who only heaven desire 

Do from the world retire. 

This was my error, this my gross mistake. 

Myself a demi-votary to make. 

Thus with Sapphira and her husband's fate, 

(A fault which I, like them, am taught too late,) 

For all that I gave up, I nothing gain, 

And perish for the part which I retain. 

Teach me not then, thou fallacious Muse ! 

The court and better king t' accuse; 

The heaven under which I live is fair. 

The fertile soil will a full harvest bear : 

Thine, thine is ail the barrenness, if thou 

Makest me sit still and sing when I should plough. 

When I but think how many a tedious year 

Our patient sovereign did attend 

His long misfortune's fatal end ; 

How cheerfully, and how exempt from fear. 

On the Great Sovereign's will he did depend, 

I ought to be accursed if I refuse 

To wait on his, thou fallacious Muse ! 

Kings have long hands, they say, and though I be 

So distant, they may reach at length to me. 

However, of all princes thou [slow ; 

Shouldst not reproach rewards for being small or 

Thou ! who rewardest but with pop'lar breath. 

And that, too, after death !" 



FROM FRIENDSHIP IN ABSENCE. 
A THOUSAND pretty ways we'll think upon 
To mock our separation. 
Alas ! ten thousand will not do ; 
My heart will thus no longer stay. 
No longer 'twill be kept from you. 
But knocks against the breast to get away. 

And when no art affords me help or ease, 

I seek with verse my griefs t' appease : 

Just as a bird that flies about. 

And beats itself against the cage, 

Finding at last no passage out. 

It sits and sings, and so o'ercomes its rage. 



THE DESPAIR. 
Beneath this gloomy shade. 
By Nature only for my sorrows made, 
I'll spend this voice in cries. 
In tears. I'll waste these eyes. 
By love so vainly fed; 
So lust of old the deluge punished. 
Ah, wretched youth, said I ; 
Ah, wretched youth ! twice did I sadly cry ; 
Ah, wretched youth ! the fields and floods replv 

When thoughts of love I entertain, 

I meet no words but Never, and. In vain : 

Never, alas ! that dreadful name 

Which fuels the infernal flame : 

Never ! my time to come must waste ; 

In vain ! torments the present and the pas'. • 



290 



ABRAHAM COWLEY. 



In vain, in vain ! said I, 

In vain, in vain ! twice did I sadly cry ; 

In vain ! in vain ! the fields and floods reply. 

No more shall fields or floods do so, 

For I to shades more dark and silent go : 

All this world's noise appears to me 

A dull ill-acted comedy : 

No comfort to my wounded sight, 

In the sun's busy and impert'nent light. 

Then down I laid my head, 

Down on cold earth, and for a while was dead, 

And my freed soul to a strange somewhere fled. 

Ah, sottish soul ! said I, 

"When back to its cage again I saw it fly: 

Fool! to resume her broken chain, 

And row her galley here again ! 

Fool ! to that body to return. 

Where it condemn'd and destined is to bum ! 

Once dead, how can it be 

Death should a thing so pleasant seem to thee, 

That thou shouldst come to live it o'er again in me 1 



THE WAITING-MAID. 
Thy maid ! Ah ! find some nobler theme 

Whereon thy doubts to place, 
Nor by a low suspect blaspheme 

The glories of thy face. 

Alas ! she makes thee shine so fair. 

So exquisitely bright. 
That her dim lamp must disappear 

Before thy potent light. 

Three hours each morn in dressing thee 

Maliciously are spent. 
And make that beauty tyranny. 

That's else a civil government. 

.Th' adorning thee with so much art 

Is but a barb'rous skill ; 
'Tis like the pois'ning of a dart. 

Too apt before to kill. 

The min'st'ring angels none can see; 

'Tis not their beauty or their face. 
For which by men they worshipp'd be, 

But their high office and their place, 
Thou art my goddess, my saint she ; 
I pray to her only to pray to thee. 



Bold Honour stands up in the gate. 
And would yet capitulate; 
Have I o'ercome all real foes. 
And shall this phantom me oppose ! 

Noisy nothing ! stalking shade ! 

By what witchcraft wert thou made ? 

Empty cause of solid harms ! 

But I shall find out counter-charms 

Thy airy devilship to remove 

From this circle here of love. 

Sure I shall rid myself of thee 

By the night's obscurity, 

And obscurer secresy : 

Unlike to ev'ry other sprite. 

Thou attempt'st not men t' affright, 

Nor appear'st but in the light. 



HONOUR. 
She loves, and she confesses too; 
There's then, at last, no more to do : 
The happy work 's entirely done; 
Enter the town which thou hast won ; 
The fruits of conquest now begin : 
lo, triumph ; enter in. 

What is this, ye gods! what can it be! 
Remains there still an enemy ? 

[* Thi» is Cowley's very fault : wit to an excess : — 

" He more had pleased us had he pleased us less." 
le never knew when he had said enough, but ran him- 



OF WIT. 

Tkll me, tell ! what kind of thing is Wit, 
Thou who master art of it: 
For the first matter loves variety less : 
Less women love it, either in love or dress : 
A thousand diff'rent shapes it bears. 
Comely in thousand shapes appears : 
Yonder we saw it plain, and here 'tis now, 
Like spirits, in a place, we know not how. 

London, that vends of false ware so much store, 

In no ware deceives us more : 

For men, led by the colour and the shape 

Like Zeuxis' birds, fly to the painted grape. 

Some things do through our judgment pass, 

As through a multiplying-glass; 

And sometimes, if the object be too far, 

We take a falling meteor for a star. 

Hence 'tis a wit, that greatest word of fame, 

Grows such a common name ; 

And wits by our creation they become, 

Just so as tit'lar bishops made at Rome. 

'Tis not a tale, 'tis not a jest. 

Admired with laughter at a feast, 
I Nor florid talk, which can that title gain; 
I The proofs of wit for ever must remain. 

j 'Tis not to force some lifeless verses meet 
j With their five gouty feet : 

All ev'rywhere, like man's must be the soul, 
i And reason the inferior powers control. 

Such were the numbers which could call 
I The stones into the Theban wall. 
[ Such miracles are ceased ; and now we see 

No towns or houses raised by poetry. 

Yet 'tis not to adorn and gild each part; 
That shows more cost than art. 
Jewels at nose and lips but ill appear ; 
Rather than ail things wit, let none be there.* 
Several lights will not be seen. 
If there be nothing else between. 



Belf and his reader both out of breath. In a better age 
Cowley had been a ;;re!it poet — he is now sunk from hi« 
first reputation: for as Lord Kochester said, (hotijich som^ 
what profanely. Aot bting of God, ht could not startd.] 



ABRAHAM COWLEY. 



291 



Men doubt, because they stand so thick i' th' sky, 
If those be stars which paint the galaxy. 

'Tis not when two like words make up one noise, 

Jests for Dutch men and Engl sh boys ; 

In which who finds out wit, the same may see 

In an'grams and acrostics poelry. 

Much less can that have any place 

At which a virgin hides her face ; 

Such dross the fire must purge away ; 'tis just 

The author blush there where the reader must. 

'Tis not such lines as almost crack the stage, 

When Baj:izet begins to rage; 

Nor a tall met'phor in the bombast way, 

Nor the dry chips of short-lung'd Seneca: 

Nor upon all things to obtrude 

And force some odd similitude. 

What is it then, which, like the Power Divine, 

We only can by negatives define 1 

In a true piece of wit all things must be, 

Yet all things there ayree : 

As in the ark, join'd without force or strife, 

All creatures dwelt, all creatures that had life. 

Or as the primitive forms of all, 

(If we compare great things with small,) 

Which without discord or confusion lie. 

In that strange mirror of the Deity. 



OF SOLITUDE. 

Hatl, old patrician trees, so great and good ! 

Hail, ye plebeian underwood ! 

Where the poetic birds rejoice. 

And for their quiet nests and plenteous food 

Pay with their grateful voice. 

Hail the poor Muse's richest manor-seat! 

Ye country-houses and retreat, 

Which all the happy gods so love, 

That for you oft they quit their bright and great 

Metropolis above. 

Here Nature does a house for me erect, 
Nature! the fiirest architect. 
Who those fond artists does despise 
That can tlie fair and living trees neglect. 
Yet the dead timber prize. 

Here let me, careless and unthoughtful lying. 
Hear the soft winds above me flying. 
With all their wanton boughs dispute, 
And the more tuneful birds to both replying, 
Nor be myself, too, mute. 

A silver stream shall roll h"s waters near, 
Gilt with the sunbeams here and there, 
On whose enamell'd bank I'll walk. 
And see how prettily they smile. 
And hear how prettily they talk. 

Ah ! wretched, and too solitary he. 
Who loves not his own company ! 
He'll feel the weight of it many a day. 
Unless he calls in sin or vanity 
To help to bear it away. 



Oh, Solitude ! fir.^t vtate of hiiuiiinkiii 1 ! 
Which bless'd remaiii'd til man d;d find 
Even his own helper's company : 
As soon as two, alas ! together join'd. 
The serpent made up three. 

Though God himself, through countless ages, thee 

H s sole companion chose to be. 

Thee, sacred Solitude! alone, 

Before the branchy head of number's tree 

Sprang from the trunk of one ; 

Thou (though men think thine an unactive part) 
Dost break and tame th' unruly heart. 
Which else would know no settled pace. 
Making it move, well managed by thy art, 
With swiftness and with grace. 

Thou the faint beams of reason's scatter'd light 

Dost, like a burning-glass, unite. 

Dost multiply the feeble heat, 

And fortify the strength, till thou dost bright 

And noble fires beget. 

Whilst this hard truth I teach, methinks I see 
The monster London laugh at me; 
I should at thee, too, foolish city ! 
If it were fit to laugh at misery ; 
But thy estate I pity. 

Let but thy wicked men from out thee go, 
And all the fools that crowd thee so, 
Even thou, who dost thy millions boast, 
A village less than Islington wilt grow, 
A solitude almost. 



THE SWAT.I.OW. 

Foolish prater ! what dost thou 

So very early at my window do 

With thy tuneless serenade? 

Well it had been had Tereus made 

Thee as duml) as Philomel ; 

There his knife had done but well. 

In thy undiscover'd nest 

Thou dost all the winter rest. 

And dreamest o'er thy summer joys 

Free from the stormy season's noise; 

Free from th' ill thou 'st done to me; 

Who disturbs or seeks out thee? 

Hadsl thou all the charming notes 

Of the woods' poetic throats, 

All thy art could never pay 

What thou 'st ta'en from me away. 

Cruel bird ! thou 'st ta'en away 

A dream out of my arms to-day; 

A dreairi that ne'er must equall'd be 

By all that waking eyes may see: 

Thou this damage to repair. 

Nothing half so sweet or fair. 

Nothing half so good can'st bring. 

Though men say thou bring'st the spring. 



SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE. 



[Born, 1608. Died, 1666.] 



Sir Ri<!Hakd Fanshawe, the son of Sir Henry 
Fanshawe, remembrancer of the Irish Exchequer, 
was born at Ware, in Hertfordshire, in 1608. 
An accomplished traveller, he gave our language 



some of its earliest and most important transla- 
tions from modern literature, and acted a distin- 
guished part under the Charleses, in the political 
and diplomatic history of England.* 



THE SPRING, A SONNET. 



FROM THE SPANISH. 



Those whiter lilies which the early morn 
Seems to have newly woven of sleaved silk, 

To which, on banks of wealthy Tagus born, 
Gold was their cradle, liquid pearl their milk. 

These blushing roses, with whose virgin leaves 
The wanton wind to sport himself presumes, 



Whilst from their rifled wardrobe he receives 
For his wings purple, for his breath perfumes. 

Both those and these my Cselia's pretty foot 
Trod up — but if she should her face display, 

And fragrant breast — they'd dry again to the root, 
As with the blasting of the midday's ray; 

And this soft wind, which both perfumes and cools, 

Pass like the unregarded breath of fools. 



SIR WILLIAM DAYENANT. 



[Born, 1605. Died, 1668.] 



Davenant's personal history is sufficiently 
curious without attaching importance to the in- 
sinuation of Wood, so gravely taken up by Mr. 
Malone, that he was the son of Shakspeare. He 
was the son of a vintner at Oxford, at whose house 
the immortal poet is said to have frequently 
lodged.f Having risen to notice by his tragedy 
of Albovine, he wrote masques for the court of 
Charles I. and was made governor of the king and 
queen's company of actors in Druiy-Iane. In the 
civil wars we find the theatric manager quickly 
transmuted into a lieutenant-general of ord- 
nance, knighted for his services at the siege of 
Gloucester, and afterwards negotiating between 
the king and his advisers at Paris. There he 
began his poem of Gondibert, which he laid aside 
for a time for the scheme of carrying a colony 
from France to Virginia ; but his vessel was 
seized by one of the parliament ships, he was 
thrown into prison, and owed his life to friendly 
interference — it is said, to that of Milton, whose 
friendship he returned in kind. On being liberated, 
his ardent activity was shown in attempting to 
restore theatrical amusements in the very teeth 
of bigotry and puritanism, and he actually suc- 
ceeded so far as to open a theatre in the Charter- 
house Yard. At the Restoration he received the 



[* His life by hia widow is one of the most agreeable 
additions to literary history made within the last five-aud- 
twenty yearsj 



patent of the Duke's Theatre in Lincoln's Inn, 
which he held till his death. 

Gondibert has divided the critics. It is unde- 
niable, on the one hand, that he showed a high 
and independent conception of epic poetry, in 
wishing to emancipate it from the slavery of 
ancient authority and to establish its interest in 
the dignity of human nature, without incredible 
and stale machinery. His subject was well 
chosen from modern romantic story, and he 
strove to give it the close and compact symmetry 
of the drama. Ingenious and witty images and 
majestic sentiments are thickly scattered over 
the poem. But Gondibert, who is so formally 
described, has certainly more of the cold and 
abstract air of an historical, than of a poetical 
portrait, and, unfortunately, the beauties of the 
poem are those of elegy and epigram, more than 
of heroic fiction. It wants the charm office and 
forcible narration ; the life-pulse of interest is 
incessantly stopped by solemn pauses of reflection, 
and the story works its way through an intricacy 
of superfluous fancies, some beautiful and others 
conceited, but all as they are united, tending to 
divert the interest, like a multitude of weeds upon 
a stream, that entangle its course while they seem 
to adorn it. 



[t There is other testimony to what Malone took up too 
gravely besides Wood's insinuation — there is the Better 
ton htiief, preserved in Spenee from Pope's relation.] 



FROM 'GOXDIBEUT," CANTO IV. 

The Father of Rhodalind offering her to Duke Gondibert, 
and the Duke's subsequ.nt interview with liirtha, to 
whom he is attaohrd. 

The king (who never time nor power misspent 
In subject's bashfulness, whil.ng great deeds 

Like coward councils, who too late consent,) 
Thus to his secret will aloud proceeds : 

" If to thy fame, brave youth, I could add wings, 
Or make her trumpet louder by my voice, 

I would (as an example drawn for kings) 

Proclaim the cause, why thou art now my choice. 



For she is yours, as your adoption free ; 

And in that gift, my remnant life I give ; 
But 'tis to you, brave youth ! who now are she; 

And she that heaven where secondly I live. 

And richer than the crown (which shall be thine 
When life's long progress I have gone with fame) 

Take all her love ; which scarce forbears to shine 
And own thee, through her virgin-curtain, 
shame." 

Thus spake the king ; and Rhpdalind appear'd 
Through publish'd love, with so much bash- 
fulness. 

As young kings show, when by surprise o'erheard, 
Moaning to fav'rite ears a deep distress. 

For love is a distress, and would be hid [grow ; 

Like monarch's griefs, by which they bashful 
And in that shame i)eholders they forbid ; [show. 

Since those blush most, who most their blushes 

And Gondibert, with dying eyes, did grieve 
At her vail'd love, (a wound he cannot heal,) 

As great minds mourn, who cannot then relieve 
The virtuous, when through shame they want 
conceal. 

And now cold Birtha's rosy looks decay ; 

Who in fear's frost had like her beauty died, 
But that attendant hope persuades her stay 

A while, to hear her duke ; who thus replied: 

" Victorious king ! abroad your subjects are 
Like legates, safe ; at home like altars free ! 

Even by your fame they conquer, as by war ; 
And by your laws safe from each other be. 

A king you are o'er subjects so, as wise 

And noble husbands seem o'er loyal wives; 

Who claim not, yet confess their liberties. 
And brag to strangers of their happy lives. 

To foes a winter storm ; whilst your friends bow. 
Like summer trees, beneath your bounty's load ; 

To me (next him whom your great self with low 
And cheerful duty serves) a giving god. 

8ince this is you, and Rhodalind (the light 
By which her sex fled virtue find) is yours; 

Your diamond, which tests of jealous sight. 
The stroke, and fire, and Oisel's juice endures; 

Since she so precious is, I shall appear 
All counterfeit of art's disguises made ; 



And never dare approach her lustre near, 
Who scarce can hold my value in the shade. 

Forgive me that I am not whiit I seem ; 

But falsely have dissembled an excess 
Of all such virtues as you most esteem ; 

But now grow good but as I ills confess. 

Far in ambition's fever am I gone! 

Like raging flame aspiring is my love ; 
Like flame destructive too, and, like the sun, 

Does round the world tow'rds change of objects 
move. 
Nor is this now through virtuous shame confess'd; 

But Rhodalind does force my conjured fear, 
As men whom evil spirits have possess'd. 

Tell all when saintly votaries appear. 

When she will grace the bridal dignity, 

It will be soon to all young monarchs known ; 

Who then by posting through the world will try 
Who first can at her feet present his crown. 

Then will Verona seem the inn of kings ; 

And Rhodalind shall at her palace-gate 
Smile, when great love these royal suitors brings; 

Who for that smile would as for empire wait. 

Amongst this ruling race she choice may take 

For warmth of valour, coolness of the mind. 
Eyes that in empire's drowsy calms can wake, 

In storms look out, in darkness dangers find; 
A prince who more enlarges power than lands. 

Whose greatness is not what his map contains ; 
But thinks that his where he at full commands. 

Not where his coin does pass, but power remains. 

Who knows that power can never be too high 

When by the good posscst, for 'tis in them 
The swelling Nile, from which though people fly. 

They prosper most by rising of the stream. 
Thus, princes, you should choose; and you will find. 

Even he, since men are wolves, must civilize 
(As light does tame some beasts of savage kind) 

Himself yet more, by dwelling in your eyes." 
Such was the duke's reply ; which did produce 

Thoughts of a diverse shape through sev'ral ears : 
His jealous rivals mourn at his excuse ; 

But Astragon it cures of all his fears. 

Birtha his praise of Rhodalind bewails ; 

And now her hope a weak physician seems ; 
For hope, the common comforter, prevails 

Like common raed'cines, slowly in extremes. 

The kin'j; (secure in offer'd empire) takes 
This forced excuse as troubled bashfulness. 

And a disguise which sudden passion makes. 
To hide more joys than prudence should express 

And Rhodalind (who never loved before, 
Nor could suspect his love was giv'n away) 

Thought not the treasure of his breast so poor. 
But that it might his debts of honour pay. 

To hasten the rewards of his desert. 

The king does to Verona him command; 

And, kindness so imposed, not all his art 
Can now instruct his duty to withstand. 



2^4 



SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT. 



Yet whilst the king does now his time dispose 
In seeing wonders, in this palace shown, 

He would a parting kindness pay to those 

Who of their wounds are yet not perfect grown. 

And by this fair pretence, whilst on the king 
Lord Astragon through all the house attends, 

Young Orga does the duke to Birtha bring, 
Who thus her sorrows to his bosom sends : 

"Why should my storm your life's calm voyage 
Destroying wholly virtue's race in one; [vex? 

So by the first to my unlucky sex. 
All in a single ruin were undone. 

Make heav'nly Rhodalind your bride! whilst I, 
Your once loved maid, excuse you since I know 

That virtuous men forsake so willingly 

Long cherish'd life, because to heav'n they go. 

Let me her servant be : a dignity, 

Which if your pity in my fall procures, 

I still shall value the advancement high, 
Not as the crown is hers, but she is yours." 

Ere this high sorrow up to dying grew. 

The duke the casket open'd, and from thence 

(Form'd like a heart) a cheerful emerald drew ; 
Cheerful, as if the lively stone had sense. 

The thirtieth carract it had doubled twice ; 

Not ta'en fronj the Attic silver mine, 
Nor from the brass, though such (of nobler price) 

Did on the necks of Parthian ladies shine : 

Nor yet of those which make the Ethiop proud ; 

Nor taken from those rocks where Bactrians 
climb : 
But from the Scythian, and without a Houd; 

Not sick at fire, nor languishing with time. 

Then thus he spake : " This, Birtha, from my male 

Progenitors, was to the loyal she 
On whose kind heart they did in love prevail. 

The nuptial pledge, and this I give to thee : 

Seven centuries have passed, since it from bride 
To bride did first succeed ; and though 'tis known 

From ancient lore, that gems much virtue hide, 
And that the em'rald is the bridal-stone : 

Though much renown'd because it chastens loves, 
And will, when worn by the neglected wife, 

Show when her absent lord disloyal proves. 
By faintness, and a pale decay of life. 

Though emeralds serve as spies to jealous brides, 
Yet each compared to this does counsel keep; 

Like a false stone, the husband's falsehood hides, 
Or seems born blind, or feigns a dying sleep. 

With this take Orgo, as a better spy, 

Who may in all your kinder fears be sent 

I'o watch at court, if I deserve to die 

By making this to fade, and you lament." 

Had now an artful pencil Birtha drawn, 

(With grief all dark, then straight with joy all 
light,) 

He must have fancied first, in early dawn, 
A sudden break of beauty out of night. 



Or first he must have mark'd what paleness fear. 
Like nipping frost, did to her visage bring ; 

Then think he sees, in a cold backward year, 
A rosy morn begin a sudden spring. 

Her joys (too vast to be contained in speech) 
Thus she a little spake : " Why stoop you down 

My plighted lord, to lowly Birtha's reach. 
Since Rhodalind would Kft you to a crown 1 

Or why do I, when I this plight embrace, 
Boldly aspire to take what you have given 1 

But that your virtue has with angels place, 
And 'tis a virtue to aspire to heav'n. 

And as tow'rds heav'n all travel on their knees. 
So I tow'rds you, though love aspire, will move : 

And were you crown'd, what could you better please 
Than awed obedience led by bolder love 1 

If I forget the depth from whence I rise. 

Far from your bosom banish'd be my heart; 
Or claim a right by beauty to your eyes: 

Or proudly think my chastity desert. 

But thus ascending from your humble maid 
To be your plighted bride, and then your wife, 

Will be a debt that shall be hourly paid. 
Till time my duty cancel with my life. 

And fruitfully if heav'n e'er make me bring, 
Your image to the world, you then my pride 

No more shall blame, than you can tax the spring 
For boasting of those flowers she cannot hide. 

Orgo I so received as I am taught 

By duty to esteem what'er you love , 
And hope the joy he in this jewel brought 

Will luckier than his former triumphs prove. 
For though but twice he has approach'd my sight, 

He twice made haste to drown me in my tearp; 
But now I am above his planet's spite. 

And as for sin beg pardon for my fears." 
Thus spake she : and with fix'd continued sight, 

The duke did all her bashful beauties view; 
Then they with kisses seal'd their sacred plight, 

Like flowers, still sweeter as they thicker grew. 
Yet must these pleasures feel, though innocent. 

The sickness of extremes, and cannot last; 
For pow'r (love's shunn'd impediment) has sent 

To tell the duke, his monarch is in haste : 
And calls him to that triumph which he fears 

So as a saint forgiven (whose breast does all 
Hea\ en's joys contain) wisely loved pomp forbears, 

LeRt tempted nature should from blessings fall- 

He often takes his leave, with love's delay. 

And bids her hope he with the king shall find, 

By now appearing forward to obey, 

A means to serve him less in Rhodalind. 

She weeping to her closet-window hies. 

Where she with tears doth Rhodalind survey; 

As dying men, who grieve that they have eyes. 
When they through curtains spy the rising day.* 

[* Sir William Daviriiint's G mdiherl is not a pood poem, 
if )ou take it on the whole: hut ttiere are a great uiaiiy 
good things in it. — I'dpe to Spence.] 



SIR JOHN DENHAM. 



[Born, 1615. Died, 1668.] 



Sir John Denham was born in Dublin, where 
liis father was chief-baron of the Irish Exchequer. 
On his father's accession to the same office in the 
English Exchequer, our poet was brought to 
London, and there received the elements of his 
learning. At Oxford he was accounted a slow, 
dreaming young man, and chiefly noted for his 
attachment to cards and dice. The same propen- 
sity followed him to Lincoln's Inn, to such a 
degree, that his father threatened to disinherit 
him. To avert this, he wrote a penitentiary Essay 
on Gaming ; but after the death of his father he 
returned to the vice that most easily beset him, 
and irrecoverably injured his patrimony. In 
1641, when his tragedy of The Sophy appeared, it 
was regarded as a burst of unpromised genius. 
In the better and bygone days of tiie drama, so 



tame a production would not perhaps have beer, 
regarded as astonishing, even from a dreaming 
young man. He was soon after appointed high- 
sheriff of Surrey, and made governor of Farnham 
Castle for the king : but being unskilled in mili- 
tary affairs, he resigned his command, and joined 
his majesty at Oxford, where he published his 
Cooper's Hill.* In the civil wars he served the 
royal family, by conveying their correspondence; 
but was at length obliged to quit the kingdom, 
and was sent as ambassador, by Charles II. in his 
exile, to the king of Poland. At the Restoration 
he was made suveyor of the king's buildings, 
and knighted with the order of the Bath ; but 
his latter days were imbittered by a second mar- 
riage, that led to a temporary derangement of 
mind. 



COOPER'S niLL.t 
Sure there are poets which did never dream 
Upon Parnassus, nor did taste the stream 
Of Helicon; we therefore may suppose 
Those made not poets, but the poets those, 
And as courts make not kings, but kings the court, 
So where the Muses and their train resort, 
Parnassus stands ; if I can be to thee 
A poet, thou Parnassus art to me. 
Nor wonder if (advantaged in my flight, 
By taking wing from thy auspicious height) 
Through untraced ways and airy paths 1 fly, 
More boundless in my fancy than my eye ; 
My eye, which swift as thought contracts the space 
That lies between, and first salutes tlie place 
Crown'd with that sacred pile, so vast, so high, 
That whether 'tis a part of earth or sky 
Uncertain seems, and may be thought a proud 
Aspiring mountain, or descending cloud ; [flight 
Paul's, the late theme of such a Muse.J whose 
Has bravely reach'd and soar'd abov^. thy height; 
Now shalt thou stand, though sword, or time, or fire. 
Or zeal, more fierce than they, thy fall conspire, 
Secure, whilst thee the best of poets sings, 
Preserved from ruin by the best of kings. 
Under his proud survey the city lies. 
And like a mist beneath a hill doth rise, [crowd. 
Whose state and wealth, the business and the 
Seems at the distance but a darker cloud, 



'* The earliest edition known was printed at London 
m IGii.] 

[t Denham has been frequently imitated in this kind of 
local poetry, as Jolinson i^alls it anil since O^nper's Hill 
appeared, we have had Waller's St.Jtmis's Purk ; Pope's 
W.nilsnr F.irest ; Q.irtWs CLiremnnl ; Tokell's Kfnsinp- 
tnn Garden; Uyer'a Grongar Hill; .Tiigo'a Elge-Hiil; 
Scott's Amwell Michael Bruce's LoMtven; ana Kirke 



And is, to him who rightly things esteems. 

No other in eflect than what it seems; [run. 

Where, with like haste, though several ways they 

Some to undo, and some to be undone; 

While luxury and wealth, like war and peace. 

Are each the other's ruin and increase; 

As rivers lost in seas, some secret vein 

Thence reconveys, there to be lost again. 

Oh ! happiness of sweet retired content ! 

To be at once secure and innocent. 

Windsor the next (where Mars with Venus dwells, 

Beauty with strength) above the valley swells 

Into my eye, and doth itself present 

With such an easy and unforced ascent, 

That no stupendous precipice denies 

Access, no horror turns away our eyes ; 

But such a rise as doth at once invite 

A pleasure and a reverence from the sight : 

Thy mighty master's emblem, in whose face 

Sat meekness, heighten'd with majestic grace ; 

Such seems thy gentle height, made only proud 

To be the basis of that pompous load, 

Than which a nobler weight no mountain bears. 

But Atlas only, which supports the spheres. 

When Nature's hand this ground did thus advance, 

'Twas guided by a wiser power than Chance ; 

Mark'd out for such an use, as if 'twere meant 

T' invite the builder, and his choice prevent. 

Nor can we call it choice, when what we choose 

Folly or blindness only could refuse. 



White's CUfUm Grme. There are others, but these alone 
merit notice. Keaumont's B'Swirth Field, though prior 
in dati^ to Cooper's Hill, is local more in its title than its 
treatment. I)rayton'.-i panoramic plan in his Poly-olbion 
wo Id have included Cooper's Hill, and indeed every cornel 
of the island.] 
[X Waller.] 

295 



296 



SIR JOHN DENHAM. 



A crown of such majestic towers doth grace 
The gods' great mother, when licr heav'nly race 
Do homage to her ; yet she cannot boast, 
Among that num'rous and celestial host. 
More heroes than can Windsor ; nor doth Fame's 
Immortal book record more noble names. 
Not to look back so far, to whom this isle 
Owes the first glory of so brave a pile, 
Whether to Cajsar, Albanact, or Brute, 
The British Arthur, or the Danish C'nute ; 
(Though this of old no less contest did move 
'J han when for Homer's birth seven cities strove ;) 
(Like him in birth, thou should'st be like in fame, 
As thine his fate, if mine had been his flame ;) 
But whosoe'er it was, Nature design'd 
First a brave place, and then as brave a mind. 
Not to recount those sev'ral kings to whom 
It gave a cradle, or to whom a tomb; 
But thee, great Edward ! and thy greater son, 
(The lilies which his fathor wore he won,) 
And thy Bellona, who the consort came 
Not only to thy bed but to thy fame, 
She to thy triumph led one captive king, 
And brought that son which did the second bring ; 
Then didst thou found that Order, (whether love 
Or victory thy royal thoughts did move :) 
Each was a noble cause, and nothing less 
Than the design has been the great success, 
Which foreign kings and emperors esteem 
The second honour to their diadem. 
Had thy great destiny but given the skill 
To know, as well as pow'r to act her will. 
That from those kings, who then thy captives were. 
In after-times should spring a royal pair 
Who should possess all that thy mighty pow'r, 
Or thy desires more mighty, did devour ; 
To whom their better fate reserves whate'er 
The victor hopes for or the vanquish'd fear ; 
That blood which thou and thy great grandsire 

shed. 
And all that since these sister nations bled. 
Had been unspilt, and happy Edward known 
That all the blood he spilt had been his own. 
When he that patron chose in whom are join'd 
Soldier and martyr, and his arms confined 
Within the azure circle, he did seem 
But to foretell and prophesy of him 
W ho to his realms that azure round hath join'd. 
Which nature for their bound at first design'd ; 
That bound which to the world's extremest ends, 
Endless itself, its liquid arms extends. 
Nor doth he need those emblems which we paint. 
But is himself the soldier and the saint. 
Here should my wonder dwell, and here my praise ; 
But my fix'd thoughts my wand'ring eye betrays. 
Viewing a neighb'ring hill, whose top of late 
A chapel crown'd, till in ihe common fate 
Th' adjoining abbey fell. (May no such storm 
Fall on our times, where ruin must reform !) 
Tell me, my Muse ! what monstrous dire offence. 
What crime, could any Christian king incense 

f* Originally : 

And though his clearer sand no golden veins 
Like TagUB or Pactolus' stream contains — 



To such a rage 1 Was 't luxury or lust 1 

Was he so temperate, so chaste, so just 1 [more; 

Were these their crimes? they were his own much 

But wealth is crime enough to him that's poor. 

Who having spent the treasures of his crown. 

Condemns their luxury to feed his own ; 

And yet this act, to varnish o'er the shame 

Of sacrilege, must bear devotion's name. 

No crime so bold but would be understood 

A real, or at least a seeming good. 

Who fears not to do ill, yet fears the name. 

And, free from conscience, is a slave to fame. 

Thus he the church at once protects and spoils ; 

But princes' swords are sharper than their styles: 

And thus to th' ages past he makes amends. 

Their charity destroys, their faith defends. 

Then did Religion, in a lazy cell, 

In empty, airy contemplations dwell, 

And like the block unmoved lay ; but ours. 

As much too active, like the stork devours. 

Is there no temp'rate region can be known 

Betwixt their frigid and our torrid zone] 

Can we not wake from that lethartic dream. 

But to be restless in a worse extreme ] 

And for that lethargy was there no cure 

But to be cast into a calenture? 

Can knowledge have no bound, but must advance 

So far, to make us wish for ignorance. 

And rather in the dark to grope our way. 

Than led by a false guide to err by day ? 

Who sees these dismal heaps but would demand 

What barbarous invader sack'd the land? 

But when he hears no Goth, no Turk, did bring 

This desolation, but a Christian king ; 

When nothing but the name of zeal appears 

'Twixt our best actions and the worst of theirs; 

What does he think our sacrilege would spare, 

When such th' effects of our devotion are? 

Parting from thence 'twixt anger, shame, and fear, 

Those for what 's past, and this for what 's too near, 

My eye, descending from the Hill, surveys 

Where Thames among the wanton valleys strays. 

Thames ! the most loved of all the Ocean's sons. 

By his old sire, to his embraces runs. 

Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea. 

Like mortal life to meet eternity ; 

Though with those streams he no resemblance hold. 

Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold :* 

1 His genuine and less guilty wealth t' explore, 
Search not his botton», but survey his shore. 
O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing, 
And hatches plenty for th' ensuing spring ; 
Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay. 
Like mothers which their infants overlay ; 
Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave. 
Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave. 
No unexpected inundations spoil 
The mower's hopes, nor mock the ploughman's 

toil; 
But godlike his unweary bounty flows ; 
First loves to do, then loves the good he does. 



which we quote to make good the couplet in Waller: 
Poets lose half the praise they shnultl have g< t. 
Could it be known what they discreetly blot.] 



SIR JOHN DENHAM. 



297 



Nor are his blessings to his banks confined, 
But free and common as the sea or wind; 
When he, to boast or to disperse his stores, 
Full of the tributes of his grateful shores, 
Visits the world, and in his flying tow'rs 
Brhigs home to us, and makes both Indies ours; 
Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it wants,* 
• Cities in deserts, woods in cities, plants. 
So that to us no thing, no place, is strange. 
While his lair bosom is the world's Exchange. 
O, could I flow like thee, and make thy stream 
My groat example, as it is my theme ! 
Though deep yet clear, though gentle yet not dull ; 
Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full.* 
Heav'n her Eridanus no more shall boast. 
Whose fame in thine, like lesser current, 's lost ; 
Thy nobler streams shall visit Jove's abodes. 
To shine among the stars, and bathe the gods. 
Here nature, whether more intent to please 
Us for herself with strange varieties, 
(For things of wonder give no less delight 
To the wise maker's than beholder's sight; 
Though these delights from several causes move. 
For so our children, thus our friends, we love,) 
Wisely she knew the harmony of things, 
As well as that of sounds, from discord springs. 
Such was the discord which did first disperse 
Form, order, beauty, through the universe ; 
While dryness moisture, coldness heat resists, 
All that we have, and that we are, subsists ; 
While the steep, horrid roughness of the wood 
Strives with the gentle calmness of the flood. 
Such huge extremes when Nature doth unite. 
Wonder from thence re-ults, from thence delight. 
The stream is so transparent, pure, and clear, 
That had the self-enamoured youth gazed here, 
So fatally deceived he had not been. 
While he the bottom, not his face had seen. 
But his proud head the airy mountain hides 
Among the clouds; his shoulders and his sides 
A shady mantle clothes; his curled brows 
Frown on the gentle stream, which calmy flows. 
While winds and storms his lofty forehead beat; 
The lommon fate of all that 's high or great. 
Low at his foot a spacious plain is placed. 
Between the mountain and the stream embraced, 
Which shade and shelter from the Hill derives, 
While the kind river wealth and beauty gives, 
And in the mixture of all these appears 
Variety, which all the rest endears. 
This scene had some bold Greek or British bard 
Beheld of old, what stories had we heard 
Of fairies, satyrs, and the nymphs their dames. 
Their feasts, their revels, and their am'rous flames 1 
'Tis still the same, although their airy shape 
All but a quick poetic sight escape. 



[* Swift ha 
lOble liueg : 



ridiculed the herd of imitators of these 



"If Anna's happy reign you praise. 
Prjiy not a word of halcyon days ! 
Nor let my votaries show their >kill 
In ap 11(1 lines from Cooper's Hill; 
For, know I cannot bear to hear 
The mimicry of 'deep yet clear.' " — ApnlMs . 
la this, one of 



There Faunus and Sylvanus keep their courts. 

And thither all the horned host resorts 

To graze the ranker mead ; that noble herd 

On whose sublime and shady fronts is rear'd 

Nature's great masterpiece, to show how soon 

Great things are made, but sooner are undone. 

Here have I seen the king,* when great affairs 

Gave leave to slacken and unbend his cares, 

Attended to the chase by all the flow'r 

Of youth, whose hopes a nobler prey devour; 

Pleasure with praise and danger they would buy. 

And wish a foe that would not only fly. 

The stag, now conscious of his fatal growth, 

At once indulgent to his fear and sloth. 

To some dark covet his retreat had made, 

Where nor man's eye nor heaven's should invade 

His soft repose ; when th' unexpected sound 

Of dogs and men his wakeful ear does wound. 

Roused with the noise, he scarce believes his ear, 

Willing to think th' illusions of his fear 

Had given this false alarm, but straight his view 

Confirms that more than all is true. 

Betray'd in all strengths, the wood beset, 

All instruments, all arts of ruin met. 

He calls to mind his strength, and then his 

speed. 
His winged heels, and then his arm^d head ; 
With these t' avoid, with that his fate to meet ; 
But fear prevails, and bids him trust his feet. 
So fast he flies, that his reviewing eye 
Has lost the chasers, and his ear the cry ; 
Exulting, till he finds their nobler sense 
Their disproportion'd speed doth recompense ; 
Then curses his conspiring feet, whose scent 
Betrays that safety which their swiftness lent: 
Then tries his friends among the baser herd, 

f''here he so lately was obey'd and fear'd, 
is safety seeks : the herd, unkindly wise. 
Or chases him from thence or from him flies. 
Like a declining statesman, left forlorn 
To his friends' pity, and pursuers' scorn, 
With shame remembers, while himself was one 
Of the same herd, himself the same had done. 
Thence to the coverts and the conscious groves. 
The scenes of his past triumphs and his loves, 
Sadly surveying where he ranged alone, 
Prince of the soil, and all the herd his own, 
And like a bold knight-errant did proclaim 
Combat to all, and bore away the dame. 
And taught the woods to echo to the stream 
His dreadful challenge, and his clashing beam; 
Yet faintly now declines the fatal strife, 
So much his love was dearer than his life. 
Now every leaf and every moving breath 
Presents a foe, and ev'ry foe a death. 



Denham from time to time made great alterations and 
additions, and every inseri ion and every change was made 
with admirable judi^ment. Pope collated his copy with 
an early edition, and marked the variations; thinking it, 
as he said in a note at the end of the volume, •' a very 
useful lesson for a poet to compare the editions, and con- 
sider at each alteration how and why it was altered."' 

The four famous lines on the Thames werj an after 
insertion au'l, in Mr. Moore's opinion, one of the happiest 
of recorded instanci s.— ii/e of Byion, vol. ii. p. lyj.j 

[t Originally, Oar Oharlts.] 



298 



SIR JOHN DENIIAM. 



Wearied, forsaken, anJ pursued, at last 
All safety in despair of safety placed. 
Courage he thence resumes, resolved to bear 
All their assaults, since 'tis in vain to fear. 
And now, too late, he wishes for the fight 
That strength he wasted in ignoble flight; 
But when he sees the eager chase renew'd. 
Himself by dogs, the dogs by men pursued. 
He straight revokes his bold resolve, and more 
Ropents his courage than his fear before ; 
Finds that uncertain ways unsafest are. 
And doubt a greater mischief than despair. 
Then to the stream, when neither friends, nor 

force, 
Nor speed, nor art avail, he shapes his course; 
Thinks not their rage so desp'rate to essay 
An element more merciless than they. 
But fearless they pursue, nor can the flood 
Quench their dire thirst : alas ! they thirst for 

blood. 
So t'wards a ship the oar-finn'd galleys ply, 
Which wanting sea to ride, or wind to fly. 
Stands but to fall revenged on those that dare 
Tempt the last fury of extreme despair. 
So fares the stag ; among ih' enraged hounds 
Repels their force, and wounds returns for 

wounds: 
And as a hero, whom his baser foes 
In troops surround, now these assails, now those, 
Though prodigal of life, disdains to die 
By common hands ; but if he can descry 
Some nobler foe approach, to him he calls, 
And begs his fate, and then contented falls. 
So when the king a mortal shaft lets fly 
From his unerring hand, then glad to die. 
Proud of the wound, to it resigns his blood, 
And stains the crystal with a purple flood. 
This a more innocent and happy chase 
Than when of old, but in the self-same place, 
Fair Liberty pursued, and meant a prey 
To lawless power, here turn'd and stood at bay ; 
M'hen in that remedy all hope was placed 
Which was, or should have been at least, the last. 
Here was that Charter seal'd wherein the crown 
All marks of arliitrary power lays down ; 
Tyrant and slave, those names of hate and fear, 
The happier style of king and subject bear: 
Happy when both to the same centre move, 
When kings give liberty and subjects love. 
Therefore not long in force this Charter stood; 
Wanting that seal, it must be seal'd in blood. 
The subjects arm'd, the more their princes gave, 
Th' advantage only took the more to crave ; 
Till kings, by giving, give themselves away. 
And ev'n that power that should deny betray. 



[* This poem by Denham, though it may hKve bepn 
exceeded by later attempts in de.cription. yet deserves 
tU-> bigiiest applause, aa it far surpasses all that went 



" Who gives constrain'd, but his own fear reviles 
Not thank'd but scorned ; nor are they gifts, but 

spoils." 
Thus kings by grasping more than they could hold 
First made their subjects by oppression bold ; 
And popular sway, by forcing kings to give 
More than was fit for subjects to receive. 
Ran to the same extremes; and one excess 
Made both, by striving to be greater, less. 
When a calm river, raised with sudden rains. 
Or snows dissolved, o'erflows th' adjoining plains, 
The husbandmen with high-raised banks secure 
Their greedy hopes, and this he can endure ; 
But if with bays and dams they strive to force 
His channel to a new or narrow course, 
INo longer then within his banks he dwells, 
First to a torrent, then a deluge, swells ; 
Stronger and fiercer by restraint, he roars. 
And knows no bound, but makes his pow'r his 



ON TUE EARL OF STRAFFORD'S TRIAL AND 
DEATH. 

Great Strafford ! worthy of that name, though 

Of thee could be forgotten but thy fall, [all 

Crush'd by imaginary treason's weight. 

Which too much merit did accumulate. 

As chemists gold from brass by fire would draw. 

Pretexts are into treason forged by law. 

His wisdom such, at once it did appear [fear, 

Three kingdoms' wonder, and three kingdoms' 

While single he stood forth, and seem'd, although 

Each had an army, as an equal ioe ; 

Such was his force of eloquence, to make 

The hearers more concern'd than he that spake, 

Each seem'd to act that part he came to see, 

And none was more a looker-on than he. 

So did he move our passions, some were known 

To wish, for the defence, the crime their own. 

Now private pity strove with public hate. 

Reason with rage, and eloquence with late. 

Now they could him, if he could them forgive ; 

He's not too guilty, but too wise, to live: [bore 

Less seem those facts which treason's nickname 

Than such a fear'd ability for more. 

They after death their fears of him express. 

His innocence and their own guilt conless. 

Their legislative frenzy they repent. 

Enacting it should make no precedent. 

This fate he could have 'scaped, but would not lose 

Honour for life, but rather nobly chose 

Death from their fears than safety from his own. 

That his last action all the rest might crown. 

before it. The concluding pari, thouih a little too much 
crowded, is very masterly. — Goldsmuh.J 



JOHN BULTEEL. 



Mr. Hitson, in his collection of English Songs, 
Bupjioses John Buiteel to have been secretary to 
(he Earl of Clarendon, and to have died in 1669. 
He was the collector of a small miscellany, pub- 
lii-hed about the middle of the seventeenth century. 



Mr. Park makes a query whether he was not the 
gentleman mentioneil by Wood (Fasti) as having 
translated from French into English "A General 
Chronological History of France, before the reign 
of Pharamond." 



SONG. 
Chloris, 'twill be for either's rest 
'JVuly to know each other's breast; 
I'll make th' obscurest part of mine 
Transparent as I would have thine: 
If you will deal but so with me, 
We soon shall part, or soon agree. 

Know then, though you were twice as fair, 
If it could be, as now you are ; 
And though the graces of your mind 
With a resembling lustre shined; 

Yet, if you loved rne not, you'd see 

I'd value those as you do me. 

Though I a thousand times had sworn 
My passion should transcend your scorn ; 



And that your bright, triumphant eyes 

Create a flame that never dies ; 
Yet, if to me you proved untrue. 
Those oaths should prove as false to you. 

If love I vow'd to pay for hate, 

'Twas, I confess, a mere deceit; 

Or that my flame should deathless prove, 

'Twas but to render so your love : 
I bragg'd, as cowards use to do, 
Of dangers they'll ne'er run into. 

And now my tenets I have show'd. 
If you think them too great a load ; 
T' attempt your change were but in vain, 
The conquest not being v*orth the pain : 

With them I'll other nymphs subdue ; 

'Tis too much to lose time and you. 



GEORGE WITHER. 



[Born, 1588 Died, 1667.] 



George Wither, the descendant of a family who 
had for several generations possessed the property 
of Manydowne, in Hampshire, was born in that 
county, at Bentworth, near Alton. About the 
age of sixteen, he was sent to Oxford, where he 
had just begun to fall in love with the mysteries 
of logic, when he was called home by his father, 
much to his mortification, to hold the plough. He 
was even afraid of being put to some mechanical 
trade, when he contrived to get to London, and 
with great simplicity had proposed to try his for- 
tune at court. To his astonishment, however, he 
found that it was necessary to flatter in order to 
be a courtier. To show his independence, he 
therefore wrote his " Abuses whi|)t and stript," 
and instead of rising at court, was committed for 
some months to the Marshalsea.* But if his 
Puritanism excited enemies, his talents and frank- 
ness gained him friends. He appears to have 
been intimate with the poet Browne, and to have 
been noticed by Selden. To the latter he inscribed 
his translation of the poem on the IS'ature of Man, 



* Uf was imprisoned for his "Abuses whipt and 
stript;' yet th;8 ooulil not have be. n h s first offence, 
as iin allusion is made to a furmur a' rusntion. [It was 
for the Scourc/e (Itil.i) tli:it his first known impri onm nt 
took place H.- ha»t dealt as he tills us in after lif.-. in 
particulars not in sea-ion to be to jchi-d upon, and the 
greatest fault of w bat he said was that it savoured more of 



from the Greek of Bishop Nemesius, an ancient 
father of the church. While in prison, he wrote 
his " Shepherd's Hunting," which contains perhaps 
the very finest touches that ever came from his 
hasty and irregular pen, and, besides those prison 
eclogues, composed his " Satire to the King," a 
justification of his former satires, which, if it gained 
him his liberation, certainly effected it without 
retracting his principles. 

It is not probable that the works of Wither 
will ever be published collectively, curious as they 
are, and occasionally marked by originality of 
thought; but a detailed list of them is given in 
the " British Bibliographer." From youth to age 
George continued to pour forth his lucubrations, in 
prophesy, remonstrance, complaint, and triumph, 
through good and evil report, through all vi- 
cissitudes of fortune: at one time in command 
among the saints, and at another scrawling his 
thoughts in jail, when pen and ink were denied 
him, with red ochre upon a trencher. It is gene- 
rally allowed that his taste and genius for poetry 



honesty than d'S.5retion. Vice in high places was then 
more than o.diiiariiy sensitive and suspicious, and satire, 
when deaiinjc in generals, like Hate, Envy. L ist, and 
Avarice, was always individualized by the reader: and 
men appropriated, as l.amb says, the most innocent 
alistractinns to themselves. Beu Johnson complains ol 
this in more than one place.] 



800 



GEORGE WITHER. 



did not improve in the political contest. Some 
of his earLest pieces display the native amenity 
of a poet's imagination ; but as he mixed with 
the turbulent times, his fancy grew muddy with 
the stream. While Milton in the same cause 
brought his learning and zeal as a partisan, he 
left the Muse behind him, as a mistress too sacred 
to be introduced into party brawlings; Wither, 
on the contrary, took his Muse along with him to 
the camp and the congregation, and it is little to 
be wondered at that her cap should have been 
torn and her voice made hoarse in the confusion. 

Soon after his liberation from prison, he pub- 
lished the Hymns and Songs of the Church, one 
edition of which is dedicated to King James, in 
which he declares that the hymns were printed 
under his majesty's gracious protection. One of 
the highest dignitaries of the church also sanc- 
tioned his performance ; but as it was Wither's 
fate to be for ever embroiled, he had soon after 
occasion to complain that the booksellers, " those 
cruel bee-mast.ers," as he calls them, "who burn 
the poor Athenian bees for their honey," endea- 
voured to subvert his copyright; while some of 
the more zealous clergymen complained that he 
had interfered with their calling, and slanderous 
persons termed his hymns, needless songs and 
popish rhyme. From any suspicion of popery 
his future labours were more than sufficient to 
clear him. James, it appears, encouraged him 
to finish a translation of the Psalms, and was 
kindly disposed toward him. Soon after the 
decease of his sovereign, on remembering that 
he had vowed a pilgrimage to the Queen of Bohe- 
mia, he travelled to her court to accomplish his 
vow, and presented her highness with a copy of 
his Psalms. 

In 1639 he was a captain of horse in the expe- 
dition against the Scots, and quartermaster-gene- 
ral of his regiment, under the Earl of Arundel. 
But as soon as the civil wars broke out he sold 
his estate to raise a troop of horse for the parlia- 
ment, and soon afterward rose to the rank of 
major. In the month of October of the same 
year, 1642, he was appointed by parliament, cap- 
tain and commander of Farnham Castle, in Sur- 
rey ; but his government was of short duration, 
for the castle was ceded on the first of December 
to Sir William Waller. Wither says, in his own 
justification, that he was advised by his superiors 



to quit the place ; while his enemies alleged that 
he deserted it. The defence of his conduct which 
he published, seems to have been more resolute 
than his defence of the fortress. In the course 
of the civil war, he was made prisoner by the 
royalists, and when some of them were desirous 
of making an example of him, Denham, the poet, 
is said to have pleaded with his majesty that he 
would not hang him, for as long as Wither lived 
he (Denham) could not be accounted the worst 
poet in England. Wood informs us that he was 
afterward constituted by Cromwell major-gene- 
ral of all the horse and foot in the county of 
Surrey. In his addresses to Cromwell there is, 
mixed with his usual garrulity of advice and 
solemnity of warning, a considerable degree of adu- 
lation. His admonitions probably exposed him 
to little hazard ; they were the croakings of the 
raven on the right hand. It should be mentioned 
however, to the honour of his declared principles, 
that in the "National Remembrancer," he 
sketched the plan of an annual and freely elected 
parliament, which differed altogether from the 
shadow of representation afforded by the govern- 
ment of the' usurper. (3n the demise of Crom- 
well, he hailed the acce.'^sion of Richard with 
joyful grat'ulation. He never but once in his life 
foreboded good, and in that prophecy he was mis- 
taken. 

At the Restoration, the estates which he had 
either acquired or purchased during the inter- 
regnum, were taken from him. But the event 
which crushed his fortunes could not silence his 
pen, and he was committed first to Newgate and 
afterward to the Tower, for remonstrances, 
which were deemed a libel on the new govern- 
ment. From the multitude of his writing.^, 
during a three years' imprisonment, it may be 
clearly gathered that he was treated not only 
with rigour, but injustice; for the confiscation of 
his property was made by forcible entry, and be- 
sides being illegal in form, was directly contrary 
to the declaration that had been issued by Charles 
the Second before his accession. That he died 
in prison may be inferred from the accounts, 
though not clear from the dates, of his biogra- 
phers; but his last days must have been spent in 
wretchedness and obscurity.* He was buried 
between the east door and the south end of the 
Savoy church, in the Strand. 



FROM "THE SIIEPIIEIJD'S IIDNTINQ." 

See'st thou not, in clearest days, 
Oft thick fogs could heavens raise 1 
And the vapours that do breathe 
From the earth's gross womb beneath. 
Seem they not with their black streams 
To pollute the sun's bright beams, 
And yet vanish into air, 
Leaving it (unblemish'd) fkir ? 



[* lie was TPlcased from pricon on the 27 th .luly, Ififi.*?. on 
bis bond to the lieutenant of the Tower for his good beba- 



So, my Willy, shall it be 

With Detraction's breath and thee* 

It shall never rise so high 

As to stain thy poesy. 

As that sun doth oft exhale 

Vapours from each rotten vale; 

Poesy so sotnetimes drains 

Gross conceits from muddy brains; 

Mists of envy, fogs of spite, 

'Twixt men's judgments and her light, 

viour: and died thoupli not in prison, on the 2cl of May. 
16b7.— See yVilliiwlt's Lives of the Sacred /t-e<s, vol. i.] 



GEORGE WITHER. 



301 



But so much her power may do 

That she can dissolve them too. 

If thy verse do bravely tower, 

As she makes wing, she gets power! 

Yet the higher she doth soar, 

She's affronted stdl the more; 

Till she to the high'st hath past, 

Then she rests with Fame at last. 

Let nought therefore thee affright, 

But make forward in thy flight: 

For if I could match thy rhyme, 

To the very stars I'd climb ; 

There begin again, and fly 

Till I reach'd eternity. 

But, alas! my Muse is slow; 

For thy pace she flags too low. 

Yes, the more's her hapless fate, 

Her short wings were clipp'd of late ; 

And poor I, her fortune ruing. 

Am myself put up a muing. 

But if I my cage can rid, 

I'll fly, where I never did. 

And though for her sake I'm crost, 

Though my best hopes I have lost, 

And kn&w she would make my trouble 

Ten times more than ten times double ; 

I would love and keep her too. 

Spite of all the world could do. 

For though banish'd from my flocks, 

And confined within these rocks, 

Here I waste away the light, 

And consume the sullen night; 

She doth for my comfort stay, 

And keeps many cares away. 

Though I miss the flowery fields, 

With those sweets the spring-tide yields; 

Though I may not see those groves. 

Where the shepherds chaunt their loves. 

And the lasses more excel 

Than the sweet-voiced Philomel ; 

Though of all those pleasures past, 

Nothing now remains at last, 

But remembrance, poor relief. 

That more makes than mends my grief: 

She's my mind's companion still, 

Maugre Envy's evil will : 

Whence she should be driven to, 

Were 't in mortals' power to do. 

She doth tell me where to borrow 

Comfort in the midst of sorrow ; 

Makes the desolatest place 

To her presence be a grace. 

And the blackest discontents 

Be her fairest ornaments. 

In my former days of bliss, 

His divine skill taught me this. 

That from every thing I saw, 

I could some invention draw ; 

And raise pleasure to her height 

Through the meanest object's sight : 

By the murmur of a spring. 

Or the least bough's rustling; 

By a daisy, whose leaves spread, 

Shut wlien Titan goes to bed ; 



Or a shady bush or tree. 

She could more infuse in me, 

Than all Nature's beauties can, 

In some other wiser man. 

By her help I also now 

Make this churlish place allow 

Some things that may sweeten gladness 

In the very gall of sadness : 

The dull loneness, the black shade 

That these hanging vaults have made. 

The strange music of the waves, 

Beating on these hollow caves, 

This black den, which rocks emboss, 

Overgrown with eldest moss ; 

The rude portals, that give light 

More to terror than delight. 

This my chamber of neglect, 

Wall'd about with disrespect, 

From all these, and this dull air, 

A fit object for despair. 

She hath taught me by her might 

To draw comfort and delight. 

Therefore then, best earthly bliss, 
I will cherish thee for this ! 
Poesy, thou sweet'st content 
That e'er Heaven to mortals lent ; 
Though they as a trifle leave thee. 
Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee, 
Though thou be to them a scorn 
That to naught but earth are born; 
Let my life no longer be 
Than I am in love with thee ! 
Though our wise ones call it madness, 
Let me never taste of gladness 
If I love not thy mad'st fits 
Above all their greatest wits ! 
And though some, too seeming holy. 
Do account thy raptures folly. 
Thou dost teach me to contemn 
What makes knaves and fools of them!* 



THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION. 

Shall I, wasting in despair. 
Die because a woman's fair 1 
Or make pale my cheeks with care, 
'Cause another's rosy are ? 
Be she fairer than the day. 
Or the flow'ry meads in May ; 
If she be not so to me. 
What care I how fair she be ? 

Shall my foolish heart be pined, 
'Cause I see a woman kind ] 
Or a well-disposed nature 
Joined with a lovely feature 1 



[* The praises of poetry have been often sung in ancient 
and modern times; strange powers have been aspribi*d to 
it of influence over animate and inanimate auditors; its 
fnrce over fascinated crowds has been acknowledges!; but 
before Wither, no one had celebrated its power at home ; 
the wealth and the strength which this divine gift confer* 
upon its possessor. — Lamb.1 

2A 



•03 GEORGE 


WITHER. 


Be she meeker, kinder, than 


Can he prize the tainted posies, 


The turtle-dove or pelican ; 


Which on every breast are worn, 


If she be not so to me, 


That may pluck the virgin roses 


What care I how kind she be 1 


From their never-touched thorn 1 


Shall a woman's virtues move 
Me to perish for her love 1 
Or, her well-deservings known, 
Make me quite forget mine own! 
Be she with that goodness blest, 


I can go rest 

On her sweet breast. 
That is the pride of Cynthia's train: 

Then stay thy tongue. 

Thy mermaid song 
Is all bestow'd on me in vain. 


Which may merit name of Best ; 




If she be not such to me. 


He 's a fool that basely dallies. 


What care I how good she be? 


Where each peasant mates with him: 


'Cause her fortune seems too high, 


Shall 1 haunt the thronged valleys. 


Shall I play the fool and die ? 


Whilst there's noble hills to climb! 


Those that bear a noble mind. 


No, no, though clowns 


M here they want of riches find. 
Think what with them they would do, 


Are scared with frowns. 


I know the best can but disdain ; 


That without them dare to woo; 


And those I'll prove : 


And, unless that mind I see. 


So will thy love 


What care I how great she bel 


Be all bestow'd on me in vain. 


Great or good, or kind or fair, 


I do scorn to vow a duty 


I will ne'er the more despair: 


Where each lustful lad may woo; 


If she love me, this believe — 


Give me her whose sun-like beauty, 


I will die ere she shall grieve. 


Buzzards dare not soar unto: 


If she slight me when I woo, 


She, she it is. 


I can scorn and let her go : 


Allbrds that bliss 


If she be not fit for me. 


For which I would refuse no pain: 


What care I for whom she be 1 


But such as you, 




Fond fools, adieu ! 




You seek to captive me in vain. 




Leave me then, you Siren, leave me : 
Seek no more to work my harms : 


THE STEADFAST SHEPHERD. 


Hence away, thou Siren, leave me. 


Crafty wiles cannot deceive me, 


Pish ! unclasp these wanton arms; 


Who am proof against your charms : 


Sugar'd words can ne'er deceive me. 


You laliour may 


(Though thou prove a thousand charms,) 


To lead astray 


Fie, fie, forbear ; 


The heart that constant shall remain ; 


No common snare 


And I the while 


Can ever my aftectiori chain : 


Will sit and smile 


Thy painted baits. 


To see you spend your time in vain. 


And poor deceits, 




Are all bestow'd on me in vain. 








I'm no slave to such as you be ; 




Neither shall that snowy breast, 


FROM A POEM 0\ THE ANNIVERSARY OF HIS 


Rolling eye, and lip of ruby. 


MAKKIAGE DAY. 


Ever rob me of my rest: 




Go, go, display 


Lord, living here arc we 


Thy beauty's ray. 
To some more soon-enamour'd swain : 


As last united yet. 
As when our hearts and hands by Thee 


Those common wiles 


Together first were knit. 


Of sighs and smiles 


And in a thankful song 


Are all bestow'd on me in vain. 


Now sing we will Thy praise. 




For that Thou dost as well prolong 


I have elsewhere vow'd a duty ; 


Our loving as our days. 


'i'urn away thy tempting eye: 




Show not me a painted beauty: 


The frowardness that springs 


These impostures I defy : 


From our corrupted kind. 


My spiri: loaths 


Or from those troublous outward things, 


Where gaudy clothes 


Which may distract the mind; 


And feigned oaths may love obtain : 


Permit not thou, Lord, 


I love her so. 


Our constant love to shake; 


Whose look swears No, 


Or to disturb our true accord. 


That all your labours will be vain. 


Or make our hearts to ache. 



DR. HENRY KING. 



[Born, 1392. Uied, IBIJS.l 



[Henry Kino, D. D., was the elJest son of 
Jolin King, BishoD of London, and was born in 
Wariioll, Buckinghamshire, anil etlucated at 
Oxford. He became chaplain to James I., Arch- 
deacon of Colchester, Dean of St. Paul's, and 
finally Bishop of Chichester. Besides his polemi- 
cal works, he published " The Psalms of David 



turned into Metre," " Poems, Elegies, Paradoxes, 
and Sonnets," and <• Various l^atin and Greek 
Poems." An edt.on of his " Poems and Psalms" 
was j)iiblished in London in 1843, with a me- 
moir by the Rev. J. Hannah, B. A. Some of his 
pieces are remarkable for tenderness and ele- 
gance. — C] 



Like to the falling of a star. 
Or as the flights of eagles are ; 
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, 
Or silver drops of morning dew ; 
Or like a wind that chafes the flood. 
Or bubbles which on water stood : 
Even such is man, whose borrow'd light 
Is straight call'd in, and paid to-night. 

The wind blows out, the bubble dies; 
The spring entomb'd in autumn lies ; 
The dew dries up, the star is shot : 
The flight is past — and man forgot. 



What is the existence of man's life 

But open war or slumber'd strife 1 

Where sickness to his sense presents 

The combat of the elements. 

And never feels a perfect peace 

Till death's cold hand signs his release. 

It is a storm — where the hot blood 
Outvies in rage the boiling flood; 
And each loud passion of the mind 
Is Ike a furious gust of wind. 
Which beats the bark with many a wave. 
Till he casts anchor in the grave. 

It is a flower — which buds and grows, 
And withers as the leaves disclose; 
Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep, 
lake fits of waking before sleep, 
Then shrinks into that fatal mould 
Where its first being was enroll'd. 
It is a dream — -whose seeming truth; 
Is moralized in age and youth ; 
Where all the comforts he can share 
As wand'ring as his fancies are, 
Till in a mist of dark decay 
The dreamers vanish quite away. 

It is a dial — which points out 
The sunset as it moves about ; 
And shadows out in lines of night 
I'hc subtle stages of Time's flight, 



Till all-obscuring earth had laid 
His body in perpetual shade. 

It is a weary interlude 
Which doth short joys, long woes include: 
The world the stage, the j)rologue tears ; 
1'he acts vain hopes and varied fears ; 
The scene shuts up with loss of breath, 
And leaves no epdogue but Death ! 



TUE ANNIVERSARY. 



So soon grown old ! hast thou been six years 
dead 1 
Poor earth, once by my love inhabited! 
And must I live to calculate the time 
'I'o which thy blooming youth could never climb, 
But fell in the ascent ! yet have not I 
Studied enough thy losses' history. 

How happy were mankind, if Death's strict 
laws 
Consumed our lamentations like the cause ! 
Or that our grief, turning to dust, might end 
With the d.ssolved body of a friend! 

But sacied Heaven ! O, how just thou art 
In stamping death's impression on that heart. 
Which through thy favors would grow insolent 
Were it not physick'd by sharp discontent. 
If, tlien, it stand resolved in thy decree. 
That still 1 must dooni'd to a desert be. 
Sprung out of my lone thoughts, which know n: 

path 
But what my own misfortune beaten hath ; — 
If thou will bind me living to a corse, 
And I must slowly waste; I then of force 
Sloop to Ihy great api)ointinent, and obey 
That will which naught avails me to gainsay. 
For wh.lst in sorrow's maze I wander on, 
I do but follow life's vocation. 

Sure we were made to grieve : at our first birth. 
With cries we took possession of the earth; 
And though the lucky man reputed be 
Fortune's adopted son, yet only he 
Is nature's true-born child, who sums his years 
(Like me) with no arithmetic but tears. 
3U3 



304 



DR. ROBERT WILDE. 



SONG. 
Dry those fair, those crystal eyes, 
Which like growing fountains rise 
To drown their banks ! Grief's sullen brooks 
Would better flow in furrow'd looks : 
Thy lovely face was never meant 
To be the shore of discontent. 



Then clear those waterish stars again, 
Which else portend a lasting rain ; 
Lest the clouds which settle there 
Prolong my winter all the year, 
And thy example others make 
In love with sorrow, for thy sake. 



DR. ROBERT WILDE 



Was a dissenting clergyman. The dates of his I author of a poem, entitled " Iter Boreale," and 
birth and death are not given by Jacob. He was | "The Benefice," a comedy. 



A COMPLAINT OF A LEARNED DIVINE IN 
PURITAN TIMES. 

In a melancholy study, 

None but myself, 

Methought my Muse grew muddy ; 

After seven years' reading, 

And costly breeding, 

I felt, but could find no pelf. 

Into learned rags 

I have rent my plush and satin, 

And now am fit to beg 

In Hebrew, Greek, and Latin : 

Instead of Aristotle, 

Would I had got a patten. 

Alas, poor scholar, whither wilt thou go. 
I have bow'd, I have bended, 
And all in hope 
One day to be befriended ; 
I have preach'd, I have printed, 
Whate'er I hinted, 
To please our English Pope : 
I worshipp'd toward the East 
But the sun doth now forsake me; 
I find that I am falling. 
The northern winds do shake me. 
Would I had been upright, 
For bowing now will break me. 
Alas, poor, &c. 

At great preferment I aim'd, 

Witness my silk. 

But now my hopes are maim'd. 

I looked lately 

To live most stately, 

And have a dairy of bell-rope's milk ; 

But now, alas! 

Myself I must flatter. 

Bigamy of steeples is a laughing matter; 

Each man must have but one. 

And curates will grow fatter. 
Alas, poor, &c. 

Into some country village 

Now I must go, 

Where neither tithe nor tillage 

Tne greedy patron. 

And parched matron. 

Swear to the church they owe; 



Yet if I can preach 
And pray too on a sudden, 
And confute the Pope 
At adventure without studying, 
Then ten pounds a year, 
Besides a Sunday pudding. 
Alas, poor, &c. 

All the arts I have skill in, 
Divine and human. 
Yet all's not worth a shilling. 
When the women hear me 
They do but jeer me, 
And say I am profane. 
Once I remember 
I preached with a weaver; 
I quoted Austin, 
He quoted Dod and Clever : 
I nothing got, 
He got a cloak and beaver. 
Alas, poor, &c. 

Ships, ships, ships I discover, 
Crossing the main ; 
Shall I in and go over. 
Turn Jqw or Atheist, 
Turk or Papist, 
To Geneva or Amsterdam 1 
Bishoprics are void 
In Scotland, shall I thither 1 
Or follow Windebank 
And Finch, lo see if either 
Do want a priest to shrieve theml 
no, 'tis blustering weather. 
Alas, poor, &c. 

Ho, ho, ho, I have hit it : 
Peace, Goodman fool ! 
Thou hast a trade will fit it; 
Draw thy indenture. 
Be bound at a venture 
An apprentice to a free-school ; 
There thou may'st command, 
By William Lilly's charter; 
There thou may'st whip, strip. 
And hang, and draw, and quarter, 
And commit to the red rod 
Both Will, and Tom, and Arthur. 
Ay, ay, 'tis hither, hither will I go. 



SIR JOHN MENNIS 


AND JAMES SMITH. 


[Born, 1598. 


Born, 1604. J 


Sir John Mennis was born in 1598. He was 


He composed the well-known ballad on Sir John 


successively a military and naval commander; a 


Suckling's defeat.— Smith was born about 1604: 


vice-admiral in th<» latter service, governor of 


was a military and naval chaplain, canon of Exe- 


Dover Castle, and chief comptroller of the navy. 


ter cathedral, and doctor in divinity. 


UPON LUTE-STRINGS CAT-EATEN, 


He did the calf from naked bones ; 




Or I, to plague thee for thy sin, 


reOM "MUSARira DEUCLSI, OR THE MUSES' RECREATION." 


Should draw a circle, and begin 


Are these the strings that poets feign 


To conjure, for I am, look to 't. 


Have clear'd the air and calm'd the main 1 


An Oxford scholar, and can do't. 


Charm'd wolves, and from the mountain crests 


Then with three sets of mops and mows, 


Made forests dance, with all their beasts ? 


Seven of odd words, and motley shows. 


Could these neglected shreds you see 


A thousand tricks that may be taken 


Inspire a lute of ivory, 


From Faustus, Lambe, or Friar Bacon; 


And make it speak ] oh then think what 


I should begin to call my strings 


Hath been committed by my cat ! 


My catlings, and my minikins ; 


Who, in the silence of the night. 


And they re-catted, straight should fall 


Hath gnawn these cords, and marr'd them quite, 


To mew, to purr, to caterwaul ; 


Leaving such relics as may be 


From puss's belly, sure as death. 


For frets, not for my lute, but me. 


Puss should be an engastrumeth. 


Puss, I will curse thee ! may'st thou dwell 


Puss should be sent for- to the king, 


With some dry hermit in a cell. 


For a strange bird or some rare thing. 


Where rat ne'er peep'd, where mouse ne'er fed. 


Puss should be sought to far and near. 


And flies go supperless to bed ; 


As she some cunning woman were. 


Or with some close-pared brother, where 


Puss should be carried up and down, 


Thou'lt fast each Sabbath in the year; 


From shire to shire, firom town to town, 


Or else, profane, be hang'd on Monday, 


Like to the camel lean as hag. 


For butchering a mouse on Sunday. 


The elephant, or apish nag. 


Or may'st thou tumble from some tower. 


For a strange sight ; puss should be sung 


And miss to light on all-four. 


In lousy ballads 'midst the throng, 


Taking a fall that may untie 


At markets, with as good a grace 


Eight of nine lives, and let them fly. 


As Agincourt, or Chevy Chace. 


Or may the midnight embers singe 


The Troy-sprung Briton would forego 


Thy dainty coat, or Jane beswinge 


His pedigree, he chanteth so, 


What, was there ne'er a rat nor mouse, 


And sing that Merlin (long deceased) 


Nor buttery ope; naught in the house 


Return'd is hi a nine-lived beast. 


But harmless lute-strings, could suffice 




Thy paunch, and draw thy glaring eyes ] 


Thus, puss, thou see'st what might betide thee ; 


Did not thy conscious stomach find 


But I forbear to hurt or chide thee. 


Nature profaned, that kind with kind 


For't may be puss was melancholy, 


Should stanch his hunger 1 think on that, 


And so to make her blithe aud jolly, 


Thou cannibal and cyclops cat ! 


Finding these strings, she'd have a fit 


For know, thou wretch, that every string 


Of mirth ; nay, puss, if that were it. 


Is a cat's gut which art doth bring 


Thus I revenge me, that as thou 


Into a thread ; and now suppose 


Hast play'd on them, I on thee now ; 


Uunstan, that snutf'd the devil's nose. 


And as thy touch was nothing fine, 


Should bid these strings revive, as once 


So I've but scratch'd these notes of mine. 


8B 


2a2 305 



JASPER MAYNE. 



(Born, IcM. 

This WTiter has t cast of broad humour that is 
amusing, though pione to extravagance. The 
idea in Tlie City Match of Captain Quartfield 
and his l)Oon companions exposing simple Timo- 
thy dead drunk, and dressed up as a sea-inonster 
for a show, is not indeed within the boundaries 
of either taste or credibility ; but amends is made 
for it in the next scene, of old Warehouse and 
Seathrift witnessing in disguise the joy of their 
heirs at their supposed deaths. Among the many 
interviews of this nature by which comedy has 
sought to produce merriment and surprise, this 
is not one of the worst managed. Plotwell's 
cool impudence is well supported, when he gives 
money to the waterman, (who tells that he had 
escaped by swimming at the time the old citi- 
zens were drowned,) 



There, friend, there is 
A fare for you: I'm glad you 'scaped; 1 had 
Kot known the news so soon else. 

Dr. Mayne was a clergyman in Oxfordshire. 
He lost his livings at the death of Charles I. and 
became chaplain to the Earl of Devonshire, who 
made him acquainted with Hoblies ; but the phi- 
losopher and poet are said to have been on no 
very agreeable terms. At the Restoration he was 
reinstated in his livings, made a canon of Christ- 
church, Archdeacon of Chichester, and chaplain 
in ordinary to the king. Besides the comedy of 
the City Match, he published a tragi-comedy 
called The Amorous War ; several sermons ; dia- 
logues from Lucian; and a pamphlet on the 
Civil Wars. 



A. SON AND NEriTEW RECEnTNG THE NEWS OF A 
FATUER'S AND AN UNCLE'S DEATU. 

FROM "THE alY MATCH." 

Persons. — Warehouse avd Seathrift, two we.oUliy old mer- 
cliants in disguise; Cvhhek, Oif. former's factor, Uisyuised 
as a watirman; IIotwell, ne/)/i<'.iu <o WAREHOUSt; Ti.MO- 
THT, sow to Seathrift; Captain Quartfield, Uriuut, u;u^ 
Nevtcut, companions of Plotwell. 

Place:— ^ Tavern. 

Cyph. Then I must tell the news to you, 'tis sad. 

Plot. I'll hear't as sadly. 

Cyph, Your uncle, sir, and Mr. Seathrift are 
Both drown'd, some eight miles below Greenwich. 

Plot. Drown'd! 

Cyph. They went i' th' tilt-boat, sir, and I was 
one [us, 

0' th' oars that row'd 'em ; a coal-ship did o'er-run 
I 'scaped by swimming ; the two old gentlemen 
Took hold of one another, and sunk together. 

Bright. How some nien's prayers are heard ! 
We did invoke [took 'em. 

The sea this morning, and see the Thames has 

Plot. It cannot be; such good news, gentlemen, 
Cannot be true. 

Ware. 'Tis very certain, sir; 
'Twas talk'd upon th' Exchange. 

Sea. We heard it too 
In Paul's now as we came. 

Plot. There, friend, there is 
A fare for you ; I'm glad you 'scaped ; I had 
Not known the news so soon else. [Givei him money. 

Cyph. Sir, excuse me. 

Plot. Sir, it is conscience ; I do believe you might 
Sue me in chancery. 

Cyph. Sir, you show the virtues of an heir. 

Ware. Are you rich Warehouse's heir, sir? 

Plot. Yes, sir, his transitory pelf, 
And some twelve hundred pound a year in earth. 
Is cast <jn me. Captain, the hour is come, 
306 



You shall no more drink ale, of which one draught 
Makes cowards, and spoils valour ; nor take otf 
Your moderate quart-glass. I intend to have 
A musket for you, or glass cannon, with 
A most capacious barrel, which we'll charge 
And discharge with the rich valiant grape 
Of my uncle's cellar ; every charge shall fire 
The glass, and burn itself i' th' filling, and look 
Like a piece going off. 

Quart. I shall be glad 
To give thanks for you, sir, in pottle draughts. 
And shall love Scotch-coal for this wreck tlie better 
As long as I know fuel. 

Plot. Then my poet 
No longer shall write catches, or thin sonnets, 
Nor preach in verse as if he were suborn'd 
By him that wrote the Whip, to [jen lean acts. 
And so to overthrow the stage for want 
Of salt or wit. Nor shall he need torment 
Or persecute his muse ; but I will be 
His god of wine t'inspire him. He shall no more 
Converse with the live-yard butler ; who, like 

thunder. 
Can turn beer with his voice, and roar it sour : 
But shall come forth a Sophocles and write 
Things for the buskin. Instead of Pegasus, 
To strike a spring with's hoof, we'll have a steel 
Which shall but touch a butt, and straight shall 
A purer, higher, wealthier Helicon. [How 

Sale. Frank, thou shalt be my Phoebus. My 
next poem 
Shall be thy uncle's tragedy, or the Life 
And Death of two Rich Merchants. 

Plo!. Gentlemen, 
And now i' faith what think you of the fish? 

Ware. Why as we ought, sir, strangely. 

Brigh'. But d'you think it is a very fish 1 

Sea. Yes. 

Kew. 'Tis a man. 



JASPER MAYNE. 307 


Plot. This valiant captain and this man of wit 


Plof. He wore 


First fox'd him, then transform'd him. We will 


More pavement out with walking than would mako 


wake him. 


A.row of new stone-saints, and yet refused 


And tell him tlie news. Ho, Mr. Timothy ! 


To give to th' reparation. 


Tim. Plague t.ike you, captain. 


Brfght. I've heard 


Plot. What! does your sack work stiin 


He'd make his jack go empty, to cozen neighbours 


Tim. Where am I ? 


Plol. Yes, when there was not fire enough to 


Plol. Come, y'have slept enough. 


warm 


Erij^lV. Mr. timothy ! 


A mastich-patch t' apply to his wife's temples, 


How in the name of fresh cod came you changed 


In great extremity of tooth-ache. This is 


Into a sea-eah" thus ] 


True, Mr. Timothy, is't not 1 


New. 'Slight, Sir, iiere be 


Tim. Yes: then l.nen 


Two fishmongers to huy you, beat the price; 


To us was stranger than to Capuchins. 


Now y'are awake yourself. 


My flesh is of an order, with wearing shirts 


Tim. How's this ! my hands 


Made of the sacks that brought o'er cochineal, 


Transmuted into claws T my fuet made flounders'? 


Copperas, and indigo. My sister wears 


Arriiy'd in fins and scales! Aren't you 


Smocks made of currant-bags. 


Ashamed to make me such a monster 1 Pray 


Sea. I'll not endure it; 


Help to undress me. 


Let's show ourselves. 


PiOl. We have rare news for you. 


Ware. Stay, hear all first. 


Tim. No letter from the lady, I hope 1 


New. Thy uncle was such another. 


Plot. Your father. 


Bright. 1 have heard 


And my grave uncle, sir, are cast away. 


He still last leit th' Exchange, and would commend 


Tim. How? 


The wholesomeness o' th' air in Moor-fields, when 


Plot. They by this have made a meal 


The clock struck three sometimes. 


For jacks and salmon: they are drown'd. 


Plot. Surely myself 


Bm/ht. Fall down. 


Cypher his factor, and an ancient cat. 


And worship sea-coals, for a ship of them 


Did keep strict d.et, had our Spanish fare, 


Has made you, sir, an heir. 


Four olives among three. My uncle would 


Plo'. This fellow here 


Look fat with fasting; I ha' known him surfeit 


Brings the auspicious news: and these two friends 


Upon a bunch of raisins; swoon at sight 


Of ours confirm it. 


Of a whole joint, and rise an epicure 


Cyph. 'Tis too true, sir. 


From half an orange. [T/iey undisguise 


Tun. Well, 


Ware. Gentlemen, 'tis false. 


We are all mortal ; but in what wet case 


Cast ort' your cloud. D'you know me, sir? 


Had I been now, if I had gone with him ! 


Plol. My uncle ! 


Within this fortnight I had been converted 


Sen. And do you know me, sir ] 


Into some pike, you might ha' cheapen'd me 


Tim. My father! 


In Fish-street ; I had made an ordinary. 


Ware. Nay, 


Perchance, at the Mermaid. Now could I cry 


We'll open all the plot, reveal yoursell. 


Like any image in a fountain v\hi-h 


Plot. Cyper the waterman! 


Runs lamentations. my hard misfortune ! 


Quart. Salewit, away ! 


[A/k f(inn< In weep. 


I feel a tempest coming. [Ex. Quart, and Salewft. 


Sea. Fie, sir ! good truth, it is not manly in you, 


Waie. Are you struck 


To weep for such a slight loss us a father. 


With a torpedo, nephew ? 


'Tan. I do not cry lor that. 


Sea. Ha' you seen too 


Se,. No] 


A Gorgon's head, that you stand speechless ? or 


7'im. No, but to think. 


Are you a fish in earnest 1 


My mother is not drown'd too. 


hiiylil. It begins to thunder. 


Sea. I assure you. 


New. We will make bold to take our leaves. 


And that a shrewd mischance. 


Ware. What, is your captain fled ] 


Tini. For then m ght 1 


Sea. Nay, gentlemen. Ibrsake your company . 


Ha' gone to t!i' counting-house, and set at liberty 


Lrtghi. S.r, we have business. 


'I'liosc hiirmle s angels, which for many years 


Sea. Troth, it is not kindly done. 


Have been coiidomn'd to darkness. 


[Jixeunt Bright, New. 


Plot. You'd not do 


Ware. Now, Mr. Seathrift. 


[.ike your penurious father, who was wont 


You see what mourners we had had, had we 


To walk his dinner out in Paul's, whilst you 


Been wreck'd in earnest. My gr.eved nephew here 


Kept Lent at home, and had, like folk in sieges, 


Had made my cellar flow with tears, my wines 


Your meals weigh'd to you. 


Had charged glass-ordnance, our funerals had been 


Aew. Indeed they say he was a monument of 


Bewad'd in pottle-draughts. 


Paul's. 


Sea. And at our graves 


Tim. Yes, he was there 


Your nephew and my son had made a panegyiic 


As constant as Luke Humphrey. I can show 


And open'd all our virtues. 


The prints where he sale, holes i' th' logs. 


Ware. Ungratelul monster! 



308 



RICHAKD BRATHWAITE. 



Sea. Unnatural villain ! 

Ware. Thou enemy to my blood ! 

Sea. Thou worse than parrici»le ! 

Ware. Next my sins, I do repent I am thy uncle. 

Sea. And I thy father. [father 

Ware. Death o' my soul ! Did I, when first thy 
Broke in estate, and then broke from the Counter, 
Where Mr. Seathrift laid him in the hole 
For debt, among the ruins of the city, 
And trades like him blown up, take thee from dust, 
Give thee free education, put thee in 
My own fair way of traffic; nay, decree 
To leave thee jewels, land, my whole estate, 
Pardon'd thy former wildness, and couldst thou sort 
Thyself with none but idle gallants, captains, 
And poets, who must plot before they eat, 
And make each meal a stratagem 1 Then could 
But I be subject of thy impious scofls ] [none 
I swoon at sight of meat ; I rise a glutton 
From half an orange : Wretch, forgetful wretch ! 
'Fore heaven I count it treason in my blood 
That gives thee a relation. But I'll take 
A full revenge. Make thee my heir ! I'll first 
Adopt a slave, brought from some galley ; one 
Which laws do put into the inventory, 
And men bequeath in wills with stools, and brass- 
pots ; [heir. 
One who shall first be household-stuff, then my 
Or to defeat all thy large aims, I'll marry. 
Cypher, go find me Baneswright ; he shall straight 
Provide me a wife. I will not stay to let 
My resolution cool. Be she a wench 
That every day puts on her dowry, wears 
Her fortunes, has no portion, so she be 
Young and likely to be fruitful, I'll have her : 
By all that's good, I will ; this afternoon ! 
I will about it straight. 

Sea. I follow you. [Ex. AVare. Cyphit,. 

And as for you, Tim, mermaid, triton, haddock, 
The wond'rous Indian fish caught near Peru, 
Whocan be of both elements, your sight 
Will keep you well. Here I do cast thee off, 
And in thy room pronounce to make thy sister 
My heir; it would be most unnatural 
To leave a fish on land, 'Las ! sir, one of your 
Bright fins and gills must swim in seas of sack, 
Spout rich canaries up like whales in maps ; 



I know you'll not endure to see my jack 
Go empty, nor wear shirts of copperas-bags, 
Nor fast in Paul's, you. I do hate thee now, 
Worse than a tempest, quicksand, pirate, rock, 
Or fatal lake, ay, or a privy-seal. 
Go let the captain make you drunk, and let 
Your next change be into some ape, ('tis stale 
To be a fish twice,) or some active baboon. 
And when you can find money out, betray 
What wench i' th' room has lost her maidenhead. 
Can mount to th' king, and can do all your feats. 
If your fine chain and yellow coat come near 
Th' Exchange, I'll see you ; so I leave you. 

Plot. Now [£r. Sea. 

Were there a dext'rous beam and two-pence 

hemp, 
Never had man such cause to hang himself. 
27»i. I have brought myself to a fine pass too 

Now 
Am I fit only to be caught, and put 
Into a pon<l to leap carps, or beget 
A goodly race of pickrel. 



SONG IN "THE A5I0R0US WAR." 
Time is the feather'd thing, 
And whilst I praise 

The sparklings of thy locks, and call them rays, 
Takes wing — 

Leaving behind him, as he flies, 
An unperceived dimness in thine eyes; 

His minutes, whilst they're told. 
Do make us old ; 
And every sand of his fleet glass, 
Increasing age as it doth pass, 
Insensibly sows wrinkles there 
Where flowers and roses. do appear. 

Whilst we do speak, our fire 

Doth into ice expire; 

Flames turn to frost ; and ere we can 

Know how our cheek turns pale and wan, 

Or how a silver snow 

Springs there where jet did grow. 

Our fading spring is in dull winter lost. 



RICHARD BRATHWAITE. 



1588. Died, 1673.) 



Richard Beathwaite, mentioned incidentally 
by Warton as a pastoral poet, but more valuable 
as a fluent though inelegant satirist, was the son 
of Thomas Brathwaite of VVarcop, near Appleby, 
in Westmoreland. When he had finished his 
education at both universities, his father gave him 
the estate oi Barnside, in Westmoreland, where 
he held a commission in the militia, and was 



deputy-lieutenant of the county. His latter days 
were spent near Richmond, in Yorkshire, where 
he died, with a highly respectable character. To 
the list of his pieces enumerated by Wood two 
have been since added by Mr. I His and Mr. 
Malone, amounting in all to nineteen, among 
which are two tragi-comedies, Men urius Britan* 
nicus and the Regicidium. 



JOHN MILTON. 



30£ 



FROM A "STRAPPADO FOR THE DEVIL/* 
A MAN there was who had lived a merry Ufa 
Till in the end he took to him a wife, 
One that no image was, for she could speak, 
And now and then her husband's costrel break; 
This drove the poor man to a discontent, 
And oft and many times did he repent 
That e'er he changed his former quiet state; 
But 'las! repentance then did come too late, 
No cure he finds to heal this malady, 
But makes a virtue of necessity. 
The common cure for care to every man, 
A pot of nappy ale, where he began 
To fortify his brains 'gainst all should come, 
'Mongst which the clamour of his wife's loud 
tongue. 



This habit grafted in him grew so strong, 
That when he was from ale an hour seem'd long. 
So well he liked the potion. On a time, 
Having staid long at pot — for rule or line 
Limits no drunkard — even from morn to night. 
He hasted home apace by the moonlight, 
Where as he went what phantasies were bred, 
I do not know, in his distemper'd head, 
But a strange ghost appear'd and forced him stay 
With which perplext he thus began to say : 
" Good spirit if thou be, I need no charm, 
For well I know thou wilt not do me harm ; 
And if the devil, sure thou shouldst not hu K\ 
I wed thy sister, and am plagued for't." 

The spirit, well approving what he said, 
Dissolved to air and quickly vanished. 



JOHN MILTON. 



[Born, 1608. Died, 1674.] 



If the memory of Milton has been outraged 
by Dr. Johnson's hostility, the writings of Black- 
burne, Hayley, and, above all, of Symmons, may 
be deemed sufficient to have satisfied the poet's 
injured shade. The apologies for Milton have 
indeed been rather full to superfluity than defec- 
tive. Dr. Johnson's triumphant regret at the 
supposed whipping of our great poet at the uni- 
versity, is not more amusing than the alarm of 
his favourable biographers at the idea of admit- 
ting it to be true. From all that has been writ- 
ten on the subject, it is perfectly clear that Milton 
committed no oflTence at college which could de- 
serve an ignominious punishment. Admitting 
Aubrey's authority for the anecdote, and his au- 
thority is not very high, it points out the punish- 
ment not as a public infliction, but as the personal 
act of his tutor, who resented or imagined some 
unkindnesses. 

The youthful history of Milton, in despite of 
this anecdote, presents him in an exalted and 
amiable light. His father, a man of no ordinary 
attainments, and so accomplished a musician! ^s 
to rank honourably among the composers of his 
age, intended him for the ministry of the church, 
and furnished him with a private tutor, who 
probably seconded his views ; but the piety that 
was early instilled into the poet's mind grew up, 
with the size of his intellect, into views of reli- 
gious independence that would not have suited 
any definite ecclesiastical pale; and if Milton 
had become a preacher, he must have founded a 



[* There is, perhaps, no work in Knglish which illus- 
trates mure fully aiid amu>in^ily the uiiinners, occupar 
tious, and opinions of the time when it was written 
than Bruithwaite's Strnppido ; but it is a .-trange. undi- 
gested and ill-arranged (Ollectioa of piems, of various 
kinds and of different degrees of merit, some of them 
toniposed considerably before the rest, but few without 
cli'.ims to no'.ire. The principal part consists of satires and 
epigrams, although the author purj-cely confounds the 
disuuction between the two: 



church of his own. Whilst a boy, the intensity 
of his studies laid the seeds of his future blind- 
ness ; and at that period the Latin verses ad- 
dressed to his father attest not only the prema- 
turity of his attainments, but the endearing 
strength of his afltctions. 

The few years which he spent at his father's 
house, at Horton, in Buckinghamshire, after 
leaving the university, and before setting out on 
his travels, were perhaps the happiest in his life. 
In the beautiful scenery of that spot, disinclined 
to any profession by his universal capacity, and 
thirst for literature, he devoted himself to study, 
and wrote the most exquisite of his minor poems. 
Such a mind, in the opening prime of its genius, 
enjoying rural leisure and romantic walks, and 
luxuriating in the production of Comus and the 
Arcades, presents an inspiring idea of human 
beatitude. 

When turned of thirty he went to Italy, the 
most accomplished Englishman that ever visited 
her classical shores. The attentions that were 
shown to him are well known. We find him 
at the same time, though a stranger and a heretic, 
boldly expressing his opinions within the verge 
of the Vatican. There, also, if poetry ever 
deigns to receive assistance from the younger 
art, his imagination may have derived at least 
congenial impressions from the frescoes of 
Michael Angelo, and the pictures of Raphael ; 
and those impressions he may have possil)ly re- 
called in the formation of his great poem, when 

I cairt an Epigram which is a Satire. 

He never scruples to use the plainest terms, and though 
he seldom inserts names, he spares neither rank nor eou- 
dition. — Collier, Bridye. Cat. p. 32.] 

t Miiton was eariy instructed in music. As a poet he 
speaks like one habituated to inspiration under its intlu- 
ence, and seems to have attached considerable importune* 
to the science in his system of education. 



310 



JOHN MILTON. 



his eyes were shut upon the world, and when 
he looked inwardly for " godlike shapes and 
forms." 

In the eventful year after his return from the 
Continent, the fate of Episcopacy, which was yet 
undecided, seemed to depend chiefly on the in- 
fluence which the respective parties could exer- 
cise upon the public mind, through the medium 
of the press, which was now set at liberty by 
the ordinance of the Long Parliament. Mil- 
ton's strength led him foremost on his own side 
of the controversy ; he defended the five minis- 
ters, whose book was entitled Sniectymnus,* 
against the learning and eloquence of Bishop 
Hall and Archbishop Usher, and became, in 
literary warfare, the bulwark of his party. It is 
performing tliis and similar services, which Dr. 
Johnson calls Milton's vapouring away his patriot- 
ism in keeping a private boarding-house ; and such 
are the slender performances at which that critic 
proposes that we should indulge in some de- 
gree of merriment. Assuredly, if Milton wielded 
the pen instead of the sword, in public dispute, 
his enemies had no reason to regard the former 
weapon as either idle or impotent in his hand. 
An invitation to laugh on such an occasion, may 



remind us of what Sternhold and Hopkins de 
nominate " awful mirth ;" for of all topics whicl- 
an enemy to Milton's i)rinciples could select, his 
impotence in maintaining them is the most un- 
prcipitious to merriment. 

The most difficult passage of his life for his 
biitgraphers to comment upon with entire satis- 
faction, is his continued acceptan e of Cromwell's 
wages after Cromwell had become a tyrant. It 
would be uncandid to deny, that his fear of the 
return of the Stuarts, the symptoms of his having 
been seldom at the usurper's court, and the cir- 
cumstance of his having given him advice to 
spare the liberties of the peo})le, form some apolog) 
for this negative adherence. But if the people, 
according to his own ideas, were capable of li- 
berty after Cromwell's death, they were equally 
so before it ; and a renunciation of his profits 
under the despot would have been a nobler and 
fuller sacrifice to public princi])les, than any ad- 
vice. From ordinary men this was more than 
could be expected; but Milton prescribed to 
others such austerity of duty, that in proportion 
to the altitude of his character, the world, which 
looked to him for example, had a right to expect 
his practical virtue to be severe. 



UPON THE CIRCUMCTSION. 
Ye flaming powers, and winged warriors bright, 
That erst with mu.-sic and triumphant song, 
First heard by happy watchful shepherd's ear, 
So sweetly sung your joy the clouds along. 
Through the soft silence of the list'ning night; 
Now mourn, and if sad share with us to bear 
Your fiery essence can distil no tear, 
Burn in your sighs, and borrow 
Seas wept from our deep sorrow ; 
He who with all Heaven's heraldry whilere 
Enter'd the world, now bleeds to give us ease ; 
Alas, how soon our sin 
Sore doth begin 

His infancy to seize ! 
more exceedmg love, or law more just 1 
Just law indeed, but more exceeding love ! 
For we by rightful doom remediless 
Were lost in death, till he that dwelt above 
High throned in secret bliss, for us frail dust 
Emptied his glory, even to nakedness; 
And that great covenant which we still transgresi 
Entirely satisfied. 
And the full wrath beside 
Of vengeful justice bore for our excess, 
And seals obedience first with wounding smart 
This day, but, O ! ere long 
Hugo pangs and strong 

Will pierce more near his heart. 



* From the iiJtial letters of their mimes. 



SONNET TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 
NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray 

Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, 

Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost 
fill, 
While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May. 
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day, 

First heard before the shallow cuckow's bill, 

Portend success in love; if Jove's will 
Have link'd that amorous power to thy soft lay, 

Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate 
Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh ; 

As thou from year to year hast sung too late 
For my relief, yet hadst no reason why : 

Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate, 
Both of them I serve, and of their train am I. 



SONG 

ON MAT MORNING. 

Now the bright morning Star, day's harbinger, 
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her 
The flow'ry May, who from her green lap throws 
The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. 
Hail, bounteous May ! that dost inspire 
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire; 
Woods and groves are of thy dressing, 
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing! 
Thus we salute thee with our early song, 
And welcome thee, and wish thee long. 



JOHN MILTON. 



811 



AN EPITArir ON THE ADMIRABLE DRAMATICK 

POi;T, WILLIAM SIIAKSPEARE* 
What needs my Shakspeare for his honour'd 

bones. 
The labour of an age in piled stones, 
Or that his hallow'd relics should be hid 
Under a star-ypointing pyramid 1 
Dear son of Memory, great heir of fame, 
What need'st thou such weak witness of thy 

name 1 
Thou in our wonder and astonishment 
Hast built thyself a live-long monument. 
For whilst to the shame of slow-endeavouring 

art 
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart 
Halh from the leaves of thy unvalued book 
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took; 
Then thou our fancy of itself l)ereaving. 
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving; 
And so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie. 
That kings, for such a tomb would wish to die. 



SONNET ON HIS BLINDNESS. 
When I consider how my light is spent 

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, 
And that one talent which is death to hide, 
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 
To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
My true account, lest He returning chide ; 
" Doth God exact day-labour, light denied," 
I fondly ask 1 but Patience to prevent 

That murmur, soon replies, " God doth not need 
Either man's work or his own gifts ; who best 
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His 
state, 
Is kingly ; thousands at His bidding speed. 
And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 

They also serve who' only stand and wait." 



SONNET ON HIS DECEASED WIFE. 
Methought I saw my late espoused saint 

Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave. 

Whom Jove'sgreatsontoher glad husband gave 
Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint. 
Mine, as whom wash'd from spot of child-bed taint. 

Purification in the old Law did save. 

And such, as yet once more I trust to have 
Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint. 

Came vested all in white, pure as her mind: 
Her face was veil'd, yet to my fancied sight 

Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined 
So clear, as in no fice with more delight. 

But, O ! as to embrace me she inchned, 
I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night. 

[* We have copied this title at full len;th from the poim 
a» it was first printed : " It is true," s lys Sir Walter Scolt, 
'•that Milton descealed to upbraid the unfortunate 
Charles I. that the ihjsen com; anion of his private hours 
wa-s <me William Shahspenre, a player." (Life, nf Dri/tien, 
p. 9.) Nothing is more untrue, ai.d we quo^e the pa-sage : 
"The I Odts, and some English, have been so mindful of 
decorum, as to put never more pious winls in the mouth 
of any person than of a tyraut. I shall not instance an 



FROM BOOK IV. OF PARADISE REQAINBD. 

Look once more ere we leave this specular mount, 

Westward, much nearer by south-west behold 

Where on the .(Egean shore a c.ty stands 

Built nobly, pure the air and light the soil, 

Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts 

And eloquence, native to famous wits 

Or hospitable, in her sweet recess. 

City or suburban, studious walks and shades ; 

See there the olive grove of Academe, 

Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird 

Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long; 

There, flowery hill, Hymettus, with the sound 

Of bees' industrious murmur, oft invites 

To studious musing ; there Ilissus rolls 

His whispering stream: within the walls then view 

The schools of ancient sages ; his who bred 

Great Alexander to subdue the world, 

Lyceum there, and painted Stoa next : 

There shalt thou hear and learn the secret power 

Of harmony in tones and numbers hit 

By voice or hand, and various-measured verse, 

.^olian charms, and Dorian lyric odes. 

And his who gave them breath, but higher sung. 

Blind Melesigenes, thence Homer call'd. 

Whose poem Phoebus challenged for his own. 

Thence what the lofty grave tragedians taught 

In chorus or iambic, teachers best 

Of moral prudence, with delight received 

In brief sententious precepts, while they treat 

Of fate, and chance, and change in human life ; 

High actions and high passions best describing; 

Thence to the famous orators repair. 

Those ancient, whose resistless eloquence 

Wielded at will that fierce democratie, 

Shook the arsenal, and fulmined over Greece, 

To Macedon and Artaxerxes' throne. 



SAMSON BEWAILING HIS BLINDNESS AND 
CAPTIVITY. 

(Attendant leading him.) 

FROM SAMSON AGONISTES. 

A LITTLE onward lend thy guiding hand 
To these dark steps, a little further on : 
For yonder bank hath choice of sun or shade ; 
There I am wont to sit, when any chance 
Relieves me from my task of servile toil. 
Daily in the common prison else enjoin'd me. 
Where I a prisoner chain'd, scarce freely draw 
The air imprison'd also, close and damp, 
Unwholsome draught : but here I feel amends. 
The breath of heaven fresh blowing, pure and sweet, 
With day-spring born; here leave me to respire. — 
This day a solemn feast the people hold 

abstruse author, wherein the king [Charles I.] might be 
less conversant, but one whom we well know was the 
closet companion of these, his colitudes. William Shak- 
speare, who introduces the perfon of Kichard III." &c., 
speaking such stuff, he goes on to say, as the king has 
written, and deep dissemblers indulge in. What is there 
in this disrespectful to the "sweetest Shakspeare, Fancjr'n 
cliild,'' of his juvenile verses ?i 



.',12 



JOHN MILTON 



To Dagon their sea-idol, and forbid 
Jjaborious works ; unwillingly this rest 
Their superstition yields me ; hence with leave 
Retiring from the popular noise, I seek 
This unfrequented place to find some ease, 
Ease to tlie body some, none to the mind, 
From restless thoughts, that like a deadly swarm 
Of hornets arm'd, no sooner found alone, 
But rush upon me thronging, and present 
Times past, what once I was, and what am now. 
O wherefore was my birth from Heaven foretold 
Twice by an angel, who at last in sight 
Of both my parents all in flames ascended 
From off the altar, where an otiering burn'd. 
As in a fiery column, charioting 
His godlike presence, and from some great act 
Or benefit reveal'd to Abraham's race ] 
Why was my breeding order'd and prescribed 
As of a person separate to God, 
Design'd for great exploits ; if I must die 
Betray'd, captived, and both my eyes put out, 
Made of my enemies the scorn and gaze ; 
To grind in brazen fetters under task 
With this heaven-gifted strength "? O glorious 
Put to the labour of a beast, debased [strength 
Lower than bond-slave ! Promise was that I 
Should Israel from Philistian yoke deliver ; 
Ask for this great deliverer now, and find him 
Eyeless in Gaza, at the mill with slaves, 
Himself in bonds, under Philistian yoke. 
# • » * 

loss of sight, of thee I most complain ! 

Blind among enemies, O worse than chains. 

Dungeon, or beggary, or decrepit age ! 

Light, the prime work of God, to me is extinct. 

And all her various objects of delight 

Annull'd, which might in part my grief have 

Inferior to the vilest now become [eased. 

Of man or worm : the vilest here excel me ; 

They creep, yet see ; I, dark in light, exposed 

To daily fraud, contempt, abuse, and wrong. 

Within doors or without, still as a fool, 

In power of others, never in my own ; 

Scarce half I seem to live, dead more than half. 

O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, 

Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse 

Without all hope of day ! 

O first created Beam, and thou great Word, 

" Let there be light, and light was over all ;" 

W hy am I thus bereaved thy prime decree 1 

The sun to me is dark 

And silent as the moon. 

When she deserts the night, 

Hid in her vacant interlunar cave. 

Since light so necessary is to life. 

And almost life itself, if it be true 

That light is in the soul, 

She all in every part ; why was the sight 

To such a tender ball as the eye confined. 

So obvious and so easy to be quench'd 1 

And not as feeling through all parts diffused, 

'J'hatshe might look at wdl through every pore I 

Then had I not been thus exiled from light. 

As in the land of darkness yet in light. 

To live a life half dead, a living death, 



And buried : but O yet more miserable ! 

Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave, 

Buried, yet not exempt 

By privilege of death and burial. 

From worst of other evils, pains, and wrongs ; 

But made hereby obnoxious more 

To all the miseries of life, 

Life in captivity 

Among inhuman foes. 



SPEECHES, OF MANOAH THE FATHER OF SAMSON, 
AND OF THE CHORUS, ON HEARING OF HIS 
LAST ACHIEVEMENT AND DEATH. 

Manoah. Samson hath quit himself 
Like Samson, and heroically hath finish'd 
A life heroic ; on his enemies 
Fully revenged, hath left them years of mourning, 
And lamentation to the sons of Caphtor 
Through all Philistian bounds, to Israel 
Honour hath left, and freedom, let but them 
Find courage to lay hold on this occasion ; 
To himself and father's house eternal fame, 
And which is best and happiest yet, all this 
With God not parted from him, as was fear'd, 
But favouring and assisting to the end. 
Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail 
Or knock the breast ; no weakness, no contempt, 
Dispraise, or blame, nothing but well and fair. 
And what may quiet us in a death so noble. 
Let us go find the body where it lies 
Soak'd in his enemies' blood, and from the stream. 
With lavers pure, and cleansing herbs, wash o& 
The clotted gore. I with what speed the while 
(Gaza is not in plight to say us nay,) 
Will send for all my kindred, all my friends. 
To fetch him hence, and solemnly attend 
With sdent obsequy, and funeral train, 
Home to his father's house : there will I build him 
A monument, and plant it round with shade 
Of laurel ever green, and branching palm, 
With all his trophies hung, and acts inroll'd 
In copious legend, or sweet lyric song. 
Thither shall all the valiant youth resort. 
And from his memory inflame their breasts 
To matchless valour, and adventures high : 
The virgins also shall on feastful days 
Visit his tomb with flowers, only bewaihng 
His lot unfortunate in nuptial choice, 
From whence captivity and loss of eyes. 

Chorus, All is best, though we oft doubt 
What th' unsearchable dispose 
Of highest Wisdom brings about, 
And ever best found in the close. 
Oft he seems to hide his face. 
But unexpectedly returns, 
And to his faithful champion hath in place 
Bore witness gloriously ; whence Gaza mourns, 
And all that band them to resist 
His uncontrollable intent; 
His servants he with new acquist 
Of true experience from this great event. 
With peace and consolation hath dismiss'd 
And calm of mind all passion spent. 



JOHN MILTON. 



313 



FROM COMUS. 
Tlie first Scene discovers a wild wood. 
Tlie Attendant Spirit descends or enters. 
Before the starry threshold of Jove's court 
My mansion is, where those immortal shapes 
Of bright aerial spirits live insphered 
In regions mild of calm and serene air, 
Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot [care 
Which men call Earth, and with low-thoughted 
Confined, and pester'd in this pin-fold here. 
Strive to keep up a frail and feverish being, 
Unmindful of the crown that Virtue gives. 
After this mortal change, to her true servants. 
Amongst the enthron'd gods, on sainted seats. 
Yet some there be that by due steps aspire 
To lay their just hands on that golden key 
That opes the palace of Eternity : 
To such my errand is; and but for such, 
I would not soil these pure ambrosial weeds 
With the rank vapours of this sin-worn mould. 

But to my task. Neptune, besides the sway 
Of every salt-flood, and each ebbing stream, 
Took in by lot 'twixt high and nether Jove, 
Imperial rule of all the sea-girt isles. 
That like to rich and various gems inlay 
The unadorned bosom of the deep, 
Which he to grace his tributary gods 
By course commits to several government. 
And gives them leave to wear their sapphire 

crowns, 
And wield their little tridents : but this isle, 
The greatest and the best of all the main. 
He quarters to his blue-hair'd deities ; 
And all this tract that fronts the falling sun, 
A noble peer of mickle trust and power 
Has in his charge, with temper'd awe to guide 
An old and haughty nation proud in arms: 
Where his fair oflspring, nursed in princely lore, 
Are C9ming to attend their father's state. 
And new-entrusted sceptre ; but their way [wood, 
Lies through the perplex'd paths of this drear 
The nodding horror of whose shady brows 
Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger ; 
And here their tender age might sutler peril. 
But that by quick command from sovereign Jove 
I was despatch'd for their defence and guard ; 
And listen why ; for I will tell you now 
What never yet was heard in tale or song. 
From old or modern bard, in hall or bower. 

Bacchus, that first from out the purple grape 
Crush'd the sweet poison of misused wine, 
After the Tuscan mariners transform'd, 
Coasting the Tyrrhene shore, as the winds listed, 
On Circe's island fell : (Who knows not Circe, 
The daughter of the Sun? whose charmed cup 
Whoever tasted, lost his upright shape. 
And downward fell into a groveling swine,) 
This nymph, that gazed upon his clust'ring locks 
With ivy berries wreath'd, and his blythe youth. 
Had by hitii, ere he parted thence, a son 
Much like his father, but his mother more. 
Whom therefore she brought up, and Comus 

named. 
Who ripe, and frolic of his full grown age, 



Roving the Celtic and Iberian fields, 

At last betakes him to this ominous wood. 

And in thick shelter of black shades imbower'd. 

Excels his mother at her mighty art, 

Offering to every weary traveller 

His orient liquor in a crystal glass, [taste. 

To quench the drought of Phoebus, which as they 

(For most do taste, through fond intemp'rate thirst) 

Soon as the potion works, their human count'nance, 

Th' express resemblance of the gods, is changed 

Into some brutish form of wolf or bear, 

Or ounce or tiger, hog or bearded goat, 

All other parts remaining as they were ; 

And they, so perfect is their misery, 

Not once perceive their foul disfigurement. 

But boast themselves more comely than before. 

And all their friends and native home forget, 

To roll with pleasure in a sensual sty. 

Therefore, when any favour'd of high Jove 

Chances to pass through this advent'rous glade. 

Swift as the sparkle of a glancing star 

I shoot from heaven to give him safe convoy, 

As now I do : but first I must put otf 

These my sky-robes, spun out of Iris' woof, 

And take the weeds and likeness of a swain 

That to the service of this house belongs, 

Who with his soft pipe, and smooth-dittied song, 

W^ell knows to still the wild winds when they roar, 

And hush the waving woods ; nor of less faith. 

And in this office of his mountain watch. 

Likeliest, and nearest to the present aid 

Of this occasion. But I hear the tread 

Of hateful steps. I must be viewless now. 

Comus enters with a charming-rod in one hand, his glass 
in the other ; with him a rout of monsters, headed lik< 
sundry sorts of wild beasts, Vjut otherwii-e like men and 
women, their apparel jilistenini; : they come in, making 
a riotous and unruly noise, with torches in their hands. 

Comus. The star that bids the shepherd fold, 
Now the top of heaven doth hold, 
And the gilded car of Day, 
His glowing axle doth allay 
In the steep Atlantic stream. 
And the slope sun his upward beam 
Shoots against the dusky pole, 
Pacing toward the other goal 
Of his chamber in the East. 
Meanwhile, welcome Joy and Feast, 
Midnight Shout and Revelry, 
Tipsy Dance, and Jollity. 
Braid your locks with rosy twine, 
Dropping odours, dropping wine. 
Rigour now is gone to bed. 
And Advice with scrupulous head, 
Strict Age, and sour Severity, 
With their grave saws in slumber lie. 
We that are of purer fire 
Imitate the starry quire. 
Who in their nightly watchful spheres. 
Lead in swift round the months and years. 
The sounds and seas, with all their finny drove 
Now to the moon in wavering morrice move; 
And on the tawny sands and shelves 
Trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves. 
By dimpled brook and fountain brim, 
2B 



314 



JOHN MILTON. 



Tlip wood-nymphs, deck'd with daisies trim, 

Their merry wakes and pastimes keep; 

What hath night to do with sleep? 

Night hath better sweets to prove, 

Venus now wakes, and wakens Love. 

Come, let us our rites begin, 

'Tis only day-light that makes sin. 

Which these dun shades will ne'er report. — 

Hail, goddess of nocturnal sport, 

Dark-veil'd Cotytto! t' whom the secret flame 

Of midnight torches burns; mysterious dame! 

That ne'er art call'd, but when the dragon womb 

Of Stygian darkness spets her thickest gloom, 

And makes one blot of all the air. 

Stay thy cloudy ebon chair, 

Wherein thou ridest with Hecate, and befriend 

Us thy vow'd priests, till utmost end 

Of all thy dues be done, and none left out; 

Ere the blabbing eastern scout, 

The nice morn on the Indian steep 

From her caliin'd loophole peep. 

And to the tell-tale sun descry 

Our conceal'd solemnity. 

Come, knit hands, and beat the ground 

In a light fantastic round. 

JTie Measure. 
Break off, break off, I feel the different pace 
Of some chaste footing near about this ground. 
Run to your shrouds, within these brakes and trees ; 
Our number may affright ; some virgin sure 
(For so I can distinguish by mine art) 
Benighted in these woods Now to my charms. 
And to my wily trains: I shall ere long 
Be well stock'd with as fair a herd as grazed 
About my mother Circe. Thus I hurl 
My dazzling spells into the spungy air, 
Of power to cheat the eye with blear illusion. 
And give it false presentments, lest the place 
And my quaint habits breed astonishment. 
And put the damsel to suspicious flight; 
Which must not be, for that's against my course : 
I under fair pretence of friendly ends, 
And well-placed words of glozing courtesy. 
Baited with reasons not unplausible. 
Wind me into the easy-hearted man. 
And hug him into snares. When once her eye 
Hath met the virtue of this magic dust, 
I shall appear some harmless villager, 
Whom thrift keeps up about his country gear. 
But here she comes; I fairly step aside. 
And hearken, if I may, her business here. 

Tlie Lady Enters. 
Lnr^y. This way the noise was, if mine ear be true, 
My best guide now ; methought it was the sound 
Of riot and ill-managed merriment. 
Such as the jocund flute, or gamesome pipe, 
Stirs up among the loose unletter'd hinds. 
When for their teeming flocks, and granges full, 
In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan, 
And thank the gods amiss. I should be loth 
To meet the rudeness and swill'd insolence 
Ot such late wassailers; yet O. where else 
Shall I inform my unacquainted feet 



In the blind mazes of this tangled wood ? 
My brothers, when they saw me wearied out 
With this long way, resolving here to lodge 
Under the spreading favour of these pines, 
Stept, as they said, to the next thicket side, 
To bring me berries, or such cooling fruit 
As the kind hospitable woods provide. 
They left me then, when the gray-hooded Even, 
Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed. 
Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phoebus' wain. 
But where they are, and why they came not back. 
Is now the labour of my thoughts; 'tis likeliest 
They had engag'd their wand'ring steps too far, 
And envious darkness, ere they could return, 
Had stole them from me; else, O thievish Night, 
Why wouldst thou, but for some felonious end, 
In thy dark lantern thus close up the stars 
That Nature hung in heaven, and fill'd their lamps 
W' ith everlasting oil, to give due light 
To the misled and lonely traveller! 
This is the place, as well as I may guess. 
Whence even now the tumult of loud mirth 
Was rife and perfect in my llst'ning ear; 
Yet naught but single darkness do I find. 
What might this be ] A thousand fantasies 
Begin to throng into my memory. 
Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadov\'s dire, 
And airy tongues that syllable men's names 
On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses. 
These thoughts may startle well, but not astound 
The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended 
By a strong-siding champion. Conscience. 

welcome pure-eyed Faith, white-handed Hope. 
Thou hovering Angel, girt with golden vvips=, 
And thou, unblemish'd form of Chastity ! 

1 see ye visibly, and n^'' h-Ueve 

That He, the Supreir*' Good, t' whom all things ill 

Are but as slavish o^^ers of vengeance. 

Would send a glist'^'no guardian, if nfeed were. 

To keep my life am honour unas.sail'd. 

Was I deceived, or ^^'^ » sable cloud 

Turn forth her silvfr lining on the night 1 

I did not err ; then ''^es a sable cloud 

Turn forth her sdv'r lining on the night, 

And casts a gleam o^^"" ^his tufted grove. 

I cannot halloo to ny brothers, but 

Such noise as I ca' niake to be heard farthest 

I'll venture ; for n^ new enliven'd spirits 

Prompt me ; and'h^y perhaps are not far off. 



Sweet Echo, sw^^^^t nymph, that lives unseen 
With' ^hy airy shell 
By slov^*'*nder's margent green, 
And in the viol^Pni'""oi'lei-'d >ale, 

Where t^ love-lorn nightingale 
Nightly to thechPr sad song mourneth well ; 
Canst thou no f^H nie of a gentle pair 
Tliat'ikest thy Narcissus are'.' 
) if thou have 
Hid then'n ^ome flow'ry cave, 
Tell"*' l'"^ where. 
Sweet que ' °^ pa'^'y. daughter of the Sphere ; 
So mavsl '°" I"' translated to the skies, [nies. 
And give re '""'ling grace to all Heaven's harmo- 



Conius. Can any mortal, mixture of earth's mould, 
Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment? 
Sure something holy lodges in that hreast, 
And with these raptures moves the vocal air 
To testify his hidden residence : 
How sweetly did they float upon the wings 
Of silence, through the empty vaulted night, 
At every fall smoothing the raven down 
Of darki.ess till it smiled ! I have oft heard 
My mother Circe, with the Sirens three, 
Amidst the flow'ry-kirtled Naiades, 
Culling Iheir potent herhs and baleful drugs, 
Who as they sung, would take the prison'd soul. 
And lap it in Elysium ; Scylla wept. 
And chid her harking waves into attention. 
And fell Charyhdis murmur'd soft appliuse : 
Yet they in pleasing slumber luU'd the sense, 
And in sweet madness robb'd it of itself. 
But such a sacred and home-felt delight. 
Such sober certa nty of waking bliss, 
I never heard till now. I'll speak to her, 
And she shall be my queen. Hail, foreign wonder ! 
Whom certain these rough shades did never breed. 
Unless the goddess that in rural shrine 
Dwell'st here with Pan, or Sylvan, by blest song 
Forbidding every bleak unkindly fog 
To touch the prosp'rous growth of this tall wood. 

Larly. Nay, gentle shepherd, ill is lost that praise 
That is address'd to unattending ears; 
Not any boast of skill, but extreme shift 
How to regain my sever'd cimipany, 
Compell'd me to awake the courteous Echo 
To give me answer from her mossy couch. 

Comus. What chance, good lady, hath bereft 
you thus ] 

Lady. Dim darkness and this leafy labyrinth. 

Comus. Could that divide you from near- 
ushering guides? 

Lady. They left me weary on a grassy turf. 

Comus. By falsehood, or discourtesy, or why ? 

Lady. To seek i' th' valley some cool friendly 
spring. 

Comus. And left your fair side all unguarded, 
lady ? 

Lady They were but twain, and purposed quick 
return. 

Comus. Perhaps forestalling Night prevented 
them. 

Lady. How easy my misfortune is to hit! 

Conivs. Imports their loss, beside the present 
need ? 

Lady. No less than if I should my brothers 
lose. 

Conms. Were they of manly prime, or youthful 
bloom ? 

Lady. As smooth as Hebe's their unrazor'd lips, 

Comus. Two such I saw, what time the labour'd 
In his loose traces from the furrow came, [ox 
And the swinkt hedger at his supper sat ; 
I saw them under a green mantling vine 
That crawls along the side of yon small hill, 
Plu<king ripe clusters from the tender shoots. 
Their port was more than human as they stood ; 



I took it for a faery vision 

Of some gay creatures of the element. 

That in the colours of the rainbow live. 

And play i' th' plishted clouds. I was awe-struck, 

And as I pass'd, I worshipp'd ; if those you seek. 

It were a journey Lke a path to heaven. 

To help you find them. 

Lndy. Gentle villager, 
What readiest way would bring me to that place '' 

Comus. Due west it rises from this shrubby jioint. 

Lady. To find out that, good shepherd, I sup- 
In such a scant allowance of star-light, [pose, 
Would over-task the best land-pilot's art. 
Without the sure guess of well-practised feel. 

Conius. I know each lane, and every alley green, 
Dingle, or bushy deli of this wild wood. 
And every bosky bourn from side to side. 
My daily walks and ancient neighbourhood ; 
And if your stray attendants be yet lodged. 
Or shroud within these limits, I shall know 
Ere morrow wake, or the low-roosted lark 
From her thatch'd pallet rouse ; if otherwise, 
I can conduct you, l.idy, to a low 
But loyal cottage, where you may be safe 
Till further quest. 

Lady. Shepherd, I take thy word. 
And trust thy honest offer'd courtesy. 
Which oft is sooner found in lowly sheds 
With smoky rafters, than in tap'stry halls, 
And courts of princes, where it first was named. 
And yet is most pretended : in a place 
Less warranted than this, or less secure, 
I cannot be, that I should fear to change it. 
Eye me, blest Providence, and square my *rial 
To my proportion'd strength. Shepherd, lead on 



CHASTITY. 

FROM THE SAME. 

My sister is not so defenceless left 

As you imagine ; she has a hidden strength 

Which you remember not. 

'Tis Chastity, my brother. Chastity : 
She that has that is clad in complete steel. 
And like a quiver'd nymph, with arrows keen. 
May trace huge forests, and unharbour'd heaths. 
Infamous hills and sandy perilous wilds. 
Where through the sacred rays of Chastity, 
No SMvage fierce, bandit, or mountaineer. 
Will dare to soil her virgin purity : 
Yea, there, where very desolation dwells. 
By grots, and caverns shagg'd with horrid shades, 
She may pass on with unblench'd majesty, 
Be it not done in pride, or in presumption. 
Some say no evil thing that walks by night. 
In fog or fire, by lake or moorish fen. 
Blue meagre ha^, or stubborn unlaid ghost. 
That breaks his magic chains at curfew time 
No goblin or swart fairy of the mine, 
Hath hurtful power o'er true virginity. 
Do ye believe me yet, or shall I call 
Antiquity from the old schools of Greece, 
To testify the arms of Chastity? 



316 



JOHN MILTON. 



Hence had the huntress Dian her dread how. 
Fair silver-shafted queen, for ever chaste, 
Wherewith she tamed the brindcd lioness 
And spotted mountain pard, but set at naught 
The frivolous bolt of Cupid ; gods and men 
Fear'd her stern frown, and she was Queen o' th' 

Woods. 
What was that snaky-headed Gorgon shield, 
That wise Minerva wore, unconquer'd virgin, 
Wherewith she freezed her foes to c6ngeard stone, 
But rigid looks of chaste austerity. 
And nol)le grace that dash'd brute violence 
With sudden adoration, and blank awel 
So dear to Heaven is saintly Chastity, 
That when a soul is found sincerely so, 
A thousand liveried angels lacquey her, 
Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt, 
And in clear dream and solemn vision. 
Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear, 
Till oft converse with heavenly liabitants 
Begin to cast a beam on th' outward shape, 
The unpolluted temple of the mind, 
And turns it by degrees to the soul's essence, 
1 ill all be made immortal. 



SONG. 
Sabrina fair, 

Listen where thou art sitting 
Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, 

In twisted braids of lilies knitting 
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair; 

Listen, for dear Honour's sake, 

Goddess of the Silver lake, 
Listen and save; 
Listen and appear to us. 
In name of great Oceanus; 
By th' earth-shaking Neptune's mace. 
And Tethys' grave majestic pace; 
By hoary Nereus' wrinkled look. 
And the Carpathian wizard's hook; 
By scaly Triton's winding shell. 
And old sooth-saying Glaucus' spell; 
By Lcucothea's lovely hands. 
And her son that rules the strands ; 
By Thetis' tinsel-slipper'd feet. 
And the songs of Sirens sweet ; 
By dead Parthenope's dear tomb. 
And fair Ligea's golden comb, 
Wherewith she sits on diamond rocks, 
Sleeking her soft alluring locks ; 
I3y all the nymphs that nightly dance 
Upon thy streams, with wily glance ; 
Rise, rise, and heave thy rosy head . 
From thy coral-paven bed, 
And bridle in thy headlong wave, 
Till thou our summons answer'd have. 
Listen and save. 



THE DANCES ENDED, THE SPIRIT EPILOGUIZES, 
Spirit. To the ocean now I fly. 
And those happy climes that lie 



Where Day never shuts his eye. 

Up in the broad fields of the sky ; 

There I suck the liquid air. 

All amidst the gardens fair 

Of Hesperus and his daughters three, 

That sing about the golden tree : 

Along the crisped shades and bowers 

Revels the spruce and jocund Spring ; 

The Graces, and the rosy-bosom'd Hours, 

Thither all their bounties bring ; 

That there eternal Summer dwells, 

And west-winds with musky wing 

About the cedar'd alleys fling 

JVard and cassia's balmy smells. 

Iris there with humid bow 

Waters the odorous banks, that blow 

Flowers of more mingled hue 

Than her purfled scarf can show. 

And drenches with Elysian dew 

(List, mortals, if your ears be true) 

Beds of hyacinth and roses, 

Where young Adonis oft reposes, 

Waxing well of his deep wound 

In slumber soft, and on the ground 

Sadly sits th' Assyrian queen ; 

But far above, in spangled sheen. 

Celestial Cupid, her famed son, advanced, 

Holds his dear Psyche sweet intranced, 

After her wand'ring labours long. 

Till free consent the gods among 

Make her his eternal bride, 

And from her fair unspotted side 

Two blissful twins are to be born. 

Youth and Joy ; so .love hath sworn. 

But now my task is smoothly done, 
I can fly, or I can run 
Quickly to the green earth's end. 
Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend. 
And from thence can soar as soon 
To the corners of the moon. 

Mortals that would follow me, 
Love Virtue, she alone is free : 
She can teach ye how to climb 
Higher than the sphery chime; 
Or if Virtue feeble were, 
Heaven itself would stoop to her. 



SPEECH OF THE GENIUS OF THE WOOD, IN " THE 

ARCADES." 
Stay, gentle swains; for though in this disguise 
I see bright honour sparkle through your eyes; 
Of famous Arcaday ye are, and sprung 
Of that renowned flood, so often sung. 
Divine Alpheus, who by secret sluice 
Stole under seas to meet his Arethuse ; 
And ye, the breathing roses of the wood, 
Fair silver buskin'd nymphs as great and good, 
I know this quest of yours, and free intent. 
Was all in honour and devotion meant 
To the great mistress of yon princely shrine, 
W'hom, with low reverence, I adore as mine. 
And with all helpful service will comply 
To further this night's glad sclemnity ; 



ANDREW MARVELL. 



317 



And lead ye, where ye may more near behold 
What shallow searching Fame hath left untold ; 
Which I full oft, amidst these shades alone, 
Have sat to wonder at, and gaze upon : 
For know, by lot from Jove I am the power 
Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bower, 
To nurse the saplings tall, and curl the grove 
With ringlets quaint, and wanton windings wove. 
And all my plants I save from nightly ill 
Of noisome winds, and blasting vapours chill : 
And from the boughs brush off the evil dew, 
And heal the harms of thwarting thunder blue. 
Or what the cross dire-looking planet smites, 
Or hurtful worm with canker'd venom bites. 
When Evening gray doth rise, I fetch my round 
Over the mount, and all this hallow'd ground, 
And early, ere the odorous breath of Morn 
Awakes the slumb'ring leaves, or tassel'd horn 



Shakes the high thicket, haste I all about, 
Number my ranks, and visit ev'ry sprout 
With puissant words, and murmurs made to 

bless : 
But else in deep of night, when drowsiness 
Hath lock'd up mortal sense, then listen I 
To the celestial Sirens' harmony. 
That sit upon the nine infolded spheres, 
And sing to those that hold the vital shears, 
And turn the adamantine spindle round, 
On whirh the fate of gods and men is wound. 
Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie, 
To lull the daughters of Necessity, 
And keep unsteady Nature to her law, 
And the low world in measured motion draw 
After the heav'niy tune, which none can hear 
Of human mould with gross unpurged ear. 



ANDREW MARVELL. 



[Born, 1620. Died, 1678.] 



A BETTER edition of Marvell's works than any 
that has been given, is due to his literary and pa- 
triotic character. He was the champion of Mil- 
ton's living reputation, and the victorious sup- 
porter of free principles against Bishop Parker, 
when that venal apostate to bigotry promulgated, 
in his Ecclesiastical Polity, " that it was more ne- 
cessary to set a severe government over men's con- 
sciences and religious persuasions, tlian over their 
vices and immoralities." The humour and elo- 
quence of Marvell's prose tracts were admired 
and probably imitated by Swift.* In playful ex- 
uberance of figure he sometimes resembles Burke. 
For consistency of principles, it is not so easy to 
find his parallel. His few poetical pieces betray 
some adherence to the school of conceit, but there 
is much in it that comes from the heart warm, 
pure, and affectionate. 

He was a native of Hull. At the age of fif- 
teen he was seduced from Cambridge by the 
proselytising Jesuits, but was brought back from 
London by his father, returned to the university, 
and continued for ever after an enemy to s\iper- 
stition and intrigue. In 1640 his father, who 
was a clergyman of Hull, embarked on the Hum- 
ber in company with a youthful pair whom he 
was to marry at Barrow, in Lincolnshire. Though 
the weather was calm when they entered the 
boat, the old gentleman expressed a whimsical 
presentiment of danger, by throwing his cane 
ashore, and crying out, "Ho for heaven !"| A 
Btorm came on, and the whole company perished. 

In consequence of this catastrophe the gentle- 
man whose daughter was to have been married, 
adopted young Marvell as his son, conceiving his 



[ * We still read Marvell's answer to I'arker with plea- 
sure, though the book it answers be siuik loni; asro. 

Swiff s Apohigyfor A T.de of a Tub.] 
t The story is told differently in the Bio^raphia Britau- 



father to have sacrificed his life in performing an 
act of friendship. Marvell's education was thus 
enlarged : he travelled for his improvement ove» 
a considerable part of Europe, and was for somfl 
time at Constantinople as secretary to the Eng- 
lish embassy at that court. Of his residence and 
employments for several years there is no account, 
till in 16.53 he was engaged by the Protector to 
superintend the education of a Mr. Button, at 
Eton ; and for a year and a half before Milton's 
death, he was assistant to Milton in the office of 
Latin Secretary to the Protector. He sat in the 
Parliament of 1660 as one of the representatives 
of the city of Hull, and was re-elected as long 
as he lived. At the beginning of the reign, in- 
deed, we find him absent for two years in Ger- 
many and Holland, and on his return, having 
sought leave from his constituents, he accompa- 
nied Lord Carlisle as ambassador's secretary to 
the Northern Courts; but from the year 1665 
till his death, his attendance in the House of 
Commons was uninterrupted, and exhibits a zeal 
in parliamentary duty that was never surpassed. 
Constantly corresponding with his constituents, 
he was at once earnest for their public rights and 
for their local interests. After the most fatiguing 
attendances, it was his practice to send them a 
minute statement of public proceedings, before 
he took either sleep or refreshment. Though he 
rarely spoke, his influence in both houses was so 
considerable, that when Prince Rupert (who, 
often consulted him) voted on the popular side, 
it used to be said that the prince had been with 
his tutor. He was one of the last members who 
received the legitimate stipend for attendance. 



nica ; hut the circumstance related there, of a beautiful 
toy appearing to the mother of the drowned lady, and 
disappearing with the mystery of a supernatural being, 
gives an air of incredibility to tlie other account. 

'iai 



and his grateful constituents would often send 
liiiii a barrel of ale as a token of their regard. 
The traits that are recorded of his public spirit 
and simple manners give an air of probability to 
the popular story of his refusal of a courtbribe. 
Charles the Second having met with Marvell in a 
private company, found his manners so agreeable, 
that he could not imagine a man of such com- 
placency to possess inflexible honesty ; he accord- 
ingly, as it is said, sent his lord-treasurer, Danby, 
to him next day, who, after mounting several dark 
staircases, found the author in a very mean lodg- 
ing, and proffered him a mark of his majesty's 
consideration. Marvell assured the lord-treasurer 



that he was not in want of the king's assistance, 
and humorously illustrated his independence by 
calling his servant to witness that he had dined 
for three days successively on a shoulder of n}ut- 
ton ; and having given a dignified and rational 
explanation of his motives to the minister, went 
to a friend and borrowed a guinea. The story 
of his death having been occasioned by poison- 
ing, it is to be hoped, was but a party fable. It 
is certain, however, that he had been threatened 
with assassination. The corporation of Hull 
voted a sum for his funeral expenses, and for an 
appropriate monument. 



THE EMIGRA'ITS. 
Where the remote Bermudas ride, 
In th' ocean's bosom unespied, 
From a small boat that row'd along, 
The list'ning winds received this song. 

"What should we do, but sing His praise 
That leil us through the wat'ry maze, 
Unto an isle so long unknown, 
And yet far kinder than our own ! 

" Where he the huge sea-monsters racks, 
That lift the deep upon their backs; 
He lands us on a grassy stage, 
Safe from the storms and prelates' rage. 

•<He gave us this eternal spring 
Which here enamels every thing, 
And sends the fowls to us in care, 
On daily visits through the air. 

•' He hangs in shades the orange bright, 
Like golden lamps in a green night, 

» • * • 

And in these rocks for us did frame 
A temple where to sound his name. 

«' Oh ! let our voice His praise exalt 
Till it arrive at heaven's vault, 
Which then perhaps rebounding may 
Echo beyond the Mexique bay." 

Thus sang they in the English boat, 
A holy and a cheerful note ; 
And all the way, to guide their chime. 
With falling oars they kept the time. 



rilE KYMPn COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF 
HER FAWN. 

The wanton troopers riding by 
Have shot my fawn, and it will die. 
Ungentle men ! they cannot thrive 
Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst alive 
Them any harm; alas! nor could 
Thy death to them do any good. 



I'm sure I never wish'd them ill ; 
Nor do I for all this: nor will : 
But, if my simple prayers may yet 
Prevail with heaven to forget 
Thy murder, I will join my tears. 
Rather than fail. But, O my fears ! 
It cannot die so. Heaven's king 
Keeps register of every thing. 
And nothing may we use in vain : 
Ev'n beasts must be with justice slain. 
* * * « 

Inconstant Sylvio, when yet 
I had not found him counterfeit. 
One morning (I remember well,) 
Tied in this silver chain and bell. 
Gave it to me : nay, and I know 
What he said then : I'm sure I do. 
Said he, "Look how your huntsman here 
Hath taught a Fawn to hunt his Deer." 
But Sylvio soon had me beguiled. 
This waxed tame while he grew wild. 
And, quite regardless of my smart, 
Left me his Fawn, but took his heart 
Thenceforth I set myself to play 
My solitary time awuy 
With this, and very well content 
Could so my idle life have spent; 
For it was full of sport, and light 
Of foot, and heart; and did invite 
Me to its game; it seem'd to bless 
Itself in me. How could I less 
'J'han love ill Oh, I cannot be 
Unkind t' a beast that loveth me. 
Had it l.ved long. I do not know 
Whether it too might have done so 
As Sylvio did : his gifts might be 
Perhaps as false, or more, than he. 
But I am suie, for aught that I 
Could in so short a time espy, 
'i'by love was far more better than 
The love of fals-e and cruel man. 
With sweetest milk and sugar first 
I it at my own fingers nursed ; 
And as it grew, so every day 
It wax'd more white and sweet than they! 
It had so sweet a breath. And oft 
I blush'd to see its foot more soft 



THOMAS STANLEY. 319 


And white, shall I say than my hand! 


Clear thine aged father's brow 


Nay, any lady's of the land. 


From cold jealousy and fears. 


It is a wondrous thing how fleet 




'Twas on those little silver feet; 


Pretty, surely, 'twere to see 


With what a pretty skipping grace 


By young Love old Time beguiled; 


It oft would challenge me the race : 


While our sportings are as free 


And when't had left me far away. 


As the nurse's with the child. 


'Twould stay, and run again, and stay; 




For it was nimbler much than hinds, 


Common beauties stay fifteen ; 


And trod as if on the four winds. 


Such as yours should swifter move, 


I have a garden of my own, 


Whose fair blossoms are too green 


But so with roses overgrown, 


Yet for lust, but not for love. 


And lilies, that you would it guess 




To be a little wilderness. 

And all the spring time of the year 

It only loved to be there. 

Among the beds of lilies I 

Have sought it oft where it should lie, 


Love as much the snowy lamb, 
Or the wanton kid, does prize, 

As the lusty bull or ram. 
For his morning sacrifice. 


Yet could not, till itself would rise. 




Find it, although before mine eyes ; 


Now then love me: Time ma/ take 


For in the flaxen lilies' shade 


Thee before thy time away : 


It like a bank of lilies laid ; 


Of this need we'll virtue make, 


Upon the roses it would feed 


And learn love before we maj 


Until its lips e'en seem'd to bleed ; 




And then to me 'twould boldly trip, 


So we win of doubtful fate; 


And print those roses on my lip. 


And if good to us she meant. 


But all its chief delight was stdl 


We that good shall antedate ; 


On roses thus itself to fill. 


Or, if ill, that ill prevent. 


And its pure virgin limbs to fold 


' 


In whitest sheets of lilies cold. 


Thus do kingdoms, frustrating 


Had it lived long, it would have been 


Other titles to their crown, 


Lilies without, roses within. 


In the cradle crown their king. 


* * * * 


So all foreign claims to drown. 




So to make all rivals vain. 


yOUXG LOVE. 


Now I crown thee with my love ; 


Come, little infant, love me now, 


Crown me with thy love again. 


While thine unsuspected years 


And we both shall monarchs prove. 


THOMAS 


STANLEY. 


[Born, 1625. 


Born, 1678.] 


Thomas Stanley, the learned editor of ^schy- 


from Anacreon, Bion, and Moschus, and the 


lus, and author of the History of Philosophy. He 


" Kisses" of Secundus. He also translated from 


made poetical versions of considerable neatness 


Tristan, Marino, Boscan, and Gongora. 


CELIA SINGTNQ. 


But if the angel which inspires 


RosKS in breathing forth their scent, 


This subtle flame with active fires. 


Or stars their borrow'd ornament: 


Should mould this breath to words, and those 


Nymphs in their wat'ry sphere that move, 


Into a harmony dispose. 


Or angels in their orbs above; 


The music of this heavenly sphere 


The winged chariot of the light. 


Would steal each soul (in) at the car, 


Or the slow silent wheels of night ; 


And into plants and stones infuse 


The shade which from the swifter sun 


A life that cherubim would chuse. 


Doth in a swifter motion run. 


And with new powers invert the laws of fate. 


Or souls that their eternal rest do keep, 


Kill those that live, and dead things animate. 


Make far less noise than Celia's breath in sleep. 







820 



JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER. 



SPEAKING AND KISSING. 
The air which thy smooth voice doth break, 

Into my soul hke lightning flies; 
My life retires while thou dost speak, 

And thy soft breath its room supplies. 

Lost in this pleasing ecstacy, 
I join my trembling lips to thine. 

And back receive that life from thee 
Which I so gladly did resign. 

Forbear, Platonic fools ! t' inquire 
What numbers do the soul compose ; 

No harmony can life inspire. 

But that which from these accents flows. 



LA BELLE CONFIDANTE. 
YotJ earthly souls that court a wanton flame 

Whose pale, weak influence 
Can rise no higher than the humble name 

And narrow laws of sense, 
Learn by our friendship to create 

An immaterial fire. 
Whose brightness angels may admire, 

But cannot emulate. 
Sickness may fright the roses from her cheek, 

Or make the lilies fade, 
But all the subtle ways that death doth seek 
Cannot my love invade. 



JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER. 



[Born, 1647. Died, 1680.] 



[To tell all the stories that are told of this dis- 
solute but witty nobleman, would be to collect 
what few would believe, what the good would re- 
frain from reading, and " to fabricate furniture for 
the brothel." Pepys calls him an idle rogue; the 
excellent Evelyn, a very profane wit. He was 
both, and something more. 

Of his sayings many are still on the tongue 
top, and told, 

When the wine-cup shines in light ; 

while his poems are oftener read for the sake 
of their indecency than for their wit, though his 
satire was at all times lively, felicitous, and search- 
ing; His " ]\othing" is, as Addison says, "an 
admirable poem on a barren subject." {Spec.No. 
305.) 

" The very name of Rochester," says Hume, 
"is offensive to modest ears; yet does his poetry 
discover such energy of style and such poignancy, 
as give ground to imagine what so fine a genius, 
had he fallen in a more happy age and had fol- 
lowed better models, was capable of producing. 
The ancient satirists often used great liberties in 



their expressions ; but their freedom no more 
resembles the licentiousness of Rochester, than 
the nakedness of an Indian does that of a com- 
mon prostitute." (Hist, of Eng. ch. lx.\i.) 

His poems were castrated by Stevens for 
Johnson's Collection ; but this had been done 
before by Tonson, who while he did much, left 
very much to do. Could his satire be cleansed 
from its coarseness, a selection of his best pieces, 
many of which are still in manuscript, would be 
a desideratum, and the name of Wilmot would 
then stand high in the list of British satirists. 
But indecency is in the very nature of many of 
his subjects; there is more obscenity than wit 
in his verse, as was well observed by Walpple, 
more wit than poetry, more poetry than polite- 
ness. 

Unwilling to tell one story of diverting or re- 
volting profligacy upon another, Johnson has 
written the life of Lord Rochester in a few pages, 
said enough, and has indicated more than he has 
said. His Death has been given us by Bishop 
Burnet in one of the most readable books in the 
English language.] 



My dear mistress has a heart 

Soft as those kind looks she gave me, 
When with love's resistless art. 

And her eyes, she did enslave me. 
But her constancy's so weak. 

She's so wild and apt to wander. 
That my jealous heart would break 

Shofffd we live one day asunder. 

Melting joys about her move, 

Killing pleasures, wounding blisses : 

She can dress her eyes in love, 

.'\nd her lips can warm with kisses. 

Angels listen when she speaks. 

She's my delight, all mankind's wonde 



But my jealous heart would break, 
Should we live one day asunder. 



Too late, alas ! I must covifess. 
You need not arts to move me ; 

Such charms by nature you possess, 
'Twere madness not to love ye. 

Then spare a heart you may surprise, 
And give my tongue the glory 

To boast, though my unfaithful eves 
Betray a tender story. 



SAMUEL BUTLER. 



The merit of Hudibras, excellent as it is, cer- 
tainly lies in its style and execution, and by no 
means in the structure of the story. The action 
of the poem as it stands, and interrupted as it is, 
occupies but three days ; and it is clear from the 
opening line, " When civil dudgeon first grew 
high," that it was meant to bear date with the 
civil wars. Yet after two days and nights are 
completed, the poet skips at once, in the third 
part, to Oliver Cromwell's death, and then re- 
turns to retrieve his hero, and conduct him 



Died, 1680.] 

through the last canto. Before the third part of 
Hudibras appeared, a great space of time had 
elapsed since the publication of the first. Charles 
II. had been fifteen years asleep on the throne, 
and Butler seems to have felt that the ridicule of 
the sectaries had grown a stale subject. The 
final interest of the piece, therefore, dwindles into 
the widow's repulse of Sir Hudibras, a topic 
which has been suspected to allude, not so much 
to the Presbyterians, as to the reigning monarch's 
dotage upon his mistresses. 



HUDIBRAS, PART I. CANTO. I. 

When civil dudgeon first grew high, 
And men fell out, they knew not why ; 
When hard words, jealousies, and fears, 
Set folks together by the ears. 
And made them fight, like mad or drunk, 
For Dame Religion as for punk ; 
Whose honesty they all durst swear for, 
Though not a man of them knew wherefore ; 
When Gospel-trumpeter, surrounded 
With long-ear'd rout, to battle sounded ; 
And pulpit, drum-ecclesiastic. 
Was beat with fist instead of a stick ; 
Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling, 
And out he rode a colonelling. 
A wight he was, whose very sight would 
Entitle him Mirror of Knighthood, 
That never bow'd his stubborn knee 
To any thing but chivalry. 
Nor put up blow, but that which laid 
Right worshipful on shoulder-blade; 
Chief of domestic knights and errant, 
Either for chartel or for warrant ; 
Great on the bench, great in the saddle. 
That could as well bind o'er as swaddle ; 
Mighty he was at both of these, 
And styled of War, as well as Peace : 
(So some rats, of amphibious nature, 
Are either for the land or water.) 
But here our authors make a doubt 
Whether he were more wise or stout : 
Some hold the one, and some the other, 
But, howsoe'er they make a pother, 
The ditTrence was so small, his brain 
Outweigh 'd his rage but half a grain : 
Which made some take him for a tool 
That knaves do work with, call'd a Fool. 
For't has been held by many, that 
As Montaigne, playing with his cat, 
Complains she thought him but an ass, 
Much more she would Sir Hudibras ; 
(For that's the name our valiant knight 
To all his challenges did write ;) 
41 



But they're mistaken very much, 
'Tis plain enough he was not such. 
We grant, although he had much wit, 
H' was very shy of using it. 
As being loth to wear it out, 
And therefore bore it not about ; 
Unless on holidays or so. 
As men their best apparel do. 
Beside, 'tis known he could speak Greek 
As naturally as pigs squeak ; 
That Latin was no more difficile, 
Than to a blackbird 'tis to whistle : 
Being rich in both, he never scanted 
His bounty unto such as wanted ; 
But much of either would afford 
To many that had not one word. 
For Hebrew roots, although they're found 
To flourish most in barren ground, 
He had such plenty as sufficed 
To make some think him circumcised : 
And truly so he was perhaps 
Not as a proselyte, but for claps. 
He was in logic a great critic. 
Profoundly skill'd in analytic : 
He could distinguish, and divide 
A hair 'twixt south and south-west side: 
On either which he would dispute, 
Confute, change hands, and still confute : 
He'd undertake to prove, by force 
Of argument, a man's no horse ; 
He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl. 
And that a lord may be an owl ; 
A calf an alderman, a goose a justice, 
And rooks committee-men and trustees. 
He'd run in debt by disputation. 
And pay with ratiocination: 
All this by syllogism true, 
In mood and figure he would do. 
For rhetoric, he could not ope 
His mouth, but out there flew a trope : 
And when he happen'd to break of*^ 
r th' middle of his speech or cougi\, 
H' had hard words ready to show why. 
And tell what rules he did it by ; 

321 



822 



SAMUEL BUTLER. 



Else when with greatest art he spoke, 

You'd think he talk'd like other folk; 

For all a rhetorician's rules 

Teach nothing but to name his tools. 

But, when he pleased to show't, his speech, 

In loftiness of sound, was rich ; 

A Babylonish dialect, 

Which learned pedants much affect ; 

It was a party-colour'd dress 

Of patch'd and piebald languages; 

'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin, 

Like fustian heretofore on satin ; 

It had an old promiscuous tone, 

As if h' had talk'd three parts in one; 

Which made some think, when he did gabble, 

Th' had heard three labourers of Babel, 

Or Cerberus himself pronounce 

A leash of languages at once. 

This he as volubly would vent, 

As if his stock would ne'er be spent: 

And truly, to support that charge, 

He had supplies as vast and large ; 

For he could coin or counterfeit 

New words, with little or no wit; 

Words so debased and hard, no stone 

Was hard enough to touch them on ; 

And when with hasty noise he spoke 'em, 

The ignorant for current took 'em ; 

That had the orator, who once 

Did fill his mouth with pebble-stones 

When he harangued, but known his phrase, 

He would have used no other ways. 

In mathematics he was greater 

Than Tycho Brahe or Erra Pater ; 

For he, by geometric scale. 

Could take the size of pots of ale ; 

Resolve by sines and tangents straight 

If bread or butter wanted weight ; 

And wisely tell what hour o' th' day 

The clock does strike, by algebra. 

Beside, he was a shrewd philosopher, 

And had read ev'ry text and gloss over ; 

Whate'er the crabbed'st author hath, 

He understood b' implicit faith : 

Whatever sceptic could inquire for, 

For ev'ry why he had a wherefore ; 

Knew more than forty of theni do, 

As far as words and terms could go; 

All which he understood by rote. 

And, as occasion served, would quote : 

No matter whether right or wrong, 

They might be either said or sung. 

His notions fitted things so well. 

That which was which he could not tell, 

But oftentimes mistook the one 

For th' other, as great clerks have done. 

He could reduce all things to acts, 

And knew their natures by abstracts ; 

Where Entity and Quiddity, 

The ghosts of defunct bodies, fly ; 

Where truth in person does appear. 

Like words congeal'd in northern air. 

He knew what's what, and that's as high 

As nietaphysic wit can flv • 



In school-divinity as able 

As he that hight Irrefragable ; 

A second Thomas, or, at. once 

To name them all, another Dunce : 

Profound in all the Nominal 

And Real ways beyond them all: 

For he a rope of sand could twist 

As tough as learned Sorbonist, 

And weave fine cobwebs, fit for scull 

That's empty when the moon is full ; 

Such as take lodgings in a head 

That's to be let unfurnished. 

He could raise scruples dark and nice, 

And after solve 'em in a trice ; 

As if Divinity had catch'd 

The itch, on purpose to be scratch'd : 

Or, like a mountebank, did wound 

And stab herself with doubts profound, 

Only to show with how small pain 

The sores of Faith are cured again ; 

Although by woful proof we find 

They always leave a scar behind. 

He knew the seat of Paradise, 

Could tell in what degree it lies. 

And, as he was disposed, could prove it 

Below the moon, or else above it; 

What Adam dreamt of, when his bride 

Came fi-om her closet in his side; 

Whether the devil tempted her 

By a High Dutch interpreter ; 

If either of them had a navel; 

Who first made music malleable ; 

Whether the serpent, at the fall, 

Had cloven feet, or none at all : 

All this, without a gloss or comment. 

He could unriddle in a moment. 

In proper terms, such as men smatter. 

When they throw out, and miss the matter. 

For his religion, it was fit 
To match his learning and his wit; 
'Twas Presbyterian true blue ; 
For he was of that stubborn crew 
Of errant saints, whom all men grant 
To be the true Church Militant ; 
Such as do build their faith upon 
The holy text of pike and gun; 
Decide all controversies by 
Infallible artillery ; 
And prove their doctrine orthodox, 
By apostolic blows and knocks ; 
Call fire, and sword, and desolation, 
A godly, thorough Reformation, 
Which always must be carried on, 
And still be doing, never done; 
As if Religion were intended 
For nothing else but to be mended : 
A sect whose chief devotion lies 
In odd perverse antipathies; 
In falling out with that or this. 
And finding somewhat still amiss; 
More peevish, cross, and splenetic. 
Than dog distract, or monkey sick. 
That with more care keep holiday 
The wrong, than others the right way ; 



SAMUEL BUTLER. 823 


Compound for sins they are inclined to, 


But with his rusty sickle mow 


By damning those they have no mind to : 


Both down together at a blow. 


Still so perverse and opposite, 


So learned Taliacotius, from 


As if they worshipp'd God for spite ; 


The brawny part of porter's bum, 


The self-same thing they will abhor 


Cut supplemental noses, which 


One way, and long another for: 


Would last as long as parent breech ; 


Freewill they one way disavow ; 


But when the date of Nock was out, 


Another, nothing else allow : 


OflT dropp'd the sympathetic snout. 


All piety consists therein 


His back, or rather burden, show'd 


In them, in other men all sin : 


As if it stoop'd with its own load : 


Rather than fail, they will defy 


For as iEneas bore his sire 


That which they loved most tenderly ; 


Upon his shoulders through the fire, 


Quarrel with minced-pies, and disparage 


Our knight did bear no less a pack 


Their best and dearest friend, plum-porridge ; 


Of his own buttocks on his back; 


Fat pig and goose itself oppose, 


Which now had almost got the upper- ^ 


And blaspheme custard through the nose. 


Hand of his head for want of crupper : 


Th' apostles of this fierce religion. 


To poise this equally, he bore 


Like Mahomet's, wore ass and widgeon, 


A paunch of the same bulk before. 


To whom our Knight, by fast instinct 


Which still he had a special care 


Of wit and temper, was so link'd, 


To keep well-cramm'd with thrifty fare ; 


As if hypocrisy and nonsense 


As white-pot, butter-milk, and cards, 


Had got th' advowson of his conscience. 


Such as a country house affords ; 


Thus was he gifted and accouter'd. 


With other victual, whirh anon 


We mean on th' inside, not the outward : 


We further shall dilate upon. 


That next of all we shall discuss ; 


When of his hose we come to treat. 


Then listen, sirs, it follows thus. 


The cupboard where he kept his meat. 


His tawny beard was th' equal grace 


His doublet was of sturdy buff. 


Both of his wisdom and his face ; 


And though not sword, yet cudgel proof, 


In cut and dye so like a tile. 


Whereby 'twas fitter for his use. 


A sudden view it would beguile; 


Who fear'd no blows but such as bruise. 


The upper part whereof was whey, 


His breeches were of rugged woollen, 


The nether orange, mix'd with gray. 


And had been at the siege of Bullen; 


This hairy meteor did denounce 


To old King Harry so well known, 


The fall of sceptres and of crowns ; 


Some writers held they were his own : 


With grisly type did represent 


Through they were lined with many a piece 


Declining age of government, 


Of ammunition bread and cheese. 


And tell, with hieroglyphic spade, 


And fat black-puddings, proper food 


Its own grave and the state's were made : 


For warriors that delight in blood" 


Like Samson's heart-breakers, it grew 


For, as we said, he always chose 


In time to make a nation rue ; 


To carry victual in his hose. 


Though it contributed its own fall, 


That often tempted rats and mice 


To wait upon the public downfal : 


The ammunition to sur|)rise ; 


It was monastic, and did grow 


And when he put a hand but in 


In holy orders by strict vow ; 


The one or t'other magazine, 


Of rule as sullen and severe. 


They stoutly in defence on't stood, 


As that of rigid Cordelier : 


And from the wounded foe drew blood. 


'Twas bound to sufl'er persecution, 


And till they were storm'd, and beaten out, 


And martyrdom, with resolution ; 


Ne'er left the fortified redoubt : 


T' oppose itself against the hate 


And though knights errant, as some think, 


And vengeance of th' incensed state, 


Of old did neither eat nor drink. 


In whose defiance it was worn, 


Because when thorough deserts vast. 


Still ready to be puU'd and torn. 


And regions desolate, they past. 


With red-hot irons to be tortured, 


Where belly-timber above ground. 


Reviled, and spit upon, and martyr'd ; 


Or under, was not to be found. 


Maugre all which 'twas to stand fast 


Unless they grazed, there's not one word 


As long as Monarchy should last : 


Of their provision on record ; 


But when the state should hap to reel, 


Which made some confidently write, 


'Twas to submit to fatal steel, 


They had no stomachs but to fight. 


And fall, as it was consecrate. 


'Tis false ; for Arthur wore in hall 


A sacrifice to fall of state, 


Round table like a farthingal. 


Whose thread of life the Fatal Sisters 


On which, with sliirt pull'd out behind. 


Did twist together with its whiskers, 


And eke before, his good knights dined ; 


And twine so close, that Time should never. 


Though 'twas no table, some suppose 


In life or death, their fortunes sever, 


But a huge pair of round trunk hose, 



324 SAMUEL BUTLER. 


In which he carried as much meat 


For having but one stirrup tied 


As he and all the knights could eat, 


T' his saddle on the further side, 


When laying by their swords and truncheons, 


It was so short, h' had much ado 


They took their breakfasts, or their nuncheons. 


To reach it with his desp'rate toe ; 


But let that pass at present, lest 


But after many strains and heaves, 


We should forget where we digress'd, 


He got up to the saddle-eaves, 


As learned authors use, to whom 


From whence he vaulted into th' seat 


We leave it, and to the purpose come. 


With so much vigour, strength, and heat. 


His puissant sword unto his side, 


That he had almost tumbled over 


Near his undaunted heart, was tied. 


With his own weight, but did recover 


With basket-hilt that would hold broth, 


By laying hold on tail and main. 


And serve for fight and dinner both ; 


Which oft he used instead of rein. 


In it he melted lead for bullets 


But now we talk of mounting steed, 


To shoot at foes, and sometimes pullets, 


Before we further do proceed. 


To whom he bore so fell a grutch, 


It doth behoove us to say something. 


He ne'er gave quarter to any such. 


Of that which bore our valiant bumkin. 


The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty. 


The beast was sturdy, large, and tall, 


For want of fighting was grown rusty. 


With mouth of meal, and eyes of wall ; 


And ate into itself, for lack 


I wou'd say eye ; for h' had but one, 


Of somebody to hew and hack : 


As most agree, though some say none. 


The peaceful scabbard, where it dwelt, 


He was well stay'd, and in his gait 


The rancour of its edge had felt ; 


Preserved a grave, majestic state ; 


For of the lower end two handful 


At spur or switch no more he skipt, 


It had devoured, 'twas so manful, 


Or mended pace, than Spaniard whipt ; 


And so much scorn'd to lurk in case, 


And yet so fiery he would bound 


As if it durst not show its face. 


As if he grieved to touch the ground ; 


In many desperate atten)pts 


That Coesar's horse, who as fame goes, 


Of warrants, exigents, contempts, 


Had corns upon his feet and toes. 


It had appear'd with courage bolder 


Was not by half so tender hooft. 


Than Serjeant Bum invading shoulder: 


Nor trod upon the ground so soft ; 


Oft had it ta'en possession, 


And as that beast would kneel and stoop 


And pris'ners too, or made them run. 


(Some write) to take his rider up. 


This sword a dagger had, his page. 


So Hudibras his ('tis well known) 


That was but little for his age ; 


Would often do to set him down. 


And therefore waited on him so, 


We shall not need to say what lack 


As dwarfs upon knights errant do: 


Of leather was upon his back ; 


It was a serviceable dudgeon. 


For that was hidden under pad, 


Either for fighting or for drudging : 


And breech of Knight gall'd full as bad: 


When it had stabb'd, or broke a head, 


His strutting ribs on both sides show'd 


It would scrape trenchers, or chip bread ; 


Like furrows he himself had plough'd ; 


Toast cheese or bacon, though it were 


For underneath the skirt of pannel. 


To bait a mouse-trap, 'twould not care : 


'Twixt ev'ry two there was a channel: 


'Twould make clean shoes, and in the earth 


His draggling tail hung in the dirt. 


Set leeks and onions, and so forth: 


Which on his rider he would flirt. 


It had been 'prentice to a brewer, 


Still as his tender side he prick'd, 


Where this and more it did endure, 


With arin'd heel, or with unarm'd, kick'd ; 


But left the trade, as many more 


For Hudibras wore but one spur. 


Have lately done on the same score. 


As wisely knowing, could he stir 


In th' holsters, at his saddle-bow. 


To active trot one side of 's horse, 


Two aged pistols he did stow, 


The other would not hang an arse. 


Among the surplus of such meat 


A Squire he had, whose name was Ralph, 


As in his hose he could not get: 


That in th' adventure went his half. 


These would inveigle rats with th' scent, 


Though writers, for more stately tone, 


To forage when the cocks were bent, 


Do call him Ralpho, 'tis all one ; 


And sometimes catch 'em with a snap. 


And when we can, with metre safe, 


As cleverly as the ablest trap : 


We'll call him so ; if not, plain Ralph : 


They were upon hard duty still, 


(For rhyme the rudder is of verses. 


And ev'ry night stood sentinel. 


W^ith which, like ships, they steer their courses) 


To guard th' magazine i' th' hose 


An equal stock of wit and valour 


From two-legg'd and from four-legg'd foes. 


He had laid in, by birth a tailor. 


Thus clad and fdrtified. Sir Knight, 


The mighty Tyrian queen, that gau d, 


From peaceful home, set forth to fight. 


With subtle shreds, a tract of land. 


But first with nimble active force 


Did leave it with a castle fair 


He got on th' outside of his horse : 


To his great ancestor, her heir ; 



SAiMUEL BUTLER. 



325 



From him descended cross-legg'd knights, 

Famed for their faith and warliiie fights 

Against the bloody Cannibal, 

Whom they destroy 'd both great and small. 

This sturdy Sijuire he had, as well 

As the bold Trojan knight, seen hell. 

Not with a counterfeited pass 

Of golden bough, but true gold lace; 

His knowledge was not far behind 

The knight's, but of another kind. 

And he another way came by 't: 

Some call it Gifts, and some New-light; 

A lib'ral art, that costs no pains 

Of study, industry, or brains. 

His wit was sent him for a token, 

But in the carriage crack'd and broken; 

Like commendation ninepence crook'd 

With " To and from my love" it look'd. 

He ne'er consider'd it, as loth 

To look a gift-horse in the mouth, 

And very wisely would lay forth 

No more upon it than 'twas worth ; 

But as he got it freely, so 

He spent it frank and freely too: 

For saints themselves will sometimes be 

Of gifts that cost them nothing free. 

By means of this, with hem and cough, 

Prolongers to enlighten'd stuff. 

He could deep mysteries Ainriddle, 

As easily as thread a needle ; 

For as of vagabonds we say, 

That they are ne'er beside their way, 

What'er men speak by this new light, 

Still they are sure to be i' th' right. 

'Tis a dark lantern of the Spirit, 

Which none see by but those that bear it; 

A light that falls down from on high, 

For spiritual trades to cozen by ; 

An ignis /alum, that bewitches. 

And leads men into pools and ditches. 

To make them dip themselves, and sound 

For Christendom in dirty pond ; 

To dive, like wild fowl, for salvation. 

And fish to catch regeneration. 

This light inspires and plays upon 

The noise of saint, like bagpipe drone. 

And speaks through hollow empty soul. 

As through a trunk, or whisp'ring hole, 

Such language as no mortal ear 

But spirit'al eaves-droppers can hear ; 

So Phoebus, or some friendly Muse, 

Lito small poets song infuse, 

Which they at second-hand rehearse, 

Through reed or bagpipe, verse for verse. 

Thus Ralph became infallible 
As three or four legg'd oracle. 
The ancient cup, or modern chair; 
Spoke truth point blank, though unaware. 

For mystic learning, wondrous able 
In magic, talisman, and cabal. 
Whose primitive tradition reaches 
As far as Adam's first green breeches; 
Deep-sighted in intelligences,. 
Ideas, atoms, influences ; 



And much of Terra Incognita, 
Th' intelligible world, could say; 
A deep occult philosopher. 
As learn'd as the wild Lish are. 
Or Sir Agrippa, for profound 
And solid lying much renown'd ; 
He Anthroposophus, and Floud, 
And Jacob Behaien understood ; 
Knew many an amulet and charm. 
That would do neither good nor harm ; 
In Rosycrucian lore as learned. 
As he that J'erh aileplus earned : 
He understood the speech of birds 
As well as they themselves do words ; 
Could tell what subtlest parrots mean, 
That speak and think contrary clean ; 
What member 'tis of whom they talk 
When they cry 'Rope,' and ' Walk. Knave, walk. 
He'd extract numbers out of matter, 
And keep them in a glass, like water. 
Of sov' reign power to make men wise , 
For, dropp'd in blear thick-sighted eyes. 
They'd make them see in darkest night. 
Like owls, though purblind in the light. 
By help of these (as he protest) 
He had First Matter seen undrest; 
He took her naked, all alone. 
Before one rag of form was on. 
The Chaos, too, he had descried. 
And seen quite through, or else he lied; 
Not that of pasteboard, which men show 
For groats, at fair of Barthol'mew ; 
But its great-grandsire, fir.st o' th' name, 
Whence that and Reformation came. 
Both cousin-germans, and right able 
T' inveigle and draw in the rabble ; 
But Reformation was, some say, 
O' th' younger horse to puppet-play. 
He could foretel whats'ever was 
By consequence to come to pass; 
As death of great men, alterations, 
Diseases, battles, inundations : 
All this without th' eclipse of th' sun, 
Or dreadful comet, he hath done 
By inward light, a way as good, 
And easy to be understood : 
But with more lucky hit than those 
That use to make the stars depose, 
I,ike Knights o' th' Post, and falsely charg« 
Upon themselves what others forge ; 
As if they were consenting to 
All mischiefs in the world men do ; 
Or, like the devil, did tempt and sway 'em 
To roi;ueries, and then betray 'cm. 
They'll search a planet's house, to kno"' 
Who broke and robb'd a house below ; 
Examine Venus, and the Moon, 
Who stole a thimble or a spoon ; 
And though they nothing will confess. 
Yet by their very looks can guess. 
And tell what guilty aspect bodes. 
Who stole, and who received the goods; 
They'll question Mars, and, by his look. 
Detect who 'twas that nimin'd a cloak; 
2C 



326 



SAMUEL BUTLER. 



Make Mercury confess, and 'peach 

Those thieves which he himself did teach. 

They'll find, in th' physiognomies 

O' th' planets, all men's destinies: 

Like him that took the doctor's bill, 

And swallow'd it instead o' th' pill, 

Cast th' nativity o' th' question, 

And froir positions to be guess'd on. 

As sure as if they knew the moment 

Of JNative's birth, tell what will come on't. 

They'll feel the pulses of the stars, 

To find out agues, coughs, catarrhs ; 

And tell what crisis does divine 

The rot in sheep, or mange in swine ; 

In men, what gives or cures the itch. 

What makes them cuckolds, poor or rich ; 

What gains or loses, hangs or saves. 

What makes men great, what fools or knaves. 

But not what wise, for oidy 'f those 

The stars (they say) cannot dispose. 

No more than can the astrologians : 

There they say right, and like true Trojans. 

This Ralpho knew, and therefore took 

The other course, of which we spoke. 

Thus was th' accomplish'd Squire endued 
With gifts and knowledge per'lous shrewd: 
Never did trusty squire with knight, 
Or knight with squire, e'er jump more right. 
Their arms and equipage did fit. 
As well as virtues, parts, and wit : 
Their valours, too, were of a rate; 
And out they sallied at the gate. 
Few miles on horseback had they jogg'd, 
But Fortune unto them turn'd dogg'd ; 
For they a sad adventure met, 
Of which anon we mean to treat: 
But ere we venture to unfold 
Achievements so resolved and bold, 
W^e should, as learned poets use. 
Invoke th' assistance of some Muse, 
However critics count it sillier 
Than jugglers talking too familiar ; 
We think 'tis no great matter which, 
They're all alike, yet we shall pitch 
On one that fits our purpose most. 
Whom therefore thus do we accost. 

Thou that with ale, or viler liquors. 
Didst inspire Withers, Prynne, and Vickars, 
And force them, though it was in spite 
Of Nature, and their stars, to write; 
Who (as we find in sullen writs. 
And cross-grain'd works of modern wits) 
With vanity, opinion, want, 
The wonder of the ignorant. 
The praises of the author, penn'd 
B' himself, or wit-insuring friend ; 
The itch of picture in the front. 
With bays and wicked rhyme upon't. 
All that is left o' th' Forked hill 
T ) make men scribble without skill ; 
Canst make a poet, spite of Fate, 
And teach all people to translate. 
Though out of languages in which 
Thty understand no part of speech : 



Assist me but this once, I 'mplore. 
And I shall trouble thee no more. 

In western clime there is a town. 
To those that dwell therein well known. 
Therefore there needs no more be said here, 
We unto them refer our reader; 
For brevity is very good. 
When w' are, or are not understood. 
To this town people did repair 
On days of market or of fair. 
And to crack'd fiddle and hoarse tabor, 
In merriment did drudge and labour; 
But now a sport more formidable 
Had raked together village rabble ; 
'Twas an old way of recreating, 
W'hich learned butchers call Bear-baiting; 
A bold advent'rous exercise, 
With ancient heroes in high prize; 
For authors do affirm it came 
From Isthmian or Nemsean game; 
Others derive it from the Bear 
That's fixed in northern hemisphere. 
And round about the Pole does make 
A circle like a bear at stake, 
That at the chain's end wheels about, 
And overturns the rabble rout: 
For after solemn proclamation 
In the bear's name, (as is the fashion 
According to the law of arms. 
To keep men from inglorious harms) 
That none presume to come so near 
As forty foot of stake and bear, 
If any yet be so fool-hardy, 
T' expose themselves to vain jeopardy, 
If they come woundeil off, and lame, 
No honour's got by such a maim. 
Although the bear gain'd much, b'ing bound 
In honour to make good his ground 
When he's engaged, and takes no notice, 
If any press upon him. who 'tis, 
But lets them know, at their own cost, 
That he intends to keep his post. 
This to prevent, and other harms. 
Which always wait on feats of arms, 
(For in the hurry of a fray 
'Tis hard to keep out of harm's way) 
Thither the knight his course dia steer. 
To keep the peace 'twixt dog and bear, 
As he believed he was bound to do 
In conscience and commission too. 



PART I. CANTO II. 

Hudibras commencing B:ittle with the Rabble, and 
leading o£f Crowdero prisoner. 

This said, with hasty rage he snatch'd 
His gunshot, that in holsters watch'd, 
And bending cock, he leveli'd full 
Against th' outside of Talgol's skull, 
Vowing that he should ne'er stir further. 
Nor henceforth cow nor bullock murder; 
But Pallas came in shape of Rust, 
And 'twixt the spring and hamme thiust 



SAMUEL BUTLER. 



327 



Her gorgon shield, which made the cock 

Stand stiff, as 'twere transform'd to stock. 

Meanwhile fierce Talgol, gathering might, 

With rugged truncheon charged the Knight; 

But he with petronel upheaved, 

Instead of shield, the blow received : 

The gun recoil'd, as well it might, 

Not used to such a kind of fight, 

And shrunk from its great master's gripe, 

Knock'd down and stunn'd with mortal stripe. 

Then Hudibras, with furious haste, 

Drew out his sword ; yet not so fast 

But Talgol first, with hardy thwack, 

Twice bruised his head, and twice his back; 

But when his nut-brown sword was out. 

With stomach huge he laid about, 

Imprinting many a wound upon 

His mortal foe, the truncheon : 

The crusty cudgel did oppose 

Itself against dead-doing blows. 

To guard his leader from fell bane, 

And then revenged itself again. 

And though the sword (some understood) 

In force had much the odds of wood, 

'Twas nothing so; both sides were balanc't 

So equal, none knew which was valiant'st : 

For wood, with honour b'ing engaged. 

Is so implacably enraged. 

Though iron hew and mangle sore, 

Wood wounds and bruises honour more. 

And now both knights were out of breath. 

Tired in the hot pursuits of death, 

Whilst all the rest amazed stood still. 

Expecting which should take, or kill. 

This Hudibras observed ; and fretting, 

Conquest should be so long a-getting. 

He drew up all his force into 

One body, and that into one blow ; 

But Talgol wisely avoided it 

By cunning sleight ; for had it hit 

The upper part of him, the blow 

Had slit as sure as that below. 

Meanwhile the incomparable Colon, 
To aid his friend, began to fall on ; 
Him Ralph encounter'd, and straight grew 
A dismal combat 'twixt them two ; 
Th' one arm'd with metal, th' other with wood, 
This fit for bruise, and that for blood. 
With many a stiff thwack, many. a bang, 
Hard crabtree and old iron rang. 
While none that saw them could divine 
To which side conquest would incline ; 
Until Magnano, who did envy 
That two should with so many men vie, 
By subtle stratagem of brain 
Perform'd what force could ne'er attain ; 
For he, by foul hap, having tbund 
Where thistles grew on barren ground. 
In haste he drew his weapon out, 
And having cropt them from the root, 
He clapt them underneath the tail 
Of steed, with pricks as sharp as nail : 
The angry beast did straight resent 
The wrong done to his fundament, 



Began to kick, and fling, and wince 

As if he'd been beside his sense. 

Striving to disengage from thistle. 

That gall'd him sorely under his tail; 

Instead of which, he threw the pack 

Of Squire and baggage from his back; 

And blundering still, with smarting rump, 

He gave the Knight's steed such a thump 

As made him reel. The Knight did stoop. 

And sat on further side aslope ; 

This Talgol viewing, who had now 

By flight escaped the fatal blow. 

He rallied, and again fell to't ; 

For catching foe by nearest foot, 

He lifted with such might and strength, 

As would have hurl'd him thrice his length. 

And dash'd his brains (if any) out; 

But Mars, that still protects the stout. 

In pudding-time came to his aid. 

And under him the Bear convey 'd ; 

The Bear, upon who.-e soft fur-gown 

The Knight with all his weight fell down. 

The friendly rug preserved the ground. 

And headlong Knight, from bruise or wound : 

Like feather bed betwixt a wall. 

And heavy brunt of cannon-ball. 

As Sancho on a blanket fell, 

And had no hurt, ours fared as well 

In body, though his mighty spirit, 

B'ing heavy, did not so well bear it. 

The Bear was in a greater fright, 

Beat down, and worsted by the Knight ; 

He roar'd, and raged, and flung about, 

To shake off bondage from his snout: 

His wrath inflamed, boil'd o'er, and from 

His jaws of death he threw the foam ; 

Fury in stranger postures threw him. 

And more than ever herald drew him : 

He tore the earth which he had saved 

From squelch of Knight, and storm'd and raved, 

And vex'd the more, because the harms 

He felt were 'gainst the law of arms: 

For men he always took to be 

His friends, and dogs the enemy ; 

Who never so much hurt had done him, 

As his own side did falling on him : 

It grieved him to the guts that they 

For whom he'd fought so many a fray. 

And served with loss of blood so long, 

Shou'd offer sucli inhuman wrong ; 

Wrong of unsoldier-like condition. 

For which he flung down his commission • 

And laid about him till his nose 

From thrall of ring and cord broke loose. 

Soon as he felt himself enlarged, 

Through thickest of his foes he charged. 

And made way through th' amazed crew 

Some he o'erran, and some o'erthrew. 

But took none ; for by hasty flight 

He strove t' escape )iursuit of Knight, 

From whom he fled with as much haste 

And dread as he the rabble chased ; 

In haste he fled, and so did they, 

Each and his fear a dcv'ral way. 





328 SAMUEL 


BUTLER. 


Crowdero only kept the fielJ, 


Knock'd on his breast, as ift had been 


Not stirring from the place he held, 


To raise the spirits lodged within ; 


Though beaten down, and wounded sore 


They, waken'd with the noise, did fly 


r th' Fiddle and a leg that bore 


From inward room to window eye, 


One side of him, not that of bone, 


And gently op'ning lid, the casement, 


But much its better, th' wooden one. 


Look'd out, but yet with some amazement. 


He spying Hudibras lie strew'd 


This gladded Ralpho much to see. 


Upon the ground, like log of wood, 


Who thus bespoke the Knight. Quoth he, 


With fright of fall, supposed wound, 


Tweaking his nose, You are, great Sir, 


And loss of urine, in a swound, 


A self-denying conqueror ; 


In haste he snatch'd the wooden limb 


As high, victorious, and great, 


That, hurt i' th' ancle, lay by him, 


As e'er fought for the churches yet. 


And fitting it for sudden fight. 


If you will give yourself but leave 


Straight drew it up, t' attack the Knight; 


To make out what y' already have ; 


For getting up on stump and huckle, 


That's victory. The foe, for dread 


He with the foe began to buckle, 


Of your nine-worthiness, is fled, 


Vowing to be revenged 'for breach 


All save Crowdero, for whose sake 


Of Crowd and skin, upon the wretch, 


You did th' espoused cause undertake; 


Sole author of all detriment 


And he lies pris'ner at your feet. 


He and his Fiddle underwent. 


To be disposed as you think meet. 


But Ralpho, (who had now begun 


Either for life, or death, or sale, 


T' adventure resurrection 


The gallows, or perpetual jail ; 


From heavy squelch, and had got up 


For one wink of your powerful eye 


Upon his legs, with sprained crup,) 


Must sentence him to live or die. 


Looking about, beheld pernicion 


His fiddle is your proper purchase. 


Approaching Knight from fell musician ; 


Won in the service of the churches; 


He snatch'd his whinyard up, that fled 


And by your doom must be allow'd 


When he was falling otf his steed. 


To be, or be no more, a Crowd ; 


(As rats do from a falling house,) 


For though success did not confer 


To hide itself from rage of blows ; 


Just title on the conqueror ; 


And, wing'd with speed and fury, flew 


Though dispensations were not strong 


To rescue Knight from black and blue ; 


Conclusions, whether right or wrong ; 


Which ere he could achieve, his sconce 


Although Outgoings did confirm. 


The leg encounter'd twice and once, 


And Owning were but a mere term ; 


And now 't was raised to smite agen, 


Yet as the wicked have no right 


When Ralpho thrust himself between : 


To th' creature, though usurp'd by might. 


He took the blow upon his arm. 


The property is in the saint, 


To shield the Knight from further harm. 


From whom th' injuriously detain 't ! 


And joining wrath with force, bestow'd 


Of him they hold their luxuries. 


On th' wooden member such a load. 


Their dogs, their horses, whores, and dice, 


That down it fell, and with it bore 


Their riots, revels, masks, delights. 


Crowdero, whom it propp'd before. 


Pimps, buflbons, fiddlers, parasites ; 


To him the Squire right nimbly run, 


All which the saints have title to. 


And setting conqu'ring foot upon 


And ought t' enjoy if they 'ad their due. 


His trunk, thus spoke : What desp'rate frenzy 


What we take from 'em is no more 


Made thee, thou whelp of Sin, to fancy 


Than what was ours by right before ; 


Thyself, and all that coward rabble, 


For we are their true landlords still. 


T' encounter us in battle able ] 


And they our tenants but at will. 


How durst th', I say, oppose thy Curship 


At this the Knight began to rouse. 


'Gainst arms, authority, and worship, 


And by degrees grow valorous : 


And Hudibras or me provoke. 


He stared about, and seeing none 


Though all thy limbs were heart of oak. 


Of all his foes remain but one, 


And th' other half of thee as good 


He snatch'd his weapon, that lay near him; 


To Ijear out blows as that of wood 1 


And from the ground began to rear him. 


Could not the whipping-post prevail, 


Vowing to make Crowdero pay 


With all its rhetoric, nor the jail. 


For all the rest that ran away. 


To keep from flaying scourge thy skin, 


But Ralpho now, in colder blood. 


And ankle free from iron gin ? 


His fury mildly thus withstood : 


Which now thou shalt — but first our care 


Great Sir, quoth he, your mighty spirit 


Must see how Hudibras does fare. 


Is raised too high ; this slave does merit 


This said, he gently raised the Knight, 


To be the hangman's bus'ness, sooner 


And set him on his bum upright. 


Than from your hand to have the honour 


To rouse him from lethargic dump. 


Of his destruction ; I that am 


He Iweak'd his nose, with gentle thump 


A nothingness in deed and name. 



SAMUEL BUTLER. 



329 



Did scorn to hurt his forfeit carcase, 
Or ill entreat his Fiddle or case : 
Will you, great Sir, that glory blot 
In cold blood, which you gain'd in hot 7 
Will you employ your conquering sword 
To break a Fiddle, and your word? 



PART II. CANTO U. 

Vicarious Justice exemplified by Ralpho in the case of the 

Cobbler that killed the Indian. 

Justice gives sentence many times 
On one man for another's crimes ; 
Our brethren of New England use 
Choice malefactors to excuse, 
And hang the guiltless in their stead, 
Of whom the churches have less need ; 
As lately 't happened : In a town 
There lived a cobbler, and but one. 
That out of doctrine could cut use. 
And mend men's lives, as well as shoes. 
This precious brother having slain, 
In times of peace, an Indian, 
Not out of malice, but mere zeal, 
(Because he was an Infidel,) 
The mighty Tottipottymoy 
Sent to our elders an envoy. 
Complaining sorely of the breach 
Of league, held forth by Brother Patch, 
Against the articles in force 
Between both churches, his and ours, 
For which he craved the saints to render 
Into his hands, or hang th' offender: 
But they maturely having weigh'd 
They had no more but him o' th' trade, 
(A man that served them in a double 
Capacity, to teach and cobble,) 
Resolved to spare him : yet, to do 
The Indian Hoghan Moghan too 
Impartial justice, in his stead did 
Hang an old weaver that was bedrid. 



PART III. CANTO III. 
Hudibras consulting the Lawyer. 

An old dull sot, who loU'd the clock 
For many years at Bridewell-dock, 
At Westminster, and Hicks'-hall, 
And iiirrius doclius play'd in all; 
Where in all governments and times, 
He'd been both friend and foe to crimes. 
And used to equal ways of gaining. 
By hind'ring justice, or maintaining: 
'J"o many a whore gave privilege. 
And whipp'd, for want of quarterage. 
Cart-loads of bawds to prison sent, 
For being behind a fortnight's rent; 
And many a trusty pimp and crony 
'J'o Puiidle-dock, for want of money : 
Engaged the constable to seize 
All those that would not break the peace; 
Nor give him back his own foul words, 
Though sometimes commoners, or lords. 



And kept 'em prisoners of course. 

For being sober at ill hours ; 

That in the morning he might free 

Or bind 'em over for his fee : 

Made monsters fine, and puppet-plays, 

For leave to practise in their ways; 

Farm'd out all cheats, and went a share 

With th' headborough and scavenger; 

And made the dirt i' th' streets compound 

For taking up the public ground ; 

The kennel and the king's highway, 

For being unmolested, pay ; 

Let out the stoi'ks, and whipping-post. 

And cage, to those that gave him most ; 

Imposed a task on baker's ears. 

And, for false weights, on chandelers; 

Made victuallers and vintners fine 

For arbitrary ale and wine ; 

But was a kind and constant friend 

To all that regularly offend. 

As residentiary bawds. 

And brokers that receive stol'n goods ; 

That cheat in lawful mysteries. 

And pay church duties and his fees: 

But was imj)lacable and awkward 

To all that interloped and hawker'd. 

To this brave man the Knight repairs 
For counsel in his law-affairs. 
And found him mounted in his pew, 
With books and money placed, for show, 
Like nest-eggs to make clients lay. 
And for his false opinion pay : 
To whom the Knight, with comely grace, 
Put off his hat, to put his case ; 
Which he as proudly entertain'd 
As th' other courteously strain'd; 
And, to assure him 't was not that 
He look'd for, bid him put on 's hat. 

Quoth he, there is one Sidrophel, 
Whom I have cudgell'd — Very well. 
And now he brags to 've beaten me — 
Belter and better still, quoth he. 
And vows to stick me to a wall. 
Where'er he meets me — Best of all. 
'Tis true the knave has taken 's oath 
That I robb'd him— Well done, in troth. 
When he's confess'd he stole my cloak, 
And pick'd my fob, and what he took ; 
Which was the cause that made me bang him, 
And take my goods again — Marry, hang hira- 
Now, whether I should beforehand 
Swear he robb'd me ] — I understand. 
Or bring my action of conversion 
And trover for my goods 1 — Ah, whoreson ! 
Or, if 't is better to endite, 
And bring him to his trial] — Right, 
Prevent what he designs to do. 
And swear for th' state against him ] — Tru**. 
Or whether he that is defendant 
In this ease has the better end on't ; 
Who, putting in a new cross-bill. 
May traverse th' action 1 — Better still. 
Then there's a lady too — Ay, marry ! 
That's easily proved accessary ; 
2c2 



330 



SAMUEL BUTLER. 



A widow who by solemn vows 
Contracted to me, for my spouse, 
Combined with him to break her word, 
And has abetted all — Good Lord! 
Suborn'd th' aforesaid Sidroj)hel 
To tamper with the dev'l of hell, 
Who put m' into a horrid fear, 
Fear of n)y life — Make that appear. 
Made an assault with fiends and men 
Upon my body — Good agen. 
And kept me in a deadly fright, 
And false itnprisonment, all night 
Meiuivvbilc they robb'd me, and my horse, 
And stole my saddle — Worse and worse. 
And made me mount upon the bare ridge, 
T' avoid a wrctcheder miscarriage. 

Sir, (quoth the lawyer,) not to flatter ye. 
You have as good and fair a battery 
As heart can wish, and need not shame 
'J'be proudest man alive to claim ; 
For if they've used you as you say. 
Marry, (juoth I, God give you joy ; 
I would it were my case, Fd give 
More than Fll say, or you'll believe : 
I would so trounce her, and her purse, 
Fd make her kneel for better or worse : 
For matrimony, and hanging here. 
Both go by destiny so clear, 
'J'hat you as sure may pick and choose. 
As cross I win, and pile you lose : 
And if I durst, I would advance 
As much in ready n)aintenance, 
As upon any case Fve known ; 
13 ut we that practise dare not own : 
The law severely contrabands 
Our taking bus'ness off men's hands: 
"J'is common barratry, that bears 
Point-blank an action 'gainst our ears. 
And crops them till there is not leather, 
'J'o stick a pin in, left of either ; 
For which some do the summer-sault. 
And o'er the bar, like tumblers, vault: 
But you may swear, at any rate, 
'I'hings not in nature, for the state ; 
For in all courts of justice here 
A witness is not said to swear. 
But make oath ; that is, in plain terms. 
To forge whatever he aflirms. 

I thank you (quoth the Knight) for that. 
Because 'tis to my purpose pat — 
For Justice, though she's painted blind. 
Is to the weaker side inclined, 
liike Charity ; else right and wrong 
Couhl never hold it out so long. 
And, like blind Fortune, with a sleight. 
Conveys men's interest and right 
From Stiles's pocket into Nokes's, 
As easily as Horns Focus ; 
Flays fast and loose, makes men obnoxious, 
And clear again like hiccius iluclius. 
'i'ben, whether you would take her life, 
Or but recover her for your wife. 



Or be content with what she has. 

And let all other matters pass. 

The bus'ness to the law's alone, 

The proof is all it looks upon ; 

And you can want no witnesses 

To swear to any thing you please. 

That hardly get their mere expenses 

By th' labour of their consciences, 

Or letting out to hire their ears 

To affidavit customers. 

At inconsiderable values, 

To serve for jurymen, or tallies. 

Although retain'd in th' hardest matters 

Of trustees and administrators. 

For that (quoth he) let me alone ; 
We've store of such, and all our own. 
Bred up and tutor'd by our Teachers, 
The ablest of conscience-stretchers. 

'J'hat's well (quoth he,) but I should gu^iss. 
By weighing all advantages. 
Your surest way is first to pitch 
On Bongey for a water-witch ; 
And when you've hang'd the conjurer. 
Ye 've time enough to deal with her. 
In th' int'rim spare for no trepans 
To draw her neck into the bans ; 
Ply her with love-letters and billets. 
And bait 'em well, for quirks and quillets, 
Willi trains t' inveigle and surprise 
Her heedless answers and replies ; 
And if she miss the mouse-trap lines, 
They'll serve for other by-designs; 
And make an artist understand 
To copy out her seal, or hand ; 
Or find void places in the paper 
To steal in something to entrap her; 
Till with her worldly goods, and body. 
Spite of her heart, she has endow'd ye : 
Retain all sorts of witnesses, 
That ply i' th' Temple, under trees. 
Or walk the round, with Knights o' th' Posts, 
About the cross-legg'd knights, their hosts ; 
Or wait for customers between 
The pillar-rows in Lincoln's Inn ; 
Where vouchers, forgers, common-bail, 
And affidavit-men, ne'er fail 
T' expose to sale all sorts of oaths. 
According to their ears and clothes, 
Their only necessary tools. 
Besides the Gospel and their souls : 
And when ye 're furnish'd with all purveys, 
I shall be ready at your service. 

I would not give (quoth Hudibras) 
A straw to understand a case. 
Without the admirable skill 
To wind and manage it at will ; 
To veer, and tack, and steer a cause 
Against the weathergage of laws. 
And ning the changes upon cases, 
As plain as noses upon faces, 
As you have well instructed me. 
For which you 've earn'd (here 'tis) your fee 



ISAAK WALTON. 



[Boro, 1593. 

IsAAK Walton, who in the humble profession 
of a sempster in London had some of tlie most 
eminent men of his age for his intimate friends, 
was liorn at Statlbrd, and made his first settle- 
ment in London in a shop which was but seven 



feet and a half long and five feet wide. His la- 
vourite amusement was angling, on which he has 
loft a treatise, together with some interesting bio- 
grajjhical memoirs, which have been made well 
known by many modern and elegant editions. 



THE ANGLER'S WISH. 
I TN these flowery meads would be : 
'iMiese crystal streams should solace me, 
To whose harmonious bubbling noise 
I with my angle would rejoice ; 
Sit here and see the turtle dove 
Court his chaste mate to acts of love: 

Or on that bank feel the west wind 
Breathe health and plenty : please my mind 
'I"o sec sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers, 
And then wasli'd off by April showers; 
Here hear my Kenna sing a song, 
There see a blackbird feed her young. 



Or a leverock build her nest: 

Here give my weary spirits rest, 

And raise my low-pitch'd thoughts above 

Earth, or what poor mortals love : 

Or, with my Bryan* and my book. 

Loiter long days near Shawford brook : 

There sit by him and eat my meat, 
There see the sun both rise and set. 
There bid good morning to next day, 
There meditate my time away, 
And angle on, and beg to have 
A quiet passage to the grave. 



WENT WORTH DILLON, EARL OF ROSCOMMON. 



, 1C33 Died, 1681-5.] 



Wentworth DiLi,oN,EarI of Roscommon, was 
tlic maternal nephew of the unfortunate Earl of 
fStraffonl. He was born in Ireland, educated at 
Caen in Normandy, travelled into Italy, and, re- 
turning to England at the Restoration, was made 



a captain of the Band of Pensioners. " It may 
be remarked," says Dr. Warton, " to the praise 
of Roscommon, that he was the first critic who 
had taste and spirit enough pubUcly to praise the 
Paradise Lost."! 



FROM « AN ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE." 

Immodest words admit of no defence; 
For want of decency is want of sense. 
What moderate fop would rake the park or stews. 
Who among troops of (iiultless nymphs may 
Variety of such is to be found : [choose 1 

Take then a subject proper to expound ; 
But moral, great, and worth a poet's voice ; 
For men of sense despise a trivial choice : 
And such applause it must expect to meet. 
As would some painter busy in a street, 
l"o copy bulls and bears, and every sign 
That calls the staring sots to nasty wine. 
Yet, 'tis not all to have a subject good: 
it must delight us when 'tis understood. 
lie that brings fulsome objects to my view, 
'As many old have done, and many new,) 

* I'rubnbiy liis dog. 



With nauseous images my fancy fills, 
And all goes down like oxymel of squills. 
Instruct the listening world how Maro sings 
Of useful subjects and of lofty things. 
These will such true, such bright ideas raise. 
As merit gratitude, as well as praise : 
But foul descriptions are olfensive still. 
Either for being like, or being ill : 
For who, without a qualm, hath ever look'd 
On holy garbage, though by Homer cook'd ? 
Whose railing heroes, and whose wounded gods 
Makes some suspect he snores, as well as nods. 
But I ollend — Virgil begins to frown, 
And Horace looks with indignation down : 
My blushing Muse with conscious fear retires, 
Anil whom ttiey like implicitly admires. 

On sure foundations let your fabric rise, 
And with attractive majesty surprise ; 

[t Dryilen was bef iro him, tjut Raicommon was tl>o first 
to write iu imitation of Milton's manner.] 

a'ji 



^32 



WENTWORTH DILLON, EARL OF ROSCOMMON. 



'Vot by affected meretricious arts, 

But strict iiarmonious symmetry of parts ; 

Which through the whole insensibly must pass, 

With vital heat to animate the mass: 

A pure, an active, an auspicious flame ; [came : 

And bright as heaven, from whence the blessing 

But few, oh ! few souls, pre-ordain'd by fate, 

The race of gods, have reach'd that envied height. 

No Rebnl-Titan's sacrilegious crime. 

By heaping hills on hills can hither climb : 

The grizlj ferryman of hell denied 

iEneas entrance, till he knew his guide. 

How justly then will impious mortals fall. 

Whose pride would soar to heaven without a call ! 

Pride (of all others the most dangerous fault) 
Proceeds from want of sense, or want of thought. 
I'he men who labour and digest things most, 
Will be much apter to despond than boast: 
For if your author be profoundly good, 
'Twill cost you dear before he's understood. 
How many ages since has Virgil writ ! 
How few are they who understand him yet ! 
Approach his altars with religious fear: . 
No vulgar deity inhabits there. 
Heaven shakes not more at Jove's imperial nod. 
Than poets should before their Mantuan god. 
Hail, mighty Maro ! may that sacred name 
Kindle my breast with thy celestial flame. 
Sublime ideas and apt words infuse ; [Muse ! 
The Muse instruct my voice, and thou inspire the 

What I have instanced only in the best, 
Is, in proportion, true of all the rest. 
Take pains the genuine meaning to explore ! 
There sweat, there strain; tug the laborious oar; 
Search every comment that your care can find; 
Souie here, some there, may hit the poet's mind: 
Yet be not blindly guided by the throng: 
The multitude is always in the wrong. 
When things appear unnatural or hard. 
Consult your author, with himself compared. 
Who knows what blessing Phoebus may bestow, 
And future ages to your labour owe 1 
Such secrets are not easily Ibund out ; 
But, once discover'd, leave no room for doubt. 
Truth stamps conviction in your ravish'd breast ; 
And peace and joy attend the glorious guest. 

Trutli still is one ; truth is divinely bright ; 
No cloudy doubts obscure her native light; 
While in your thoughts you find the least debate. 
You may confound,, but never can translate. 
Your style will this through all disguises show; 
For none explain more clearly than they know. 
He only proves he understands a text. 
Whose exposition leaves it unperplex'd. 
They who too faithfully on names insist, 
Rather create than dissipate the mist; 
And grow unjust by being over nice, 
(For superstitious virtue turns to vice.) ■ 
Let Crassus' ghost and Labienus tell 
How twice in Parthian plains their legions fell. 
Since Rome hath been so jealous of her fame. 
That few know Pacorus' or MoiiiBses' name. 

Words in one language elegantly used, 
Will hardly in another be excused ; 



And some that Rome admired in Csesar's time, 
May neither suit our genius nor our clime. 
The genuine sense, intelligibly told, 
Shows a translator both discreet and bold. 

Excursions are inexpiably bad ; 
And 'tis much safer to leave out than add. 
I Abstruse and mystic thought you must express 
With painful care, but seeming easiness ; 
For truth shines brightest through the plainest 

dress. 
Th' JEnean Muse, when she appears in state, 
Makes all Jove's thunder on her verses wait: 
Yet writes sometimes as soft and moving things 
As Venus speaks, or Philomela sings. 
Your author always will the best advise. 
Fall when he falls, and when he rises, rise. 
Affected noise is the most wretched thing. 
That to contempt can empty scribblers bring. 
Vowels and accents, regularly placed, 
On even syllables (and still the last) 
Though ~gross innumerable laults abound. 
In spite of nonsense, never fail of sound. 
But this is meant of even verse alone, 
As being most harmonious and most known: 
For if you will unequal numbers try. 
There accents on odd syllables must lie. 
Whatever sister of the learned Nine 
Does to your suit a willing ear incline. 
Urge your success, deserve a lasting name, 
She'll crown a grateful and a constant flame. 
But, if a wild uncertainty prevail, 
And turn your veering heart with every gale. 
You lose the fruit of all your former care, 
For the sad prospect of a just despair. 

A quack (too scandalously mean to name) 
Had, by man-midwifery, got wealth and fame ; 
As if Lucina had forgot her trade. 
The labouring wife invokes his surer aid. 
Well-season'd bowls the gossip's spirits raise, 
Who, while she guzzles, chats the doctor's 

praise ; 
And largely, what she wants in words, supplies, 
With maudlin eloquence of trickling eyes. 
But what a thoughtless animal is man ! 
(How very active in his own trepan !) 
For, greedy of physicians' frequent fees. 
From female mellow praise he takes degrees , 
Struts in a new unlicensed gown, and then 
From saving women falls to killing men. 
Another such bad left the nation thin. 
In spite of all the children he brought in. 
His pills as thick as hand grenadoes flew ; 
And where they fell, as certainly they slew : 
His name struck everywhere as great a damp, 
As Archimedes' through the Roman camp. 
With this, the doctor's pride began to cool ; 
For smarting soundly may convince a fool. 
But now repentance came too late for grace ; 
And meagre famine stared him in the face : 
Fain would he to the wives be reconciled, 
But found no husband left to own a child. 
The friends, that got the brats, were poison'd 

too: 
In this sad case, what could our vermin do ] 



THOMAS OTWAY. 



Worried with debts, and past all hope of bail, 
Th' unpitied wretch lies rotting in a jail : 
And there with basket-alms, scarce kept alive. 
Shows how mistaken talents ought to thrive. 

I pity, from my soul, unhappy men, 
Compell'd by want to prostitute their pen ; 
Who must, like lawyers, either starve or plead, 
And follow, right or wrong, where guineas lead ! 
But you, Pompilian, wealthy, paniper'd heirs, 
Who to your country owe your swords and cares. 
Let no vain hope your easy mind seduce. 
For rich ill poets are without excuse ; 
'Tis very dangerous tampering with the Muse, 
The profit 's small and you have much to lose ; 
For though true wit adorns your birth or place, 
Degenerate lines degrade th' attainted race. 
No poet any passion can excite. 
But what they feel transport them when they write. 
Have you been led through the Cumtean cave, 
And heard th' impatient maid divinely ravel 
I hear her now ; I see her rolling eyes ; 
And panting, Lo ! the God, the God, she cries: 
With words not hers, and more than human 

sound, 
She makes th' obedient ghosts peep trembling 

through the ground. 



But though we must obey when Heaven com 

mands. 
And man in vain the sacred call withstands, 
Beware what spirit rages in your breast ; 
For ten inspired, ten thousand are possest : 
Thus make the proper use of each extreme. 
And write with fury, but correct with phlegm. 
As when the cheerful hours too freely pass. 
And sparkling wine smiles in the tempting glass, 
Your pulse advises, and begins to beat 
Through every swelling vein a loud retreat: 
So when a Muse propitiously invites, 
Improve her favours, and indulge her flights ; 
But when you find that vigorous heat abate, 
Leave off, and for another summons wait. 
Before the radiant sun, a glimmering lamp, 
Adulterate measures to the sterling stamp, 
Appear not meaner than mere human lines. 
Compared with those whose inspiration shines : 
These, nervous, bold ; those, languid and remiss; 
There cold salutes ; but here a lover's kiss. 
Thus have I seen a rapid headlong tide. 
With foaming waves the passive Saone divide ; 
Whose lazy waters without motion lay. 
While he with eager force, urged his impetuous 

way. 



THOMAS OTWAY. 



[Born, 1651. Died, 1685.] 



FROM "THE ORPHAN." 

chamont's suspicions of his sister. 

i^rson J— AcASTO, the guardian of Monimia; Monimu, and 
her brother Chamont. 

Enter Servant. 
Serv. My lord, th' expected guests are just arrived. 
jlcus. Go you, and give them welcome and re- 
ception. 
Cham. Mylord,Istandinneedofyourassistance 
In something that concerns my peace and honour. 
.4cas. Spoke like the son of that brave man I 
loved : 
So fi-eely friendly we conversed together. 
Whate'er it be, with confidence impart it. 
Thou shalt command my fortune and my sword. 
Cham. I dare not doubt your friendship nor 
your justice. 
Your bounty shown to what I hold most dear, 
My orphan sister, must not be forgotten ! 

Jlcas. Pr'ythee, no more of that ; it grates my 

nature. 
Cham. When our dear parents died, they died 
together, [them : 

One fate surprised them, and one grave received 
My father with his dying breath bequeathed 



Her to my love : my mother, as she lay 
lianguishing by him, call'd me to her side. 
Took me in her fainting arms, wept, and em- 
braced me, [tears 
Then press'd me close, and as she observed my 
Kiss'd them away ; said she, Chamont, my son. 
By this, and all the love I ever show'd thee. 
Be careful of Monimia, watch her youth. 
Let not her wants betray her to dishonour ; 
Perhaps kind Heaven may raise some friend. 

Then sigh'd, 
Kiss'd me again ; so bless'd us and expired. 
Pardon my grief. 

^cas. It speaks an honest nature. 

Cham. The friend Heaven raised was you, you 
took her up, 
An infant, to the desert world exposed. 
And proved another parent. 

.Acas. I've not wrong'd her. 

Cham. Far be it from my fears. 

Acas. Then why this argument? 

Cham. My lord, my nature's jealous, and you'll 

Acas. Go on. [bear it. 

Chum. Great spirits bear misfortunes hard y 
Good offices claim gratitude ; and pride, 
Where power is wanting, will usurp a little 



334 



THOMAS OTWAY 



And make us (rather than be thought behind-hand) 
Pay over-price. 

Ams. I cannot guess your drift; 

Distrust you me ? 

Cham. No, but I fear her weakness 

May make her pay a debt at any rate ; 
And to deal freely with your lordship's goodness, 
I've heard a story lately much disturbs me. 

Acas. Then first charge her ; and if the offence 
be found 
Within my reach, though it should touch my 

nature. 
In my own offspring, by the dear remembrance 
Of thy brave father, whom my heart rejoiced in, 
I'd prosecute it with severest vengeance. [Exit. 
Chum. I thank you from my soul. 
Moil. Alas, my brother ! 

What have I done 1 and why do you abuse me 1 
My heart quakes in me ; in your settled face 
And clouded brow methinks I see my^te : 
You will not kill me ! 

Cham. ' Pr'ythee, why dost talk so ? 

Mon. Look kindly on me, then. I cannot bear 
Severity ; it daunts, and does amaze me : 
My heart'sso tender, should you charge me rough, 
I should but weep, and answer you with sobbing. 
But use me gently like a loving brother, 
And search through all.lhe secrets of my soul. 

Cham. Fear nothing, I will show my self a brother, 
A tender, honest, and a loving brother. 
You've not forgot our father 1 

Mon. I shall never. 

Cham. Then you'll remember too, he was a man 
That lived up to the standard of his honour, 
And prized that jewel more than mines of wealth : 
He'd not have done a shameful thing but once, 
Though kept in darkness from the world, and 
He could not have forgiven it to himself: [hidden, 
This was the only portion that he lelt us ; 
And I more glory in it, than if possess'd 
Of all that ever fortune threw on fools. 
'Twas a large trust, and must be managed nicely: 
Now if by any chance, Monimia, 
You have soil'd this gem, and taken from its value. 
How will you account with me ? 

Mon. I challenge envy, 

Malice, and all the practices of hell. 
To censure all the actions of my past 
Unhappy life, and taint me if they can ! 

Cham. I'll tell thee, then : three nights ago, as I 
Lay musing in my bed, all darkness round me, 
A sudden damp struck to my heart, cold sweat 
Dew'd all my face, and trembling seized my limbs: 
My bed shook under me, the curtains started. 
And to my tortured fancy there appear'd 
The form of thee, thus beauteous as thou art. 
Thy garments flowing loose, and in each hand 
A wanton lover, who by turns caress'd thee 
With all the freedom of unbounded pleasure: 
I snatch'd my sword, and in the very moment 
Darted at the phantom, straight it left me; 
1'hen rose and call'd for lights, when, O dire omen ! 
I found my weapon had the arras pierced, 
Just where that famous tale was interwoven. 
How the unhappy Theban slew his father. 



Mon. And for this cause my virtue is suspected ! 
Because in dreams your fancy has been ridden, 
I must be tortured waking ! 

Cham. Have a care. 

Labour not to be justified too fast : 
Hear all, and then let justice hold the scale. 
What follow'd was the riddle that confounds me: 
Through a close lane, as I pursued my journey, 
And meditated on the last night's vision, 
I spied a wrinkled hag, with age grown double. 
Picking dry sticks, and mumbling to herself; 
Her eyes with scalding rheum were gall'd and red; 
Cold palsy shook her head, her hands seem'd 

wither'd, 
And on her crook'd shoulders had she wrapt 
The tatter'd remnant of an old striped hanging. 
Which served to keep her carcass from the cold; 
So there was nothing of a piece about her; 
Her lower weeds were all o'er coarsely patch'd 
With diff'rentcolour'd rags, black, red. white, yeU 
And seem'd tospeakvariety of wretchedness, [low, 
I asked her of my way, which she in form 'd me; 
Then craved my charity, and bade me hasten 
To save a sister ; at that word I started. 

Mon. The common cheat of beggars every day ! 
They flock about our doors, pretend to gifts 
Of prophecy, and telling fools tlieir fortunes. 

Chum. Oh ! but she told me such a tale, Monimia, 
As in it bore great circumstance of truth ; 
Castalio and Polydore, my sister. 
Mon. Hah ! 

Cham. What, alter'd ! does your courage fail you? 
Now by my father's soul the witch was honest ; 
Answer me, if thou hast not lost to them 
Thy honour at a sordid game. 

Mon, I will, 

I must, so hardly my misfortune loads me. 
That both haveofler'd me their loves, most true. — 
Cham. And 'tis as true too, they have both un- 
done thee. 
Mon. Though they both with earnest vows 
Have press'd my heart, if e'er in thought I yielded 
To any but Castalio — 

Chum. But Castalio! 

Mon. Still will you cross the line of my discourse ! 
Yes, I confess that he has won my soul 
By generous love, and honourable vows ; 
Which he this day appointed to complete. 
And make himself by holy marriage mine. 

Cham. Art thou then spotless 1 hast thou still 
preserved 
Thy virtue white without a blot untainted ? 
Mon. When I'm unchaste, may Heaven reject 
my prayers ! 
Or more, to make me wretched, may you know it! 
Chum. Oh then, Monimia, art thou dearer to me 
Than all the (Oiiiforts ever yet bless'd man. 
But let not marriage bait thee to thy ruin. 
Trust not a nian ; we are by nature false. 
Dissembling, subtle, cruel, and inconstant: 
When aman talks of love, with caution trust him; 
But if he swears, he'll certainly deceive thee: 
I charge thee let no more Castalio soothe thee : 
Avoid it as thou wouldst preserve the peace 
Of a poor brother, to whose soul thou'rt precious. 



THOMAS OTWAY. 



335 



FROM THE SAME. 

Chamont finding Monimia in tears, discovering the cause 
of her grief, and remonstrating witli Acasto. 
EnUr Chamont. 
Cham. In tears, Monimia ! 
Mon. ■ Whoe'er thou art, 

Leave me alone to my beloved despair. 

Cham. Lift up thy eyes, and see who comes to 
cheer thee. 
Tell me the story of thy wrongs, and then 
See if my soul has rest till thou hast justice. 
Mon. My brother ! 

Cham. Yes, Monimia, if thou think'st 

That I deserve the name, I am thy brother. 

Mon. Oh, shouldst thou know the cause of my 
lamenting, [me ; 

I'm satisfied, Chamont, that thou wouldst scorn 
Thou wouldst despise the abject, lost Monimia, 
No more wouldst praise this hated beauty ; but 
When in some cell distracted, as I shall be. 
Thou seest me lie ; these unregarded locks 
Matted like furies' tresses ; my poor limbs 
Chain'd to the ground, and 'stead of the delights 
Which happy lovers taste, my keeper's stripes, 
A bed of straw, and a coarse wooden dish 
Of wretched sustenance ; when thus thou seest 

me, ■ 
Pr'ythee, have charity and pity for me. 
Let me enjoy this thought. 

Cham. Why wilt thou rack 

My soul so long, Monimia 7 ease me quickly ; 
Or tiiou wilt run me into madness first. 

Mon. Could you be secret ] 

Clinm. Secret as the grave. 

Mon. But when I've told you, will you keep 
your fury 
Within its bounds ? Will you not do some rash 
And horrid mischief? for indeed, Chamont, 
You would not think how hardly I've been used 
From a near friend: from one that has my soul 
A slave, and therefore treats it like a tyrant. 
* * * * 

Chnm. Go on ! 

Mon. He threw me from his breast. 

Like a detested sin. 

Chum. How 1 

Mon. As I hung too 

Upon his knees, and begg'd to know the cause. 
He dragg'd me like a slave upon the earth. 
And had no pity on my cries. 

Cham. How! did he 

Dash thee disdainfully away with scorn 1 

Mon. He did ; and, more, I fear, will ne'er be 
friends. 
Though I still love him with unbated passion. 

Cham. What, throw thee from him 1 

Mon. Yes, indeed he did. 

Cham. So may this arm 
Throw him to th' earth, like a dead dog despised; 
Lameness and leprosy, blindness and lunacy. 
Poverty, shame, pride, and the name of villain 
Light on me, if, Castalio, I forgive thee. 



Enter Acasto. 

.iras. Sure some ill fate is towards me ; in my 
I only meet with oddness and disorder; [house 
Each vassal has a wild distracted face ; 
And looks as full of business as a blockhead 
In times of danger : Just this very moment 
I met Castalio — 

Cham. Then you met a villain. 

.^cas. Hah ! 

Cham. Yes, a villain. 

.Aras. Have a care, young soldier, 

How thou'rt too busy with Acasto's fame; 
I have a sword, my arm's good old acquaintance. 
Villain to thee — 

Cham. Curse on thy scandalous age, 

Which hinders me to rush upon thy throat, 
And tear the root up of that cursed bramble ! 

Acus. Ungrateful ruffian! sure my good old friend 
Was ne'ej- thy father; nothing of him's in thee • 
What have I done in my unhappy age, 
To be thus used 1 I scorn to upbraid thee, boy. 
But I could put thee in remembrance — 

Cham. Do. 

Jcas. I scorn it — 

Cham. No. I'll calmly hear the story^ 

For I would fain know all, to see which scale 
Weighs most — Hah, is not that good old Acastol 
What have I done ? Can you forgive this folly ? 

.Acas. Why dost thou ask it 1 

Cham. 'Twas the rude o'erflowing 

Of too much passion ; pray, my lord, forgive me. 

{Kneda. 

^cas. Mock me not, youth ; I can revenge a 
wrong. 

Cham. I know it well ; but for this thought ol 
Pity a madman's frenzy, and forget it. [mine, 

Jlcas. I will ; but henceforth, pr'ythee be moro 
kind. [Raises him 

Whence came the cause ? 

Cham. Indeed I've been to blame, 

But I'll learn better; for you've been my father: 
You've been her father too — 

[Takes Monimia by the hand 

.^cas. Forbear the prologue — 
And let me know the substance of thy tale. 

Cham. You took her up a little tender flowc; 
Just sprouted on a bank, which the next frost 
Had nipp'd ; and, with a careful loving hand. 
Transplanted her into your own fair garden. 
Where the sun always shines: There long she 

flourish'd. 
Grew sweet to sense, and lovely to the eye, 
Till at the last a cruel spoiler came, 
Cropp'd this fair rose, and rifled all its sweetness, 
Then cast it like a loathsome weed away. 

.^cas. You talk to me in parables ; Chamont, 
You may have known that I'm no wordy man ; 
Fine speeches are the instruments of knaves 
Or fools, that use them, when they want good 
But honesty [sense : 

Needs no disguise nor ornament; be plain. 

Chum. Your son — 



Jicas. 



How has Castalio wrong'd her ■• 



836 



THOMAS OTWAY, 



Cham. Ask that of him : I say, my sister's 
Monimia, my sister, born as high [wrong'd : 

And noble as Castalio — Do her justice. 
Or, by the Gods, I'll lay a scene of blood. 
Shall make this dwelling horrible to nature. 
I'll do't; hark you, my lord, your son CastaHo, 
Take him to your closet, and there teach him 
manners. 



FROM "VENICE PRESERVED.' 



ACT V. SCENE 



Belvidera revealing to her Father the secret of the 
Conspiracy. 
Enter Priuu solus. 
Pri. Why, cruel Heaven, have my unhappy days 
Been lengthen'd to this sad one 1 Oh ! dishonour 
And deathless infamy are fallen upon me. 
Was it my fault] Am I a traitor? No. 
But then, my only child, my daughter, wedded ; 
There my best blood runs foul, and a disease 
Incurable has seized upon my memory. 
To make it rot, and stink to after ages. 
Cursed be the fatal minute when I got her. 
Or would that I'd been any thing but man, 
And raised an issue which would ne'er have 

■wrong'd me. 
The miserable creatures, man excepted. 
Are not the less esteem'd, though their posterity 
Degenerate from the virtues of their fathers; 
The vilest beasts are happy in their offsprings. 
While only man gets traitors, whores, and villains. 
Cursed be the names, and some swift blow from 

fate 
Lay his liead deep, where mine may be forgotten. 

Enter Belvtdera, in a long mourning veil. 

Bel. He's there, my father, my inhuman father, 
That for three years has left an only child 
Exposed to all the outrages of fate, 
And cruel ruin — oh ! — 

Pri. ' What child of sorrow 

Art thou that com'st thus wrapp'd in weeds of 

sadness, 
And movest as if thy steps were towards a grave 1 

Bel. A wretch, who from the very top of hap- 
piness 
Am fallen into the lowest depths of misery, 
And want your pitying hand to raise me up. 

Pri, Indeed thou talk'st as thou hadst tasted 
Would I could help thee. [sorrows ; 

Bel. 'Tis greatly in your power : 

The world too speaks you charitable ; and I, 
Who ne'er ask'd alms before, in that dear hope 
Am come a begging to you, sir. 

Pri. For what 1 

Bel. Oh, well regard me ; is this voice a strange 
Consider too, when beggars once pretend [one 1 
A case like mine, no little will content them. 

Pri. What wouldst thou beg for ? 

Bel. Pity and forgiveness. [Throws up her veil. 
By the kind tender names of child and father. 
Hear my complaints, and take me to your love. 
Pri. Mv daughter] 



Bel. Yes, your daughter, by a mother 

Virtuous and noble, faithful to your honour, 
Obedient to your will, kind to your wishes, 
Dear to your arms. By all the joys she gave you. 
When in her blooming years she was your trea- 
Look kindly on me ; in my face behold [sure, 
The lineaments of hers you've kiss'd so often, 
Pleading the cause of your poor cast-off child. 

Pri. Thou art my daughter. 

Bel. Yes — and you've oft told me, 

With smiles of love, and chaste paternal kisses, 
I'd much resemblance of my mother. 

Pri. Oh ! 

Hadst thou inherited her matchless virtues, 
I had been too bless'd. 

Bel. Nay, do not call to memory 

My disobedience, but let pity enter 
Into your heart, and quite deface the impression. 
For could you think how mine's perplex'd, what 

sadness. 
Fears, and despairs distract the peace within me, 
Oh ! you would take me in your dear, dear arms, 
Hover with strong compassion o'er your young 

one. 
To shelter me with a protecting wing 
From the black gather'd storm, that's just, just 
breaking. 

Pri. Don't talk thus. 

Bel. Yes, I must, and you must hear too. 

I have a husband. 

Pri, Damn him. 

Bel. Oh ! do not curse him ; 

He would not speak so hard a word towards you 
On any terms, howe'er he deal with me. 

Pri. Hah ! what means my child ] 

Bel. Oh ! there's but this short moment 
'Twixt me and fate ; yet send me not with curses 
Down to my grave ; afford me one kind blessing 
Before we part : just take me in your arms. 
And recommend me with a prayer to Heaven, 
That I may die in peace ; and when I'm dead 

Pri. How my soul's catch'd ! 

Bel. Lay me, I beg you, lay me 

By the dear ashes of my tender mother. 
She would have pitied me, had fate yet spared 
her. 

Pri. By Heaven, my aching heart forebodes 
much mischief: 
Tell me thy story, for I'm still thy father. 

Bel. No, I'm contented. 

Pri. Speak. 

Bel. No matter. 

Pn. Tell me. 

By yon bless'd heaven, my heart runs o'er with 

Bel. Oh! [fondness. 

Pri. Utter it. 

Bel. Oh my husband, my dear husband 

Carries a dagger in his once kind bosom. 
To pierce the heart of your poor Belvidera. 

Pri. Kill thee ! 

Bel. Yes, kill me. When he pass'cj his faith 
And covenant against your state and senate, 
He gave me up as hostage for his truth : 
With me a dagger, and a dire commission. 
Whene'er he fail'd, to plunge it through this boson». 



ANONYMOUS. 



837 



I learnt the danger, chose the hour of love 
T' attempt his heart, and bring it back to honour. 
Great love prevail'd, and bless'd me with success; 
He came, confess'd, betray'd his dearest friends. 
For promised mercy. Now they're doom'd to suffer. 
Gall'd with remembrance of what then was sworn, 
If they are lost, he vows to appease the gods 
With this poor life, and make my blood the atone- 

Pri. Heavens! [ment. 

Bel. Think you saw what past at our last part- 
Think you beheld him like a raging lion, [ing ; 
Pacing the earth, and tearing up his steps. 
Fate in his eyes, and roaring with the pain 
Of burning fury ; think you saw one hand 
Fix'd on my throat, whilst the extended other 
Grasp'd a keen threatening dagger: Oh! 'twas thus 
We lastembraced ; when, trembling with revenge. 
He dragg'd me to the ground, and at my bosom 
Presented horrid death ; cried out. My friends ! 
Where are my friends 1 swore, wept, raged, 

threaten'd, loved. 
For yet he loved, and that dear love preserved me 
To this last trial of a father's pity. 
I fear not death, but cannot bear a thought 
That that dear hand should do the unfriendly office. 
If I was ever then your care, now hear me ; 
Fly to the senate, save the promised lives 
Of his dear friends, ere mine be made the sacrifice. 

Pri. Oh, my heart's comfort ! 

Bel. Will you not, my father ? 

Weep not, but answer me. 



Pri. By Heaven, I will. 

Not one of them but what shall be immortal. 
Canst thou forgive me all my follies past, 
I'll henceforth be indeed a father ; never. 
Never more thus expose, but cherish thee. 
Dear as the vital warrnth that feeds my life : 
Dear as these eyes that weep in fondness o'er thee 
Peace to thy heart. Farewell. 

Bel. Go, and remember 

'Tis Belvidera's life her father pleads for. 

[Exeunt severally. 



SONG. 

FROM "the orphan." 

Come all ye youths whose hearts e'er bled 

By cruel beauty's pride. 
Bring each a garland on his head, 

Let none his sorrows hide : 
But hand in hand around me move, 
Singing the saddest tales of love ; 
And see, when your complaints ye join, 
If all your wrongs can equal mine. 
The happiest mortal once was I, 

My heart no sorrow knew ; 
Pity the pain with which I die, 

But ask not whence it grew ; 
Yet if a tempting fair you find, 
That's very lovely, very kind, 
Though bright as heaven whose stamp she 
Think on my fate and shun her snares. 



[bears. 



ANONYMOUS. 



SONG. 



FROM THE lOYAL GARLAND.* EDIT. 1685. 

Beauty and Love fell once at odds. 
And thus reviled each other: 
Quoth Love, I am one of the gods. 
And thou wait'st on my mother ; 
Thou hadst no power on man at all 
But what I gave to thee ; 
Nor are you longer sweet, or fair. 
Than men acknowledge me. 

Away, fond boy, then Beauty cried. 

We know that thou art blind; 

And men of nobler parts they can 

Our graces better find : 

'Twas I begot the mortal snow, 

And kindled men's desires; 

I made thy quiver and thy bow. 

And wings to fan thy fires. 

Cupid in anger flung away. 

And thus to Vulcan pray'd. 

That he would tip his shafts with scorn, 

To punish his proud maid. 



* These extracts from the Loyal Garland have been 
placed among the Specimens according to the date of the 
edition. Most of the poetry in that miscellany is of a 
much older date. 

43 



So ever since Beauty has been 
But courted for an hour; 
To love a day is held a sin 
'Gainst Cupid and his power. 



SEAMAN'S SONG. 

FROM THE SAME. 

O'er the rolling waves we go, 
Where the stormy winds do blow. 
To quell with fire and sword the foe 

That dares give us vexation. 
Sailing to each foreign shore. 
Despising hardships we endure, 
Wealth we often do bring o'er. 

That does enrich the nation. 
Noble-hearted seamen are. 
Those that do no labour spare, 
Nor no danger shun or fear 

To do their country pleasure. 
In loyalty they do abound. 
Nothing base in them is found ; 
But they bravely stand their ground 

In calm and stormy weather. 
In their love and constancy 
None above them e'er can be • 
As the maidens daily see, 

Who are by seamen courted: 
2D 



S38 



PHILIP AYRES. 



Nothing for them is too good 
That is found in land or flood ; 
Nor with better flesh and blood 
Has any ever sported. 



TYRANNIC LOVE.^ 

ROM THE SAME. 



Love in fantastic triumph sat, 
While bleeding hearts around him flow'd, 
For whom fresh pains he did create, 
Ard strange tyrannic power he show'd : 



From thy bright eyes he took his fires, 
Which round about in sport he 1. iil'd; 
But 'twas from mine he took desires, 
Enough 't undo the amorous world. 

From me he took his sighs and tears, 
From thee his pride and cruelty ; 
From me his languishment and fears, 
And every killing dart from thee : 
Thus thou, and 1, the god have arm'd, 
And set him up a deity : 
But my poor heart alone is harm'd, 
Whilst thine the victor is and free. 



N. HOOK, 

Of Trinity College, Cambridge, published a volume of poems of the date 1685. 



FROM A POEM ENTITLED "AMANDA." 
I HAVE an eye for her that's fair. 
An ear for her that sings ; 
Yet don't I care for golden hair, 
I scorn the portion lech'ry brings 
To bawdy Beauty. I'm a churl. 
And hate, though a melodious girl, 
Her that is naught but air. 

I have a heart for her that's kind, 
A lip for her that smiles ; 
But if her mind be like the wind, 
I'd rather foot it twenty miles. 



Is thy voice mellow, is it smart 1 

Art Venus for thy beauty 1 

If kind, and tart, and chaste thou art, 

I'm bound to do thee duty. 

Though pretty Mall or bonny Kate, 

Hast thou one hair adulterate, 

I'm blind, and deaf, and out of heart. 

Amanda, thou art kind, wejl-bred. 
Harmonious, sweetly kind ; 
If thou wilt wed my virgin bed. 
And taste my love, thou'rt to my mind; 
Take hands, lips, heart, and eyes, 
Are all too mean a sacrifice. 



PHILIP AYERS, 

Published Lyric Poems, dated 1687, London. 
TO THE NIGHTTNGALB. 
Why, little charmer of the air, 
Dost thou in music spend the mom, 
While I thus languish in despair, 
Oppress'd by Cynthia's hate and scorn 1 
Why dost thou sing and hear me cry ? 
Tell, wanton songster, tell me why. 



Great to the ear, though small to sight. 

The happy lover's dear delight ; 

Fly to the bowers where such are laid, 

And there bestow thy serenade : 

Haste thee from sorrow, haste away, 

Alas, there's danger in thy stay. 

Lest hearing me so oft complain 

Should make thee change thy cheerful strain. 

* * * * 

Then cease, thou charmer of the air, 
No more in music spend the morn 

[* This song is by Aphra Behn, the Astr-iea of Pope — 
" The stage how loosely does Astrsea tread," 
and is in " AMelazer, or the Moor's Revenge."] 

[fN. Hook and Philip Ayrcs are writers very little known, 
and scarcely meriting a place in these Selections. In no 
coll«ction of our poets (and our so-called " British Poets" 
have been made general and mediocre enough), have they 
ever found a place, in no Biographical Dictionary are their 
names included, and without Mr. Campbell's resurrection 



With me that languish in despair, 
Oppress'd by Cynthia's hate and scorn ; 
And do not this poor boon deny, 
I ask but silence while I die. 



ON THE SIGHT OF HIS MISTRESS'S HOUSE. 

FROM THE SAME. 

To view these walls each night I come alone, 
And pay my adoration to the stone ; 
Whence joy and peace are influenced on me, 
For 'tis the temple of my deity. 

As nights and days an anxious wretch by stealth 
Creeps out to view the place which hoards his 

wealth, 
So to this house, that keeps from me my heart, 
I come, look, traverse, weep, and then depart-t 



of them they must have slept w jth " Time and with Tom 
Hearue." A reader may be allowed to smile at Mr. Csmp- 
bell's very general love for poetry in its essence, and hia 
endeavours to recover and embalm decayed bodies, at his 
taste, and his general goodnature. Mr. Campbell's criti- 
cisms are everywhere distinguished by a dis( erning and 
cultivated mind, his selections at times by a kindness fof 
the dead, and an anxiety to give what Mr. Ellis had not 
given.] 




:.BLix)li"i-f:titi He: (■o.i'luUui" 



EDMUND WALLER. 



[Boni,160S. Died,168T.] 



OF THE QUEEN. 
The lark, that shuns on lofty boughs to build 
Her humble nest, lies silent in the field ; 
But if (the promise of a cloudless day) 
Aurora, smiling, bids her rise and play, [voice 
Then straight she shows 'twas not for want of 
Or power to climb, she made so low a choice : 
Singing she mounts; her airy wings are stretch'd 
Tow'rds heaven, as if from heaven her note she 

fetch'd. 
So we, retiring from the busy throng, 
Use to restrain th' ambition of our song ; 
But since the light which now informs our age 
Breaks from the court, indulgent to her rage, 
Thither my Muse, like bold Prometheus, flies, 
To light her torch at Gloriana's eyes. 

* * * * 

For Mercy has, could Mercy's self be seen. 
No sweeter look than this propitious queen. 
Such guard and comfort the distressed find. 
From her large power, and from her larger mind, 
That whom ill Fate would ruin, it prefers, 
For all the miserable are made hers. 
So the fair tree whereon the eagle builds, 
Poor sheep from tempests, and their shepherds. 
The royal bird possesses all the boughs, [shields: 
But shade and shelter to the flock allows. 



ON MY LADY DOROTHY SYDNEY'S PICTURE. 
Such was Philotlea, and such Dofus' flame ! 
The matchless Sydney, that immortal frame 
Of perfect beauty, on two pillars placed. 
Not his high fancy could one pattern, graced 
With such extremes of excellence, compose 
Wonders so distant in one face disclose ! 
Such cheerful modesty, such humble state. 
Moves certain love, but with as doubtful fate 
As when, beyond our greedy reach, we see 
Inviting fruit on too sublime a tree. 
All the rich flowers through his Arcadia found, 
Amazed we see in this one garland bound. 
Had but this copy (which the artist took 
From the fair picture of that noble book) 
Stood at Kalander's, the brave friends had jarr'd. 
And, rivals made, th' ensuing story marr'd. 
Just Nature, first instructed by his thought, 
In his own house thus practised what he taught. 
This glorious piece transcends what he could think, 
So much his blood is nobler than his ink ! 



AT PENSIIURST. 
Had Dorothea lived when mortals made 
Choice of their deities, this sacred shade 
Had held an altar to her power that gave 
The peace and glory which these alleys have ; 



Embroider'd so with flowers where she stood, 
That it became a garden of a wood. 
Her presence has such more than human grace, 
That it can civilize the rudest place ; 
And beauty too, and order, can impart. 
Where Nature ne'er intended it, nor art. 
The plants acknowledge this, and her admire. 
No less than those of old did Orpheus' lyre. 
If she sit down, with tops all tow'rds her bow'd, 
They round about her into arbours crowd ; 
Or if she walk, in even ranks they stand. 
Like some well-niarshall'd and obsequious band. 
Amphion so made stones and timber leap 
Into fair figures, from a confused heap : 
And in the symmetry of her parts is found 
A power like that of harmony in sound. 

Ye lofty beeches ! tell this matchless dame, 
That if together ye fed all one flame. 
It could not equalize the hundredth part 
Of what her eyes have kindled in my heart ! — 
Go, boy, and carve this passion on the bark 
Of yonder tree, which stands the sacred mark 
Of noble Sydney's birth ;* when such benign. 
Such more thnn mortal-making stars did shine, 
That there they cannot but for ever prove 
The monument and pledge of humble love ; 
His humble love whose hope shall ne'er rise higher 
Than for a pardon that he dares admire. 



THE STORY OF PHffiBUS AND DAPHNE APPLIED.t 
Thybsis, a youth of the inspired train. 
Fair Sacharissa loved, but loved in vain : 
Like Phoebus sung the no less am'rous boy ; 
liike Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy ! 
With numbers he the flying nymph pursues. 
With numbers such as Phcebus' self might use ! 
Such is the chase when Love and Fancy leads, 
O'er craggy mountains, and tbrough flow'ry 
Invoked to testify the lover's care, [meads 

Or form some image of his cruel fair. 
Urged with his fury, like a wounded deer. 
O'er these he fled ; and now approaching near, 
Had reach'd the nymph with his harmonious lay. 
Whom all his charms could not incline to stay. 
Yet what he sung in his immortal strain, 
Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain : 
All but the nympli that should redress his wrong. 
Attend his passion, and approve his song. 
Like Phoelius, thus acquiring unsought praise. 
He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arm with bays. 



[ * Thiit taller tree, whiih of a nut was .-et. 
At his great Lirth, wliere all the Muses met. 

Ben Johnson, To Penxhur.it.] 
[ t The French claim this as belongian to them. To 
whomstever it Lelougs, the tbousht is finely turned.- ■ 

UuLDSMIl'H.J 

a3j 



340 



EDMUND WALLER. 



AT PENSHURST. 
While in this park I sing, the list'ning deer 
Attend my passion, and forget to fear ; 
When to the beeches I report my flame, 
They bow their heads, as if they felt the same. 
To gods appeahng, when I reach their bowers 
With loud complaints, they answer me in showers. 
To thee a wild and cruel soul is given. 
More deaf than trees, and prouder than the 

heaven ! 
Love's foe profess'd ! why dost thou falsely feign 
Thyself a Sydney ? from which noble strain 
He sprung, that could so far exalt the name 
Of Love, and warm our nation with his flame; 
That all we can of love or high desire. 
Seems but the smoke of am'rous Sydney's fire. 
Pvor call her mother who so well does prove 
One breast may hold both chastity and love. 
Never can she, that so exceeds the Spring 
In joy and bounty, be supposed to bring 
One so destructive. To no human stock 
We owe this fierce unkindness, but the rock. 
That cloven rock produced thee, by whose side 
Nature, to recompense the fatal pride 
Of such stern beauty, placed those healing springs 
Which not more help than that destruction brings. 
Thy heart no ruder than the rugged stone, 
I might, like Orpheus, with my numerous moan 
Melt to compassion : now my trait'rous song 
With thee conspires to do the singer wrong ; 
While thus I suffer not myself to lose 
The memory of what augments my woes ; 
But with my own breath still foment the fire, 
Which flames as high as fancy can aspire ! 

This last complaint th' indulgent ears did pierce 
Of just Apollo, president of verse ; 
Highly concerned that the Muse should bring 
Damage to one whom he had taught to sing : 
Thus he advised me : " on yon aged tree 
Hang up my lute, and hie thee to the sea. 
That there with wonders thy diverted mind 
Some truce, at least, may with this passion find." 
Ah, cruel nymph! from whom her humble swain 
Flies for relief into the raging main. 
And from the winds and tempests does expect 
A milder fate than from her cold neglect! 
Yet tbere he'll pray that the unkind may prove 
Bless'd in her choice ; and vows this endless love 
Springs from no hope of what she can confer. 
But from those gifts which heaven has heap'd 
on her. 



Anger, in hasty words or blows, 
Itself discharges on our foes ; 
And sorrow too finds some relief 
In tears, which wait upon our grief: 
So ev'ry passion but fond love 
Unto its own redress does move ; 
But that alone the wretch inclines 
To what prevents his own designs ; 
Makes him lament, and sigh, and weep, 
Disorder'd, tremble, fawn, and creep; 



Postures which render him despised, 
Where he endeavours to be prized. 
For women (born to be controll'd,) 
Stoop to the forward and the bold ; 
Aflfect the haughty and the proud, 
The gay, the froltc, and the loud. 
Who first the gen'rous steed opprest 
Not kneeling did salute the beast. 
But with high courage, life, and force, 
Approaching, tamed th' unruly horse. 

Unwisely we the wiser East 
Pity, supposing them opprest 
With tyrants' force, whose law is will, 
By which they govern, spoil, and kill : 
Each nymph, but moderately fair. 
Commands with no less rigour here. 
Should some brave Turk, that walks among 
His twenty lasses, bright and young. 
And beckons to the willing dame, 
Preferr'd to quench his present flame. 
Behold as many gallants here. 
With modest guise and silent fear, 
All to one female idol bend. 
While her high pride does scarce descend 
To mark their follies, he would swear 
That these her guard of eunuchs were, 
And that a more majestic queen. 
Or humbler slaves, he had not seen. 

All this with indignation spoke. 
In vain I struggled with the yoke 
Of mighty Love : that conqu'ring look, 
When next beheld, like lightning strook 
My blasted soul, and made me bow 
Lower than those I pitied now. 

So the tall stag, upon the brink 
Of some smooth stream about to drink, 
Surveying there his armed head, 
With shame remembers that he fled 
The scorned dogs, resolves to try 
The combat next ; but if their cry 
Invades again his trembling ear. 
He straight resumes his wonted care. 
Leaves the untasted spring behind. 
And, wing'd with fear, outflies the wind. 



OF MY LADY ISABELLA PLAYING THE LUTE. 

StJCH moving sounds from such a careless touch ! 
So unconcern'd herself, and we so much ! 
What art is this, that with so little pains 
Transports us thus, and o'er our spirits reigns 1 
The trembling strings about her fingers crowd. 
And tell their joy for ev'ry kiss aloud. 
Small force there needs to make them tremble so- 
Touch'd by that hand who would not tremble too 1 
Here Love takes stand, and while she charms 

the ear. 
Empties his quiver on the list'ning deer. 
Music so softens and disarms the mind. 
That not an arrow does resistance find. 
Thus the fair tyrant celebrates the prize, 
And acts herself the triumph of her eyes : 
So Nero once, with harp in hand, survey'd 
His flaming Rome, and as it bur"^'i he play'd. 



EDMUND WALLER. 



LOVE'S FAREWELL. 

Treading the path to nobler ends, 

A long farewell to love I gave. 
Resolved my country and my friends 

All that reniain'd of "me should have. 

And this resolve no mortal dame, 

None but those eyes could have o'erthrown ; 
The nymph I dare not, need not name, 

So high, so like herself alone. 

Thus the tall oak, which now aspires 

Above the fear of private fires, 
Grown and design'd for nobler use, 

Not to make warm, but build the house, 
Though from our meaner flames secure, 
Must that which falls from heaven endure. 



ON A GIRDLE. 
That which her slender waist confined 
Shall now my joyful temples bind : 
No monarch but would give his crown. 
His arms might do what this has done. 

It was my heaven's extremest sphere. 
The pale which held that lovely deer. 
My joy, my grief my hope, my love,# 
Did all within this circle move ! 

A narrow compass ! and yet there 
Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair; 
Give me but what this riband bound, 
Take all the rest the sun goes round. 



GO, LOVELY ROSE. 

Go, lovely Rose ! 

Tell her that wastes her time and me, 

That now she knows 

When I resemble her to thee, 

How sweet and fair she seems to be. 

Tell her that's young, 

And shuns to have her graces spied. 

That hadst thou sprung 

In deserts, where no men abide, 
Thou must have uncommended died. 

Small is the worth 

Of beauty from the light retired : 

Bid her come forth, 

Suffer herself to be desired, 
And not blush so to be admired. 

Then die ! that she 

The common fate of all things rare 

May read in thee. 

How small a part of time they share 
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.^ 



[ * The following verse wxs added by Kirke White in 
n)py of Waller's Poems : 

Yet tliouih thou fide, 

From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise; 
And teach the ninid 
Thiit ^oodnc8< time's rude hand defies, 
That virtue lives when beauty dies.] 



OF LOVING AT FIRST SIGHT. 
Not caring to observe the wind. 
Or the new sea explore, 
Snatch'd from myself how far behind 
Already I behold the shore ! 

May not a thousand dangers sleep 
In the smooth bosom of this deep 1 
No : 'tis so rockless and so clear. 
That the rich bottom does appear 
Paved all with precious things ; not torn 
From shipwreck'd vessels, but there born. 

Sweetness, truth, and every grace. 
Which time and use are wont to teach, 
The eye may in a moment reach 
And read distinctly in her face- 
Some other nymphs, with colours faint. 
And pencil slow, may Cupid paint. 
And a weak heart in time destroy ; 
She has a stamp, and prints the boy ; 
Can with a single look inflame 
The coldest breast, the rudest tame. 



THE SELF-BANISHED. 
It is not that I love you less, 

Than when before your feet I lay ; 
But to prevent the sad increase 

Of hopeless love, I keep away. 

In vain, alas ! for every thing 

Which I have known belong to you 

Your form does to my fancy bring, 

And makes my old wounds bleed anew. 

Who in the spring, from the new sun. 

Already has a fever got, 
Too late begins those shafts to shun. 

Which Phoebus through his veins has shot. 

Too late he would the pain assuage, 
And to thick shadows does retire ; 

About with him he bears the rage. 
And in his tainted blood the fire. 

But vow'd I have, and never must 
Your banish'd servant trouble you." 

For if I break, you may mistrust 
The vow I made — to love you too. 



THE NIGHT-PIECE, OR A PICTURE DRAWN IN THE 
DARK. 

Dakkxess, which fairest nymphs disarms, 
Defends us ill from Mira's charms : 
Mira can lay her beauty by, 
Take no advantage of the eye. 
Quit all that Lely's art can take, 
And yet a thousand captives make. 

Her speech is griiced with sweeter sound 
Than in another's song is found ; 
And all her well-pla ed words are darts, 
Which need no light to reach our hearts 

As the bright stars and Milky-way. 
Show'd by the night, are nid by day ; 



CHARLES COTTON. 



So we, in that acromplish'd mind, 
Help'd by the n ght, new graces find, 
Which by the splendour of her view, 
Dazzled before, we never knew. 

While we converse with her, we mark 
No want of day, nor think it dark; 
Her shining image is a light 
Fix'd in our hearts, and conquers night. 

Like jewels to advantage set, 
Her beauty by the shade does get; 
There blushes, frowns, and cold disdain, 
All that our passion might resti-ain, 
Is hid, and our indulgent mind 
Presents the fair idea kind. 

Yet friended by the night, we dare 
Only in whispers tell our care: 
He that on her his bold hand lays, 
With Cupid's pointed arrows plays; 
They with a touch (they are so keen !) 
Wound us unshot, and she unseen. 



All near approaches threaten death ; 
We may be shipwreck'd by her breath : 
Love favour'd once with that sweet gale, 
Doubles his haste, and fills his sail. 
Till he arrive where she must prove 
The haven or the rOck of love. 

So we th' Arabian coast do know 
At distance, when the spices blow ; 
By the rich odour taught to steer. 
Though neither day nor stars appear. 



THE NAVAL GLOllY OF ENGLAND. 

FROM VERSES OX A WAR WITH SPAIN. 

Others may use the ocean as their road. 
Only the English make it their abode, 
Whose ready sails with every wind can fly. 
And make a covenant with th' inconstant sky : 
Our oaks secure as if they there took root. 
We tread on billows with a steady foot. 



CHARLES COTTON. 



[Born, 1630. Died, 1687.] 



There is a careless and happy humour in this 
poet's Voyage to Ireland, which seems to antici- 
pate the manner of Anstey, in the Bath Guide. 
The tasteless indelicacy of his parody of the 
^neid has found but too many admirers. His 
imitations of Lucian betray the grossest miscon- 
ception of humorous eflect when he attempts to 
burlesque that which is ludicrous already. He 
was acquainted with French and Italian ; and, 
among several works from the former language, 
translated " The Horace" of Corneille, and Mon- 
taigne's Essays. 

The father of Cotton is described by Lord 
Clarendon as an accomplished and honourable 
man, who was driven by domestic afflictions to 
habits which rendered his age less reverenced 
than his youth, and made his best friends wish 
that he had not lived so long. From him our 
poet inherited an encumbered estate, with a dis- 
position to extravagance little calculated to im- 
prove it. After having studied at Cambridge, 
and returned from his travels abroad, he married 



the daughter of Sir Thomas Owthorp, in Not- 
tinghamshire. He went to Ireland as a captain 
in the army, but of his military progress nothing 
is recorded. Having embraced the soldier's life 
merely as a shift in distress, he was not likely to 
pursue it with much ambition. It was probably 
in Ireland that he met with his second wife, Mary 
Countess Dowager of Ardglass, the widow of 
Lord Cornwall. She had a jointure of j£l500 a 
year, secured from his imprudent management. 
He died insolvent at Westminster. One of his 
favourite recreations was angling ; and his house, 
which was situated on the Dove, a fine trout 
stream which divides the counties of Derby and 
Staflbrd, was the frequent resort of his friend 
Isaak Walton. There he built a fishing-house, 
" Piscatoribus sacrum," with the initials of honest 
Isaak's name and his own united in ciphers over 
the door. The walls were painted with fishing 
scenes, and the portraits of Cotton and Walton 
were upon the beaufet. 



A VOYAGE TO IRELAND IN BURLESQUE. 



The lives of frail men are compared by the sages 
Or unto short journies, or pilgrimages, 
As men to their inns do come sooner or later, 
That is to their ends (to be plain in my matter) ; 
From whence when one dead is, it currently 

follows, 
He has run his race, though his goal be the gallows ; 
And this 'tis, I fancy, set folks so a madding, 
And makes men and women so eager of gadding ; 



Truth is, in my youth I was one of these people 
Would have gone a great way to have seen an 

high steeple, 
And though I was bred 'mongst the wonders o' 

th' Peak, 
W^ould have thrown away money, and ventured 

my neck 
To have seen a great hill, a rock, or a cave. 
And thought there was nothing so pleasant and 

brave : 
But at forty years old you may (if you please) 
Think me wiser than run such errands as these ■• 



CHARLES COTTON. 



343 



Or, had the same humour still run in my toes, 
A voyage to Ireland I ne'er should have chose ; 
But to tell you the truth on't, indeed it was neither 
Improvement nor pleasure for which I went 

thither ; 
I know then you'll presently ask me for what t 
Why, faith, it was that makes the old woman 

trot ; 
And therefore I think I'm not much to be blamed 
If I went to the place whereof Nick was ashamed. 

O Coryate ! thou traveller famed as Ulysses, 
In such a stupendous labour as this is, 
Come lend me the aids of thy hands and thy feet. 
Though the first be pedantic, the other not sweet. 
Yet both are so restless in peregrination, 
They'll help both my journey, and eke my relation. 
'Twas now the most beautiful time of the year. 
The days were now long, and the sky was now 

clear. 
And May, that fair lady of splendid renown. 
Had dress'd herself fine, in her flower'd tabby 

gown. 
When about some two hours and a half after noon. 
When it grew something late, though I thought 

it too soon. 
With a pitiful voice, and a most heavy heart, 
I tuned up my pipes to sing " loth to depart ;" 
The ditty concluded, I call'd for my horse. 
And with a good pack did the jument endorse. 
Till he groan'd and he f — d under the burden. 
For sorrow had made me a cumbersome lurden; 
And now farewell Dove, where I've caught such 

brave dishes 
Of over-grown, golden, and silver-scaled fishes; 
Thy trout and thy grailing may now feed securely, 
I've left none behind me can take 'em so surely ; 
Feed on then, and breed on, until the next year, 
But if I return I expect my arrear. 

By pacing and trotting betimes in the even, 
Ere the sun had forsaken one-half of the Heaven, 
We all at fair Congerton took up our inn, 
Where the sign of a king kept a king and his 

queen: 
But who do you think came to welcome me there 1 
No worse a man, marry, than good master mayor. 
With his staff of command, yet the man was not 

lame. 
But he needed it more when he went, than he 

came ; 
After three or four hours of friendly potation 
We took leave of each other in courteous fashion. 
When each one, to keep his brains fast in his 

head. 
Put on a good nightcap, and straightway to bed. 
Next morn, having paid for boil'd, roasted, and 

bacon, 
^ nd of sovereign hostess our leaves kindly taken, 
(For her king (as 'twas rumour'd) by late pour- 
ing down. 
This morning had got a foul flaw in his crown,) 
We mounted again, and full soberly riding. 
Three miles we had rid ere we met with a biding ; 
But there (having over-night plied the tap well) 
We now must needs water at place call'd Holmes 

Chapel : 



« A hay!" quoth the foremost, « ho ! who keeps 

the house ]" 
Which said, out an host comes as brisk as a 

louse ; 
His hair comb'd as sleek as a barber he'd been, 
A cravat with black ribbon tied under his chin; 
Though by what I saw in him, I straight 'gaii to 

fear 
That knot would be one day slipp'd under his ear. 
Quoth he (with low cong^) « What lack you, my 

lord?" 
" The best liquor," quoth I, " that the house will 

afford." 
" You shall straight," quoth he ; and then calls 

out, " Mary, 
Come quickly, and bring us a quart of Canary." 
" Hold, hold, my spruce host ! for i' th' morning 

so early, 
I never drink liquor but what's made of barley." 
Which words were scarce out, but, which made 

me admire, 
My lordship was presently turn'd into 'squire : 
« Ale, 'squire, you mean]' quoth he nimbly 

again, 
" What, must it be purl'd 1" — "No, I love it best 

plain." 
" Why, if you'll drink ale, sir, pray take my ad- 
vice. 
Here's the best ale i' th' land, if you'll go to the 

price ; 
Better, I sure am, ne'er blew out a stopple ; 
But then, in plain truth, it is sixpence a bottle." 
" Why, faith," quoth I,'" friend, if your Uquor be 

such. 
For the best ale in England, it is not too much : 
Let's have it, and quickly." — " sir ! you may 

stay ; 
A pot in your pate is a mile in your way : 
Come, bring out a bottle here presently, wife. 
Of the best Cheshire hum he e'er drank in his 

life." 
Straight out comes the mistress in waistcoat of 

silk. 
As clear as a milkmaid, as white as her milk, 
With visage as oval and sleek as an egg, 
As straight as an arrow, as right as my leg : 
A curtsey she made, as demure as a sister, 
I could not forbear, but alighted and kissed her : 
Then ducking another with most modest mien. 
The first word she said, was, " Will't please you 

walk in?" 
I thank'd her ; but told her, I then could not stay. 
For the haste of my bus'ness did call me away. 
She said, she was sorry it fell out so odd, 
But if, when again I should travel that road, 
I would stay there a nigfit, she assured me the 

nation 
Should nowhere afford better accommodation ; 
Meanwhile my spruce landlord has broken the cork, 
And call'd for a bodkin, though he had a fork; 
But I show'd him a screw, which I told my brisk 

gull 
A trepan was for bottles had broken their scull ; 
Which, as it was true, he believed without doubt. 
But 'twas I that apply'd it, and pull'd the cork out. 



344 



CHARLES COTTON. 



Bounce, quoth the bottle, the work being done, 
It roar'd, and it smoked, like a new-fired gun ; 
But the shot miss'd us all, or else we'd been 

routed, 
Which yet was a wonder, we were so about it. 
Mine host pour'd and filld, till he could fill no 

fuller: 
" Look here, sir," quoth he, " both for nap and 

for colour. 
Sans bragging, I hate it, nor will I e'er do't ; 
I defy Leek, and Lambhith, and Sandwich, to 

boot." 
By my troth, he said true, for I speak it with 

tears. 
Though I have been a toss-pot these twenty good 

years, 
And have drank so much liquor has made me a 

debtor, 
I my days, that I know of, I never drank better : 
We found it so good, and we drank so profoundly, 
That four good round shillings were whipt away 

roundly ; 
And then I conceived it was time to be jogging. 
For our work had been done, had we stay'd 

t' other noggin. 
From thence we set forth with more mettle and 

spright, 
Our horses were empty, our coxcombs were Ught ; 
O'er Dellamore forest we, tantivy, posted. 
Till our horses were basted as if they were roasted : 
In truth, we pursued might have been by our 

haste. 
And I think Sir George 'Booth did not gallop so 

fast. 
Till about two o'clock after noon, God be blest, 
We came, safe and sound, all to Chester i' th' west. 
And now in high time 'twas to call for some 

meat. 
Though drinking does well, yet some time we 

must eat ; 
And i' faith we had victuals both plenty and good. 
Where we all laid about us as if we were wood : 
Go thy ways, mistress Anderton, for a good wcman. 
Thy guests shall by thee ne'er be turn'd to a 

common ; 
And whoever of thy entertainment complains. 
Let him lie with a drab, and be pox'd for his 

pains. 
And here I must stop the career of my Muse, 
The poor jade is weary, 'las! how should she 

choose 1 
And if I should farther here spur on my course, 
I should, questionless, tire both my wits and my 

horse : 
To-night let us rest, for 'tis good Sunday's even, 
To-nioirow to church, Snd ask pardon of Heaven. 
1'bus far we our time spent, as here I have 

penn d it, 
An odd kind of life, and 'tis well if we mend it: 
But to-morrow (God willing) we'll have t other 

bout. 
And better or worse be't, for murder will out. 
Our future adventures we 11 lay down before ye. 
Fur my Muse is deep sworn to use truth of the 

story. 



CANTO II. 
Aftee seven hours' sleep, to commute for pains 

taken, 
A man of himself, one would think, might awaken; 
But riding, and drinking hard, were two such 

spells, 
I doubt I'd slept on, but for jangling of bells, 
Which, ringing to matins all over the town. 
Made me leap out of bed, and put on my gown. 
With intent (so God mend me) I have gone to 

the choir, 
When straight I perceived myself all on a fire ; 
For the two fore-named things had so heated my 

blood. 
That a little phlebotomy would do me good : 
I sent for chirurgion, who came in a trice. 
And swift to shed blood, needed not to be called 

twice. 
But tilted stiletto quite through the vein. 
From whence issued out the ill humours amain; 
When having twelve ounces, he bound up my arm. 
And I gave him two Georges, which did him no 

harm : 
But after my bleeding, I soon understood 
It had cool'd my devotion as well as my blood ; 
For I had no more mind to look on my psalter, 
Than (saving your presence) I had to a halter ; 
But, like a most wicked and obstinate sinner. 
Then sat in my chamber till folks came to dinner: 
I dined with good stomach, and very good cheer, 
With a very fine woman, and good ale and beer; 
When myself having stutf'd ttar. a bagpipe more 

full, 
I fell to my smoking until I grew dull ; 
And, therefore, to take a fine nap thought it best, 
For when belly full is, bones would be at rest : 
I tumbled me down on my bed like a swad. 
Where, O ! the d'elicious dream that I had ! 
Till the bells, that had been my morning molesters. 
Now waked me again, chiming all in to vespers ; 
With that starting up, for my man I did whistle. 
And comb'd out and powder'd my locks that 

were grizzle ; 
Had my clothes neatly brush'd, and then put on 

my sword. 
Resolved now to go and attend on the word. 

Thus trick'd, and thus trim, to set forth I begin. 
Neat and cleanly without, but scarce cleanly 

within ; 
For why. Heaven knows it, I long time had been 
A most humble obedient servant to sin : 
And now in devotion was even so proud, 
I scorn'd (forsooth) to join pray'r with the crowd ; 
For though courted by all the bells as I went, 
I was deaf, and regarded not the compliment, 
But to the cathedral still held on my pace. 
As 't were, scorning to kneel but in the best place. 
I there made myself sure of good music at least. 
But was something deceived, for 'twas none of 

the best : 
But however, I stay'd at the church's command- 
ing 
Till we came to the "Peace passes all under- 
standing," 



CHARLES COTTON. 



345 



Which no sooner was ended, but whir and away, 
Like boys in a school when they've leave got to 

play ; 
All save master mayor, who still gravely stays 
Till the rest had left room for his worship and 's 

mace : 
Then he and his brethren in order appear, 
I out of my stall, and fell into his rear; 
For why, 'tis much safer appearing, no doubt. 
In authority's tail, than the head of a rout. 

In this rev'rend order we marched from pray'r ; 
The mace before me borne as well as the may'r ; 
Who looking behind him, and seeing most plain 
A glorious gold belt in the rear of his train, 
Made such a low cong^, forgetting his place, 
I was never so honour'd before in my days : 
But then oti' went my scalp-case, and down went 

my fist, 
Till the pavement, too hard, by my knuckles was 

kiss'd ; 
By which, though thick-skuU'd, he must under- 
stand this. 
That I was a most humble servant of his; 
Which also so wonderfully kindly he took, 
(As I well perceived both b' his gesture and look,) 
That to have me dogg'd home he straitway ap- 
pointed, 
Resolving, it seems, to be better acquainted. 
I was scarce in my quarters, and set down on 

crupper, 
But his man was there too, to invite me to supper ; 
I start up, and after most respective fashion 
Gave his worship much thanks for his kind in- 
vitation ; 
But begg'd his excuse, for my stomach was small, 
And I never did eat any supper at all ; 
But that after supper I would kiss his hands, 
And would come to receive his worship's com- 
mands. 
Sure no one will say, but a patron of slander. 
That this was not pretty well for a Moorlander : 
And since on such reasons to sup I refused, 
I nothing did doubt to be holden excused ; 
But my quaint repartee had his worship possess'd 
With so wonderful good a conceit of the rest, 
That with more impatience he hop'd in his lireeches 
To see the fine fellow that made such fine speeches: 
«'Go, sirrah !" quoth he, "get you to him again. 
And will and require, in his majesty's name, 
That he come ; and tell him, obey he were best, or 
I'll leach him to know that he's now in West- 
Chester." 
The man, upon this, comes me running again. 
But yet minced his message, and was not so 

plain ; 
Saying to me only, " Good sir, I am. sorry 
To tell you my master has sent again for you ; 
And has such a longing to have you his guest, 
That I, with these ears, heard him swear and 

protest. 
He would neither say grace, nor sit down on his 

bum. 
Nor open his napkin, until you do come." 
M'ith that I perceived no excuse would avail, 
And, seeing there was no defence for a flail, 
44 



I said I was ready master may'r to obey. 
And therefore desired him to lead me the way. 
We went, and ere Malkin could well lick her ear, 
(For it but the next door was, forsooth) we were 

there ; 
Where lights being brought me, I mounted the 

stairs. 
The worst I e'er saw in my life at a mayor's : 
But every thing else must be highly commended. 
I there found his worship most nobly attended. 
Besides such a supper as well did convince, 
A may'r in his province to be a great prince ; 
As he sat in his chair, he did not much vary. 
In state nor in face, from our eighth English 

Harry ; 
But whether his face was swell'd up with fat, 
Or pufli'd up with glory, I cannot tell that. 
Being enter'd the chamber half length of a pike, 
And cutting of faces exceedingly like [Indies, 
One of those little gentlemen brought from the 
And screwing myself into conges and cringes. 
By then I was half way advanced in the room, 
His worship most rev'rendly rose from his bum. 
And with the more honour to grace and to greet 

me. 
Advanced a whole step and an half for to meet 

me ; 
Where leisurely doffing a hat worth a tester. 
He bade me most heartily welcome to Chester. 
I thank'd him in language the best I was able. 
And so we forthwith sat us all down to table. 
Now here you must note, and 'tis worth ob- 
servation, 
That as his chair at one end o' th' table had 

station ; 
So sweet mistress may'ress, in just such another. 
Like the fair queen of hearts, sat in state at the 

other ; 
By which I perceived, though it seemed a riddle, 
The lower end of this must be just in the middle ; 
But perhaps 'tis a rule there, and one that would 

mind it 
Amongst the town-statutes 'tis likely might find it. 
But now intoth' pottage each deep his spoon claps. 
As in truth one might safely for burning one's 

chaps. 
When straight, with the look and the tone of a 

scold. 
Mistress may'ress complain'd that the pottage 

was cold; 
" And all long of your fiddle-faddle," quoth she. 
" W hy, what then. Goody Two-Shoes, what if it be? 
" Hold you, if you can, your tittle-tattle," quoth he. 
I was glad she was snapp'd thus, and guess'd by 

th' discourse, , 

The may'r, not the gray mare, was the better 

horse. 
And yet for all that, there is reason to fear. 
She submitted but out of respect to his year: 
However 'twas well she had now so much grace. 
Though not to the man, to submit to his place; 
For had she proceeded, I verily thought 
My turn would the next be, for I was in fault: 
But this brush being past, we fell to our diet, 
And ev'ry one there fill'd his belly in quiet. 



346 



CHARLES COTTON. 



Supper being ended, and things away taken, 
Master mayor's curiosity 'gan to awaken ; [chair. 
Wherefore making me draw something nearer his 
He will'd and required me there to declare 
My country, my birth, my estate, and my parts, 
And whether I was not a master of arts ; 
And eke what the bus'ness was had brought me 

thither. 
With what I was going about now, and whither: 
Giving me caution, no He should escape me, 
For if I should trip, he should certainly trap me. 
I answer'd, my country was famed Staffordshire ; 
That in deeds, bills, and bonds, I was ever writ 

squire; 
That of land I had both sorts, some good, and 

some evil. 
But that a great part on'ttwaspawn'd to tlie Devil ; 
That as for my parts, they were such as he saw ; 
That, indeed, I had a small smatt'ring of law. 
Which I lately had got more by practice than 

reading, 
By sitting o' th' bench, whilst others were pleading; 
But that arms I had ever more studied than arts. 
And was now to a captain raised by my deserts ; 
That the bus'ness which led me through Palatine 

ground 
Into Ireland was, whither now I was bound; 
Where his worship's great favour I loud will pro- 
And in all other places wherever I came, [claim, 
He said, as to that, I might do what I list. 
But tliat I was welcome, and gave me his fist; 
When having my fingers made crack with his 

gripes, 
He call'd to his man for some bottles and pipes. 
To trouble you here with a longer narration 
Of the several parts of our confabulation. 
Perhaps would be tedious; I'll therefore remit ye 
Even to the most rev'rend records of the city. 
Where doubtless, the acts of the may'rs are re- 
corded. 
And if not more truly, yet much better worded. 

In short, then, we piped and we tippled Canary, 
Till my watch pointed one in the circle horary ; 
When thinking it now was high time to depart. 
His worship I thank'd with a most grateful heart; 
And because to great men presents are acceptable, 
I presented the may'r, ere I rose from the table. 
With a certain fantastical box and a stopper; 
And he having kindly accepted my offer, 
I took my fair leave, such my visage adorning, 
And to bed, fori was to rise early i' th' morning. 



CANTO rn. 

The Sun in the morning disclosed his light, 
With complexion as ruddy as mine over night ; 
And o'er th' eastern mountains peeping up 's head, 
The casement being open, espied me in bed ; 
With his rays he so tickled my lids that I waked. 
And was half ashamed, for I found myself naked ; 
But up I soon start, and was dress'd in a trice. 
And call'd for a draught of ale, sugar, and spice; 
Which having turn'd off, I then call to pay. 
And packing my nawls, whipp'd to horse, and away. 



A guide I had got, who demanded great vails, 
For conducting me over the mountains of Wales : 
Twenty good shillings, which sure very large is; 
Yet that would not serve, but I must bear his 

charges ; 
And yet for all that, rode astride on a beast. 
The worst that e'er went on three legs, I protest : 
It certainly was the most ugly of jades. 
His hips and his rump made a right ace of spades ; 
His sides were two ladders, well spurr-gall'd 

withal ; 
His neck was a helve, and his head was a mall ; 
For his colour, my pains and your trouble I'll 

spare. 
For the creature was wholly denuded of hair ; 
And, except for two things, as bare as my nail, 
A tuft of a mane, and a sprig of a tail ; 
And by these the true colour one can no more 

know. 
Than by mouse-skins above stairs, the merkin 

below. 
Now such as the beast was, even such was the 

rider, 
With a head like a nutmeg, and legs like a spider , 
A voice like a cricket, a look like a rat. 
The brains of a goose, and the heart of a cat : 
Even such was my guide and his beast ; let them 
The one for a horse, and the other an ass. [pass, 
But now with our horses, wnat sound and what 

rotten, 
Down to the shore, you must know, we were 

gotten ; 
And there we were told, it concern'd us to ride, 
Unless we did mean to encounter the tide ; 
And then my guide lab'ring with heels and with 

hands. 
With two up and one down, hopp'd over the sands. 
Till his horse, finding the labour for three legs too 
Fol'd out a new leg, and then he had four: [sore. 
And now by plain dint of hard spurring and 

whipping, 
Dry-shod we came where folks sometimes take 

shipping ; 
And where the salt sea, as the Devil were in't. 
Came roaring 'to have hinder'd our journey to 

Flint; 
But we, by good luck, before him got thither. 
He else would have carried us, no man knows 
whither. 
And now her in Wales is, saint Taph be her 
speed, 
Gott splutter her taste, some Welsh ale her had 

need ; 
For her ride in great haste, and * * 

For fear of her being catch'd up by the fishes : 
But the lord of Flint castle 's no lord worth a louse. 
For he keeps ne'er a drop of good drink in his 

house ; 
But in a small house near unto 't there was store 
Of such ale as (thank God) I ne'er tasted before 
And surely the Welsh are not wise of their fuddle 
For this had the taste and complexion of puddle 
From thence then we march'd, full as dry as we 

came. 
My guide before pran.ing, his steed no more lame, 



CHARLES COTTON. 



347 



O'er hills and o'er valleys uncouth and uneven, 
Until 'twixt the hours of twelve and eleven, 
More hungry and thirsty than tongue can well tell. 
We happily came to St. Winifred's well : 
I thought it the pool of Bethesda had been, 
By the cripples lay there ; but I went to my inn 
To speak for some meat, for so stomach did motion. 
Before I did farther proceed in devntion : 
I went into th' kitchen, where victuals I saw, 
Both beef, veal, and mutton, but all on't was raw; 
And some on't alive, but soon went to slaughter, 
For four chickens were slain by my dame and 

her daughter ; 
Of which to saint Win. ere my vows I had paid. 
They said I should find a rare fricas^e made : 
I thank'd them, and straight to the well did repair, 
M'here some I found cursing,an(i others at pray'r; 
Some dressing, some stripping, some out and some 

in. 
Some naked, where botches and boils might be 

seen ; 
Of which some were fevers of Venus I'm sure, 
And therefore unfit for the virgin to cure : 
But the fountain, in truth, is well worth the sight. 
The beautiful virgin's own tears not more bright; 
Nay, none but she ever shed such a tear. 
Her conscience, her name, nor herself, were more 

clear. 
In the bottom there lie certain stones that look 

white. 
But streaked with pure red, as the morning with 

light. 
Which they say is her blood, and so it may be. 
But for that, let who shed it look to it for me. 
Over the fountain a chapel there stands, 
Which I wonder has 'scaped master Oliver's 

hands ; 
The floor's not ill paved, and the margin o' th' 
Is inclosed with a certain octagonal ring ; [spring 
From each angle of which a pillar does rise. 
Of strength and of thickness enough to suffice 
To support and uphold from falling to ground 
A cupola wherewith the virgin is crown'd. 
In'ow 'twixt the two angles that fork to the north, 
And where the cold nymph does her basin pour 

forth. 
Under ground is a place where they bathe, as 'tis 

said. 
And 'tis true, for I heard folks' teeth hack in 

their head ; 
For you are to know, that the rogues and the * * 
Are not let to pollute the spring-head with their 

sores. 
But one thing I chiefly admired in the place, 
That a saint and a virgin endued with such grace, 
Should yet be so wonderful kind a well-willer 
To that whoring and filching trade of a miller, 
As within a few paces to furnish the wheels 
Of I cannot tell how many water-mills : 
I've studied that point much, you cannot guess 

why, 
But the virgin was, doubtless more righteous 

than I. 
And now for my welcome, four, five, or six lasses,' 
With as many crystalline liberal glasses, 



Did all importune me to drink of the water 
Of Saint Winifreda, good Thewith's fair daughter. 
A while I was doubtful, and stood in a muse, 
Not knowing, amidst all that choice, where to 

choose. 
Till a pair of black eyes, darting full in my sight, 
From the rest o' th' fair maidens did carry me 

quite : 
I took the glass from her, and whip, off it went, 
I half doubt I fiincied a health to the saint : 
But he was a great villain committed theslaughter. 
For St. Winifred made most delicate water. 
I slipp'd a hard shilling into her soft hand. 
Which had like to have made me the place have 

profaned ; 
And giving two more to the poor that were there, 
Did, sharp as a hawk, to my quarters repair. 

My dinner was ready, and to it I fell, 
I never ate better meat, that I can tell ; 
When having half dined, there comes in my host, 
A catholic good, and a rare drunken toast : 
This man, by his drinking, inflamed the scot. 
And told me strange stories, which I have forgot ; 
But this I remember, 'twas much on 's own life. 
And one thing, that he had converted his wife. 

But now my guide told me, it time was to go. 
For that to our beds we must both ride and row; 
Wherefore calling to pay, and having accounted, 
I soon was down stairs, and as suddenly mounted,- 
On then we travell'd, our guide still before. 
Sometimes on three legs, and sometimes on four. 
Coasting the sea, and over hills crawling, 
Sometimes on all four, for fear we should fall in; 
For underneath Neptune lay skulking to watch 

us, 
And, had we but slipp'd once, was ready to catch 

us. 
Thus in places of danger taking more heed. 
And in safer travelling mending our speed: 
Redland Castle and Abergoney we past. 
And o'er against Connoway came at the last: 
Just over against a castle there stood, 
O' th' right hand the town, and o' th' left hand a 

wood ; • 

'Twixt the wood and the castle they see at high 

water 
The storm, the place makes it a dangerous matter ; 
And besides, upon such a steep rock it is founded. 
As would break a man's neck, should he 'scape 

being drowned : 
Perhaps though in time one may make them to 

yield. 
But 'tis pretti'st Cob-castle e'er I beheld. 

The Sun now was going t' unharness his steeds. 
When the ferry-boat brasking her sides 'gainst 

the weeds. 
Came in as good time as good time could be, 
To give us a cast o'er an arm of the sea; 
And bestowing our horses before and abaft. 
O'er god Neptune's wide cod-piece gave us a 

waft ; 
Where scurvily landing at foot of the fort. 
Within very few paces we enter'd the port. 
Where another King's Head invited me down. 
For indeed I have ever been true to the cr. wn. 



DR. HENRY MORE. 



[Born, 1611. Died, 1687.1 



Dr. Henry More was the son of a respect- 
able gentleman at Grantham, in Lincolnshire. 
He spent the better part of a long and intensely 
studious life at Cambridge, refusing even the 
mastership of his college, and several offers of 
preferment in the church, for the sake of un- 
broken leisure and retirement. In 1640 he com- 
posed his Psychozoia, or Life of the Soul, which 
he afterward republished with other pieces, in a 
volume entitled Philosophical Poems. Before 
the appearance of the former work he had stu- 
died the Platonic writers and mystic divines, till 
his frame had become emaciated, and his facul- 
ties had been strained to such enthusiasm, that 
he began to talk of holding supernatural commu- 
nications, and imagined that his body exhaled the 
perfume of violets. With the exception of these 
innocent reveries, his life and literary character 
were highly respectable. He corresponded with 
Des Cartes, was tlje friend of Cudworth, and as 
a divine and moralist was not only popular in his 
own time, but has been mentioned with admira- 



tion both by Addison and Blair. In the heat of 
rebellion he was spared even by the fanatics, wlio, 
though he refused to take the covenant, left him 
to dream with Plato in his academic bower. As 
a poet he has woven together a singular texture 
of Gothic fancy and Greek philosophy, and made 
rlie Christiano-Platonic system of metaphysics a 
ground-work for the fables of the nursery. His 
versification, though he tells us that he was won 
to the Muses in his childhood by the melody of 
Spenser, is but a faint echo of the Spenserian 
tune. In fancy he is dark and lethargic. Yet 
his Psychozoia is not a common-place production : 
a certain solemnity and earnestness in his tone 
leaves an impression that he " believed the magic 
wonders whirh he sung."* His poetry is not, in- 
deed, like a beautiful landscape on which the eye 
can repose, but may be compared to some curious 
grotto, whose gloomy labyrintlrs we might be 
curious to explore for the strange and mystic as- 
sociations they excite. 



THE PRE-EXISTENCY OF THE SOUL. 
Rise then, Aristo's son, assist my Muse; 
Let that high sprite which did enrich thy brains 
With choice conceits, some worthy thoughts infuse 
Worthy thy title and the reader's pains. 
And thou, Lycian sage ! whose pen contains 
Treasures of heavenly light with gentle fire, 
Give leave awhile to warm me at thy flames, 
'J'hat I may also kindle sweet desire 
In holy mUids that unto highest things aspire. 

For I would sing the pre-existency 

Of human souls, and live once o'er again, 

By recollection and quick memory. 

All that is past since first we all began ; 

But all too shallow be my wits to scan 

So deep a point, and mind too dull to clear 

So dark a matter. But thou, more than man, 

Arcad, thou sacred soul of Plotin dear, [were. 

Tell me what mortals are — tell what of old they 

A spark or ray of the divinity. 

Clouded with early fogs, yclad in clay, 

A precious drop sunk from eternity. 

Spilt on the ground, or rather slunk away; 

For then we fell when we 'gan first t' assay, 

By stealth of our own selves, something to been 

Unccntering ourselves from our great stay, 

W hich fondly we new liberty did ween, [deem. 

And from that prank right jolly wits ourselves did 



Show fitly how the pre-existent soul 

Enacts and enters bodies here below, 

And then entire unhurt can leave this moul, 

And thence her airy vehicle can draw. 

In which by sense and motion they may know, 

Better than we, what things transacted be 

Upon the earth, and when they list may show 

Themselves to friend or foe, their phantasie 

Moulding their airy orb to gross consistency. 



M'herefore the soul possess'd of matter meet. 
If she hath power to operate thereon. 
Can eath transform this vehicle to sight, 
Dight with due colour figuration. 
Can speak, can walk, and then dispear anon. 
Spreading herself in the dispersed air. 
Then, if she please, recall again what's gone : 
Those th' uncouth mysteries of fancy are — 
Than thunder far more strong, more quick than 
lightning far. 

Some heaving toward this strange activity 
We may observe ev'n in this mortal state ; 
Here health and sickness of the phantasie 
Often proceed, which working minds create. 
And pox and pestilence do malleate, 
'I'heir thoughts still beating on those objects ill, 
Which doth the master's blood contaminate, 



[•Collins.; 



GEORGE ETHEREGE. 



849 



And with foul poisonous impressions fill, 

And last, the precious life with deadly dolour kill. 

***** 
All these declare the force of phantasie, 
Though working here upon this stubborn clay ; 
But th' airy vehicle yields more easily, 
Unto her beck more nimbly doth obey, 
Which truth the joint confessions bewray 
Of damned hags and masters of bold skill, 
Whose hellish mysteries fully to display, [o'erspill. 
The earth would groan, trees sigh, and horror all 

But he that out of darkness giveth light. 
He guide my steps in this so uncouth way; 
And ill-done deeds by children of the night 
Convert to good, while I shall hence assay 
The noble soul's condition ope to lay. 
And show her empire on her airy sphere. 
By what of sprites and spectres stories say ; 
For sprites and spectres that by night appear 
Be or all with the soul, or of a nature near. 

Up then, renowned wizard, hermit sage. 
That twice ten years didst in the desert won. 
With sprites conversing in thy hermitage. 
Since thou of mortals didst the commerce shun; 
Well seen in these foul deeds that have foredone 
Many a bold wit. Up, Marcus, tell again 
That story to thy Thrax, who has thee won 
To Christian faith; the guise and haunts explain 
Of all air-trampling ghosts that in the world 
[remain. 
There be six sorts of sprites : Lelurion 
Is the first kind, the next are named from air; 
The first aloft, yet far beneath the moon, 
The other in this lower region fare ; 
The third terrestrial, the fourth watery are ; 
The fifth be subterranean ; the last 
And worst, light-hating ghosts, more cruel far 
Than bear or wolf with hunger hard oppress'd. 
But doltish yet, and dull, like an unwieldy beast. 

***** 
Cameleon-like they thus their colour change, 
And size contract, and then dilate again. 
Like the soft earth-worm hurt by heedless chance. 
Shrinks in herself to shun or ease her pain. 
Nor do they only thus themselves constrain 
Into less bulk, but if with courage bold, [twain. 
And flaming brand, thou strike these shades in 
Close quick as cloven air. So sang that wizard old. 



And truth he said, whatever he has told, 

As even this present age may verify, 

If any lists its stories to unfold, 

Of Hugo, of hobgoblins, of incubi, 

Abhorred dugs by devils sucken dry ; 

Of leaping lamps, and of fierce flying stones. 

Of living wool and such like witchery; 

Or proved by sight or self-confessions, [tions. 

Which things much credence gain to past tradi- 

Wherefore with boldness we will now relate 
Some few in brief; as of th' Astorgan lad 
Whose peevish mother, in fell ire and hate. 
With execration bold, the devil bad 
Take him alive. Which mood the boy n' ote bear, 
But quits the room — walks out with spirit sad, 
Into the court, where lo! by night appear 
Two giants with grim looks, rough limbs, black 
grisly hair. 
***** 

The walking skeleton in Bolonia, 
Laden with rattling chains, that show'd his grave 
To the watchful student, who without dismay 
Bid tell his wants and speak what he would have, 
Thus cleared he the house by courage brave. 
Nor may I pass the fair Cerdinian maid 
Whose love a jolly swain did kindly crave, 
And oft with mutual solace with her staid. 
Yet he no jolly swain, but a deceitful shade. 
***** 
In arctic climes an isle that Thul6 bight. 
Famous for snowy monts, whose hoary heads 
Sure sign of cold ; yet from their fierv feet 
They strike oui tiurnmg stones with thunders dread. 
And all the land with smoke and ashes spread; 
Here wand'ring ghosts themselves have often 

shown. 
As if it were the region of the dead. 
And met departed, met with whom they've known, 
In seemly sort shake hands, and ancient friend- 
ship own. 

A world of wonders hither might be thrown 

Of sprites and spectres, as that frequent noise 

Oft heard upon the plain of Marathon, 

Of neighing horses and of martial boys ; 

The Greek the Persian nightly here destroys 

In hot assault embroil'd in a long war; 

Four hundred years did last those dreadful toys, 

As doth by Attic records plain appear. 

The seeds of hate by death so little slaked are. 



GEORGE ETHEREGE. 



fBo 



,1636. Died, 1691?] 



George Etherege first distinguished himself 
among the libertine wits of the age by his " Comi- 
cal Revenge, or Love in a Tub." He after- 
ward gained a more deserved distinction in the 
comic drama by his " Man of Mode, or Sir Fop- 
iing Flutter," a character which has been the 
model of all succeeding stage petits-maitres. By 
his wit he obtained a rich widow and the title of 



knighthood, and, what was ill-suited to his disso- 
lute habits, the appointment of plenipotentiary 
at Ratisbon. At that place he had occasion to 
give a convivial party to some friends, of whom 
George was politely taking his leave at the door 
of his house, but having drunk freely, he had the 
misfortune to conclude the entertainment by 
falling down stairs and breaking his neck. 
2K 



350 



THOMAS FLATMAN. 



FROM "LOVE IN A TUB." 

Ladies, though to your conquering eyes 
Love owes his chiefest victories, 
And borrows those bright arms from you 
With which he does the world subdue; 
Yet you yourselves are not above 
The empire nor the griefs of love. 

Then rack not lovers with disdain. 
Lest love on you revenge their pain : 
You are not free because you're fair, 
The boy did not his mother spare: 
Though beauty be a killing dart, 
It is no armour for the heart. 



See, how fair Corinna lies, 
Kindly calling with her eyes: 
In the tender minute prove her; 
Shepherd ! why so dull a lover 
Prithee, why so dull a lover? 

In her blushes see your shame,.— 
Anger they with love proclaim; 
You too coldly entertain her: 
Lay your pipe a little by ; 
If no other charms you try. 
You will never, never gain her. 

While the happy minute is. 
Court her, you may get a kiss, 
May be, favours that are greater: 
Leave your piping to her fly ; 
When the nymph for love is nigh, 
Is it with a tune you treat her 1 

Dull Amintor ! fie, O ! fie: 
Now your Shepherdess is nigh 
Can you pass your time no better 1 



FROM "LOVK IN A TUB." 

When Phillis watch'd her harmless sheep, 

Not one poor lamb was made a prey ; 
Yet she had cause enough to weep, 

Her silly heart did go astray, 
Then flying to the neighbouring grove. 

She left the tender flock to rove. 
And to the winds did breathe her love. 
She sought in vain 
To ease her pain ; 
The heedless winds did fan her fire ; 
Venting her grief 
Gave no relief. 
But rather did increase desire. 
Then sitting with her arms across. 

Her sorrows streaming from each eye ; 
She fix'd her thoughts upon her loss, 
And in despair resolved to die. 



SONG. 
Tell me no more I am deceived 

While Sylvia seems so kind. 
And takes such care to be believed. 

The cheat I fear to find. 

To flatter me should falsehood lie 
Conceal'd in her soft youth, 

A thousand times I'd rather die 
Than see th' unhapy truth. 

My love all malice shall outbrave, 

Let fops in libels rail ; 
If she th appearances will save. 

No scandal can prevail. 

She makes me think I have her heart. 

How much for that is due ; 
Though she but act the tender part. 

The joy she gives is true. 



THOxMAS FLATMAN. 



[Born, 1635. Died, 1688.] 



TnoMAS Flatman, an imitator of Cowley, 
who had also a respectable talent for painting. 



Granger says that one of his heads is worth a 
ream of his pindarics.* 



FOR TIIOUOHTS. 

FROM POEMS AXD 80NQS. 

Thoughts ! what are they 1 

They are my constant friends; 

Who, when harsh fate its dull brow bends, 

Uncloud me with a smiling ray. 

And in the depth of midnight force a day. 

When I retire and flee 

The busy throngs of company 

To hug myself in privacy, 



the discourse, the pleasant talk 

'Twixt us, my thoughts, along a lonely walk! 

You like the stupefying wine. 

The dying malefactors sip. 

With shivering lip, 

T' abate the rigour of their doom 

By a less troublous cut to their long home, 

[* Jlis verse was buried with it.s nutlior in a f urth edi- 
tion ; no one h:is thought fiL to revive it, nnd in no col- 
lection of Uritish I'octry has Fiaimau found, or is likely to 
find, a place.] 



APHRA BEHN. 



351 



Make mc slight crosses though they piled up lie, 
All by th' enchantments of an ecstasy. 

Do I desire to see 

The throne and majesty 

Of that proud one, 

Brother and uncle to the stars and sun, 

Those can conduct me where such joys reside. 

And waft me cross the main, sans wind and tide. 

Would I descry 

Those radiant mansions 'hove the sky. 

Invisible by mortal eye, 

My thoughts, my thoughts can lay 

A shining track there to, 

And nimbly fleeting go; 

Through all the eleven orbs can shove away ; 

These too like Jacob's ladder are, 

A most angelic thoroughfare. 

The wealth that shines 

In the oriental mines. 

Those sparkling gems which nature keeps 

Within her cabinet the deeps. 

The verdant fields. 

The rarities the rich world yields. 

Rare structures, whose each gilded spire 

Gliinmers like lightning, which while men admire 

'I'hey deem the neighb'ring sky on fire: 

These can I gaze upon, and glut mine eyes 

With myriads of varieties, 

As on the front of Pisgah I 

Can th' Holy Land through these my 6pticsspy. 

Contemn we then 

The peevish rage of men, 



Whooo violence ne'er can divorce 

Our mutual amity. 

Or lay so damn'd a curse 

As non-addresses 'twixt my thoughts and mej 

For though I sigh in irons they. 

Use their old freedom, readily obey. 

And when my bosom friends desert me stay. 

Come then, my darlings, I'll embrace 

My privilege ; make known 

The high prerogative I own 

By making all allurements give you place; 

Whose sweet society to me 

A sanctuary and a shield shall be 

'Gainst the full quivers of my destiny. 



SONG FROM THE SAME. 

How happy a thing were a wedding. 

And a bedding. 

If a man might purchase a wife 

For a twelvemonth and a day ; 

But to live with her all a man's life. 

For ever and for aye. 

Till she grow as gray as a cat, 

Good faith, Mr. Parson, excuse me for that. 



When on my sick bed I languish. 
Full of sorrow, full of anguish; 
Fainting, gasping, trembling, crying. 
Panting, groaning, speechless, dying — 
Methinks I hear some gentle spirit say. 
Be not fearful, come away ! * 



APHRA BEHN. 



CBorn, 16307 Died, 1689.] 



This authoress of many plays, novels, and 
poems, was the daughter of a Mr. Johnson, who 
died on his passage to Surinam, of which he had 
been appointed governor. His family, however, 
reached the settlement, and there our poetess 
became acquainted with the famous Indian chief 
Oroonoko, whose story she has related in one 
of her novels. On her return to England she 
married Mr. Behn, a London merchant. After 



his death the Court of Charles II. employed he. 
to send over intelligence from Antwerp respect- 
ing the Dutch, and by the aid of her lovei 
Vander Albert, she gave them a most important 
warning of De Ruyter's intended descent upon 
the English coast; but she was treated with in- 
gratitude by the government, and on returning 
to England was left to subsist by her gallantry 
and her pen. 



SONG, IN THE FARCE OF "THE EMPEROR OF THE 
MOON." 
A CUKSE upon that faithless maid 
Who first her sex's liberty betray'd; 
Born free as man to love and range. 
Till nobler nature did to custom change ; 
Custom, that dull excuse for fools, 
Who think all virtue to consist in rules. 

From love our fetters never sprung, 
That smiling god, all wanton, gay and young. 
Shows by his wings he cannot be 
Confined to artless slavery ; 



But here and there at random roves. 

Not fix'd to glittering courts or shady groves. 

Then she that constancy profess'd 
Was brt a well dissembler at the best; 
And that imaginary sway 
She seem'd to give in feigning to obey. 
Was but the height of prudent art 
To deal with greater liberty her heart. 



[* Pope ha-s done something more than imitate this in 
his " Di'ing Christian to hia Soul."] 



NATHANIEL LEE. 



Ma-NY of the Bedlam witticisms of this unfor- 
tunate man have been recorded by those who can 
derive mirth from the most humihating shape of 
human calamity. His rant and turgidity as a 
writer are proverbial ; but those who have wit- 
nessed justice done to the acting of his Theodo- 
sius must have felt that he had some powers in 
the pathetic. He was the son of a clergyman in 
Hertfordshire. He was bred at Westminster, 
under Dr. Busby, and became a scholar on the 
foundation at Trinity College, Cambridge. From 
thence he came to London, and attempted the 
profession of an actof. The part which he per- 
formed was Duncan, in Sir William Davenant's 
alteration of Macbeth. He was completely un- 
successful. " Yet Lee," says Cibber, " was so 
pathetic a reader of his own scenes, that I have 
been informed by an actor who was present, that 
while Lee was reading to Major Mohun, at a 
rehearsal, Mohun, in the warmth of his adtnira- 
tion, threw down his part, and said, ' Unless I 
were able to play it as well as you read it, to 



what purpose should I undertake if?' And yet,'* 
continues the laureate, " this very author, whose 
elocution raised such admiration in so capital an 
actor, when he attempted to be an actor himself, 
soon quitted the stage in an honest despair of 
ever making any profitable figure there." Failing 
in this object, he became a writer for the stage, 
and his first tragedy of " Nero," which came out 
in 1675, was favourably received. In the nine 
subsequent years of his life he produced as many 
plays of his own, and assisted Dryden in two ; at 
the end of which period an hereditary taint of 
madness, aggravated by habits of dissipation, 
obliged bini to be consigned for four years to the 
receptacle at Bethlem. He recovereti the use of 
his faculties so far as to compose two pieces, the 
Princess of Cleves, and the Massacre of Paris ; 
but with all the profits of his invention his cir- 
cumstances were so reduced that a weekly stipend 
of ten shillings was his principal support toward 
the close of his life, and to the last he was not 
free from occasional derangement. 



FROM "THEODOSroS; OR, THE FORCE OF LOVE." 

The characters in the following scenes are Varanes, a 
Persian prince, who comes to visit the Emperor Theodo- 
sius; Aranthes, his confidant; Leontine, the prince's 
tutor; and Athenais, daughter of that philosopher, with 
whom Varanes is in love. Her father, Leontine. jealous 
for his daughter's honour, brings his royal pupil to an 
explanation respecting his designs toward .^.thentiis; and 
Varanes, in a moment of rash pride, at the instijration 
of Aranthes, spurns at the idea of marrying the philoso- 
pher's daughter and sharing with her the throne of 
Cyrus. Athenais, however, is seen by the Emperor 
Q'heodosius. who himself offers her his hand. The re- 
pentance of Varanes for her loss, and the despair of 
Athenais, form the catastrophe of the tragedy. 

Leon. So, Athenais; now our compliment 
To the young Persian prince is at an end ; 
What then remains, but that we take our leave. 
And bid him everlastingly farewell ] 

Allien. My lord ! 

Leon. I say, that decency requires 
Weshould be gone,norcan you stay with honour. 

Allien. Most true, my lord, 

Leon. The court is now at peace. 
The emperor's sisters are retired for ever. 
And he himself composed ; what hinders then. 
But that we bid adieu to prince Varanesl 

Allien. Ah, sir, why will you break my heart T 

Leon. I would not ; 
Thou art the only comfort of my age ; 



[* The period of Lee's decease has not been hitherto 
ascertained. That he was buried in St. Clement's Danes 
wa.'< a clue to the period, and searching the Burial «(>gisl«r 
there the other day, for some assistance, we found the fol- 
k iwing entry : 

" 6 April, 1692, Nathaniel Lee a man bur."] 
.S52 



liike an old tree I stand among the storms, 
Thou art the only limb that I have left me. 
My dear green branch; and how I prize thee, child, 
Heaven only knows ! Why dost thou kneel and 
weep ■? [hope, 

Alheti. Because you are so good, and will, I 
Forgive my fault, who first occasioned it. [prince. 
Leon. I charged thee to receive and hear the 
Alhen. You did, and, oh, my lord ! I heard too 
much! 
Too much, I fear, for my eternal quiet. 

Leon. Rise, Athenais ! Credit him who bears 
More years than thou: Varanes has deceived thee. 
Athen. How do we differ then ! You judge the 
prince [ness. 

Impious and base ; while I take Heaven to wit- 
I think him the most virtuous of men: 
Therefore, take heed, my lord, how you accuse 

him. 
Before you make the trial. — Alas, Varanes, 
If thou art false, there's no such thing on earth 
As solid goodness or substantial honour. — 
A thousand times, my lord, he has sworn to give me 
(And I believe his oaths) his crown and empire. 
That day I make him master of my heart. 

Leon. That day he'll make thee mistress of his 
power, 
Which carries a foul name among the vulgar. 
No, Athenais ! let me see thee dead, 
Borne a pale corpse, and gently laid in earth. 
So I may say she's chaste, and died a virgin, 
Rather than view thee with these wounded eyes 
Seated upon the throne of Isdigerdes, 



NATHANIEL LEE. 



353 



The blast of common tongues, the nobles' scorn, 
Thy father's curse ; that is, * * 

Jithen,. O horrid supposition ! how I detest it, 
Be witness, Heaven, that sees my secret thoughts ! 
Have I for this, my lord, been taught by you 
The nicestjustice, and severest virtue. 
To fear no death, to know the end of life. 
And, with long search, discern the highest good 7 
No, Athenais ! when the day beholds thee 
So scandalously raised, pride cast thee down. 
The scorn of honour, and the people's prey ] 
No, cruel Leontine, not to redeem 
That aged head from the descending axe, 
Not, though I saw thy trembling body rack'd, 
Thy wrinkles about thee fiU'd with blood, 
Would I for empire to the man I love. 
Be made the object of unlawful pleasure. 

Leon, O greatly said I and by the blood which 
warms me. 
Which runs as rich as any Athens holds. 
It would improve the virtue of the world, 
If every day a thousand votaries. 
And thousand virgins came from far to hear thee. 
jllhen. Look down, ye powers, take notice we 
obey 
The rigid principles ye have infused ! 
Yet oh, ray noble father, to convince you. 
Since you will have it so, propose a marriage ; 
Though with the thought I'm cover'd o'er with 

blushes. 
Not that I doubt the prince, — that were to doubt 
The heavens themselves ; I know he is all truth : 
But modesty, 

The virgin's troublesome and constant guest, 
That, that alone forbids. 

Leon. I wish to heaven 
There prove no greater bar to my belief. 
Behold the prince ; 1 will retire a while, 
And, when occasion calls, come to thy aid. 

[Exit Leon. 
Enter Varanes and Aranthes. 
Vara. To fix her on the throne, to me, seems 
little ; 
Were I a god, yet would I raise her higher, 
This is the nature of thy prince: But, oh ! 
As to the world, thy judgment soars above me, 
And I am dared with this gigantic honour. 
Glory forbids her prospect to a crown. 
Nor must she gaze that way ; my haughty soul. 
That day when she ascends the throne of Cyrus, 
Will leave my body pale, and to the stars 
Retire in blushes, lost, quite lost for ever, 
Jran. What do you purpose, then ] 
Vara. I know not what: 
But, see, she comes, the glory of my arms. 

Enter Athenais. 
The only business of my instant thought. 
My soul's best joy, and all my true repose ! — 
I swear I cannot bear these strange desires. 
These strong impulses, which will shortly leave me 
Dead at thy feet. 

Jihen. What have you found, my lord, 
[n me so harsh or cruel, that you fear 
To speak your griefs 1 
45 



Vara. First let me kneel and swear, 
And on thy hand seal my religious vow. 
Straight let the breath of gods blow me from earth, 
Swept from the book of fame, forgotten ever, 
If I prefer thee not, O Athenais, 
To all the Persian greatness ! 

^. Ae/i. I believe you 
For I have heard you swear as much before, [again ! 
Vara. Hast thoul O why then did I swear 
But that my love knew nothing worthier of thee, 
And could no better way express my passion. 
jithen. O rise, my lord ! 
Vara. I will do every thing 
Which Athenais bids : if there be more 
In nature to convince thee of my love. 
Whisper it, oh some god, into my ear ! 
And on her breasts thus to her listening soul 
I'll breathe the inspiration ! Wilt thou not speak ? 
What, but one sigh, no more ! Can that suffice 
For all my vast expense of prodigal lovel 
Oh, Athenais ! what shall I say or do. 
To gain the thing I wish ] 

.dthen. What's that, my lord I [hold thee. 

Vara. Thus to approach thee still ! thus to be- 
Yet there is more — 

jllhen. My lord, I dare not hear you. 
Vara. Why dost thou frown at what thou dost 
not know 1 
'Tis an imagination which ne'er pierced thee ; 
Yet, as 'tis ravishing, 'tis full of honour. 

Jlhen, I must not doubt you, sir : But oh I 
tremble 
To think if Isdigerdes should behold you, 
Should hear you thus protesting to a maid 
Of no degree, but virtue, in the world' — 

Vara. No more of this, no more ; for I disdain 
All pomp when thou art by ; far be the noise 
Of king and courts from us, whose gentle souls 
Our kinder stars have steer'd another way ! 
Free as the forest-birds, we'll pair together. 
Without remembering who our fathers were ; 
Fly to the arbours, grots, and flow'ry meads, 
And in soft murmurs interchange our souls ; 
Together drink the crystal of the stream. 
Or taste the yellow fruit which autumn yields, 
And when the golden evening calls us home. 
Wing to our downy nest, and sleep till morn. 

Alhen. Ah, prince ; no more ! 
Forbear, forbear to charm me. 
Since I am doomed to leave you, sir, for ever. 
Vara. Hold, Athenais — 
Mhen. I know your royal temper, 
And that high honour reigns within your breast, 
Which would disdain to waste so many hours 
With one of humble blood compared to you. 
Unless strong passion sway'd your thoughts to 

love her; 
Therefore receive, O prince, and take it kindly. 
For none on earth but you could win it from me, 
Receive the gift of my eternal love ! 
'Tis all I can bestow, nor is it little ; 
For sure a heart so coldly chaste as mine. 
No charms but yours, my lord, could e'er have 
warm'd. [comfort 

Vara, Well have you made amends, by this last 
2e2 



364 



NATHANIEL LEE. 



For the cold dart you shot at me before. 
For this last goodness, my Athenais ! 
(For now, methinks, I ought to call you mine,) 
I empty all my soul in thanks before you : 
Yet oh ! one fear remains, like death it chills me; 
Why my relenting love did talk of parting ! 
Mlien. Look there, and cease your wonder ; I 
have sworn 
To obey my father, and he calls me hence. 

Enter Leontine. 
Vara. Ha, Leontine ! by which of all my actions 
Have I so deeply injured thee, to merit 
The smartest wound revenge could form to end me 1 
Leon. Answer me now, oh prince ! for virtue 
prompts me, 
And honesty will dally now no longer : 
What can the end of all this passion be ? 
Glory requires this strict account, and asks 
What you intend at last to Athenais. 

Vara. How, Leontine 1 [loved her ; 

Leon. You saw her, sir, at Athens ; said you 

I charged her humbly to receive the honour, [me 1 

And hear your passion : Has she not, sir, obey'd 

Vara. She has, I thank the gods ! but whither 

would'st thou ? 
Leon. Having resolved to visit Theodosius, 
You swore you would not go without my daughter, 
Whereon I gave command that she should follow. 

Vara. Yes, Leontine, my old remembrancer. 
Most learn'd of all philosophers, you did. 

Leon. Thus long she has attended, you have 
seen her, 
Sounded her virtues and her imperfections ; 
Therefore, dread sir, forgive this bolder charge. 
Which honour sounds, and now let me demand 
you — 
Vara. Now help, Aranthes, or I'm dash'd for 

ever. 
JLran. Whatever happens, sir, disdain the mar- 
riage. 
Leon. Can your high thoughts so far forget 
themselves. 
To admit this humble virgin for your bride ? 
Vara. Ha! 

Athen. He blushes, gods ! and stammers at 
the question. [my lordl 

Leon. Why do you walk, and ihafe yourself, 
The business is not much. 
Vara. How, Leontine ! 
Not much ? I know that she deserves a crown ; 
Yet 'tis to reason much, though not to love ; 
And sure the world would blush to see the daughter 
Of a philosopher on the throne of Cyrus. 
Athen. Undone for ever ! 

Leon. Is this your answer, sir 1 [me to 

Vara. Why dost thou urge me thus, and push 
The viery brink of glory ? where, alas ! 
I look and tremble at the vast descent: 
Yet even there, to the vast bottom down. 
My rash adventurous love would have me leap, 
And grasp my Athenais with my ruin. 
Leon. 'Tis well, my lord. 
Vara. Why dost thou thus provoke me 1 
I thought that Persia's court had store of honour 



To satisfy the height of thy ambition. 
Besides, old man, my love is too well grown, 
To want a tutor for his good behaviour; 
What he will do, he will do of himself, 
And not be taught by you. — 

Leon. I know he will not : 
Fond tears, away ! I know, I know he will not; 
But he would buy with his old man's preferment 
My daughter * * * * 

Vara. Away, I say, my soul disdains the motion ! 

Leon. The motion of a marriage ; yes, I see it; 
Your angry looks and haughty words betray it : 
I found it at the first. I thank you, sir. 
You have at least rewarded your old tutor 
For all his cares, his watchings, services ; 
Yet, let me tell you, sir, this humble maid, 
This daughter of a poor philosopher. 
Shall, if she please, be seated on a throne 
As high as that of the immortal Cyrus. 

Vara. I think that age and deep philosophy 
Have crack'd thy brain : Farewell, old Leontine, 
Retire to rest ; and when this brawling humour 
Is rock'd asleep, I'll meet my Athenais, 
And clear the accounts of love, which thou hast 
blotted. [Exit. 

Leon. Old Leontine ! perhaps I am mad indeed. 
But hold, my heart, and let that solid virtue. 
Which I so long adored, still keep the reins. 

Athenais ! But I will not chide thee : 
Fate is in all our actions, and, methinks. 
At least a father judges so, it has 
Rebuked thee smartly for thy easiness : 

There is a kind of mournful eloquence [sorrow. 

In thy dumb grief, which shames all clamorous 

Athen, Alas! my breast is full of death; methinks 

1 fear even you — 

Leon. Why shouldst thou fear thy father? 

Athen. Because you have the figure of a man ! 
Is there, O speak, a possibility 
To be forgiven 1 

Leon. Thy father does forgive thee, 
And honour will ; but on this hard condition. 
Never to see him more — 

Athen. See him ! Oh heavens ! 

Leon. Unless it be, my daughter, to upbraid 
him: 
Not though he should repent and straight return, 
Nay, profler thee his crown — No more of that. 
Honour too cries revenge, revenge thy wrongs ; 
Revenge thyself, revenge thy injured father; 
For 'tis revenge so wise, so glorious too, 
As all the world shall praise. 

Athen. O give me leave. 
For yet I am all tenderness : the woman. 
The weak, t*he mild, the fond, the coward woman, 
Dares not look forth ; but runs about my breast. 
And visits all the warmer mansions there. 
Where she so oft has harbour'd false Varanes ! 
Cruel Varanes ! false, forsworn Varanes ! 

Leon. Is this forgetting him 1 Is this the course 
Which honour bids thee take ? 

A:hen. Ah, sir, allow 
A little time for love to make his way ; 
Hardly he won the place, and many sighs, 
And many tears, and thousand oaths it cost him ; 



HENRY VAUGHAN. 



355 



And, oh ! I find he will not be dislodged 
Without a groan at parting hence for ever. 
No, no ! he vows he will not yet be razed 
Without whole floods of grief at his farewell, 
Which thus I sacrifice ! and oh, I swear, 
Had he proved true, I would as easily 
Have emptied all my blood, and died to serve 

him, 
As now I shed these drops, or vent these sighs, 
To show how well, how perfectly I loved him. 
Leon. No woman sure, but thou, so low in for- 
tune. 
Therefore the nobler is thy fair example, 



Would thus have grieved, because a prince adored 
Nor will it be believed in after times, [her- 

That there was ever such a maid in being ; 
Yet do I still advise, preserve thy virtue ; 
And since he does disdain thee for his bride, 

Scorn thou to be 

Athen. Hold, sir, oh hold, forbear. 

For my nice soul abhors the very sound ; 
Yet with the shame of that, and the desire 
Of an immortal 'name, I am inspired : 
All kinder thoughts are fled for ever from me, 
All tenderness, as if I ne'er had loved, 
Has left my bosom colder than the grave. 



THOMAS SHADWELL. 



[Born, 1640. DM, 1692.] 



Thomas Shadtvell, the laureate of William 
HI. and the Mac Flecknoe of Dryden, was born 
1640, and died 1692. Rochester said of him, 
that if he had burnt all he wrote, and printed all 



he spoke, he would have had more wit and hu 
mour than any other poet. He left seventeen 
plays, besides other poems.* 



FROM " THE RAPE, OR INNOCENT IMPOSTORS.' 
How long must women wish in vain 

A constant love to find ? 
No art can fickle man retain, 

Or fix a roving rnind. 
Yet fondly we ourselves deceive, 

And empty hopes pursue : 
Though false to others, we believe 

They will to us prove true. 



But oh ! the torment to discern 

A perjured lover gone ; 
And yet by sad experience learn 

That we must still love on. 

How strangely are we fool'd by fate. 

Who tread the maze of love; 
When most desirous to retreat, 
• We know not how to move. 



HENRY YAUGHAN. 



[Born, 1621. Died, 1695.] 



Henry Vaughan was a Welsh gentleman, 
born on the banks of the Uske, in Brecknock- 
shire, who was bred to the law, but relinquished 
it for the profession of physic. He is one of the 



harshest even of the inferior order of the school 
of conceit ; but he has some few scattered thoughts 
that meet our eye amidst his harsh pages, like 
wild flowers on a barren heath. 



EARLY RISING AND PRAYER. 

FROM "SaEX SCINTILLI.^NS, OR S.4CRED POEMS." 

When first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul leave 

To do the like; our bodies but forerun 

The spirit's duty: true hearts spread and heave 

Unto their God as flowers do to the sun; 

Give him thy first thoughts then, so shalt thou keep 

Him company nil day, and in him sleep. 

Yet never sleep the sun up ; prayer should 
Dawn with the day : there are set awful hours 
'Twixt heaven and us ; the manna was not good 
After sun-rising ; far day sullies flowers : 
Rise to prevent the sun ; sleep doth sins glut, 
And heaven's g^e opens when the world's is shut. 



Walk with thy fellow-creatures : note the hush 
And whisperings amongst them. Not a spring 
Or leaf but hath his morning hymn; each bush 

And oak doth know I am Canst thou not sing 1 

O leave thy cares and follies ! go this way, 
And thou art sure to prosper all the day. 

Serve God before the world : let him not go 
Until thou hast a blessing; then resign 
The whole unto him, and remember who 
Prevail'd by wrestling ere the sun did shine : 



[* Nalium Tate, of all my predeceFSors, must have ranked 
the lowest rf the laurenti'S. if he had not succeeded ?hu»l- 
well. Southey's Life of Ouwper, vol. ii. p. 112.] 



Pour oil upon the stones, weep for thy sin, 
Then journey on, and have an eye to heaven. 

Mornings are mysteries : the first, world's youth, 
Man's resurrection, and the future's bud. 
Shroud in their births ; the crown of life, light, 

truth. 
Is styled their star ; the stone and hidden food : 
Three blessings wait upon them, one of which 
Should move — they make us holy, happy, rich. 

When the world's up and every swarm abroad. 
Keep well thy temper, mix not with each clay ; 
Despatch necessities ; life hath a load 
Which must be carried on, and safely may : 
Yet keep those cares without thee ; let the heart 
Be God's alone, and choose the better part. 



THE TIMBER. 

FROM THE SAME. 

SuKE thou didst flourish once, and niany springs, 
Many bright mornings, much dew, many show- 
ers, 

Pass'd o'er thy head; many light hearts and wings. 
Which are now dead, lodged in thy living towers. 

And still a new succession sings and flies, [shoot 
Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches 

Toward the old and still enduring skies. 
While the low violet thrives at their root. 



THE RAINBOW. 

FROM THE SAME. 

Still young and fine, but what is still in view 
We slight as old and soil'd, though fresh and new. 
How bright wert thou when Shem's admiring eye 
Thy burnish'd flaming arch did first descry ; 



When Zerah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot, 
The youthful world's gray fathers, in one knot 
Did with intentive looks watch every hour 
For thy new light, and trembled at each shower ! 
When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and 

fair; 
Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air ; 
Rain gently spends his honey-drops, and pours 
Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers. 
Bright pledge of peace and sunshine, the sure tie 
Of thy I^ord's hand, the object* of his eye ! 
When I behold thee, though my light be dim. 
Distant and low, I can in thine see him, 
Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne, 
And minds the covenant betwixt all and One. 



THE WREATH. (TO THE REDEEMER.) 

FROM THE SAME. 

Since I in storms most used to be, 

And seldom yielded flowers, 
How shall I get a wreath for thee 

From those rude barren hours 1 

The softer dressings of the spring, 

Or summer's later store, 
I will not for thy temples bring. 

Which thorns, not roses, wore: 

But a twined wreath of grief and praise 

Praise soil'd with tears, and tears again 
Shining with joy, like dewy days. 

This day I bring for all thy pain. 
Thy causeless pain ; and as sad death, 

Which sadness breeds in the most vain, 
O not in vain ! now beg thy breath, 
Thy quick'ning breath, which gladly bears 

Through saddest clouds to that glad pla^e 
Where cloudless quires sing without tears, 

Sing thy just praise, and see thy face. 



JOHN DRYDEN. 



[Born, 1C31. Died, 1700.] 



CHARACTER OF SHAFTESBURY. 

FROM " ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL." 

Of these the false Achitophel was first, 

A name to all succeeding ages curst: 

For close designs, and crooked counsels fit ; 

Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit ; 

Restless, unfix'd, in principles and place ; 

In power unpleased, impatient of disgrace : 

A fiery soul, which working out its way. 

Fretted the pigmy body to decay. 

And o'er inform'd the tenement of clay. 

A daring pilot in extremity ; [high, 

Picased with the danger when the waves went 



He sought the storms ; but for a calm unfit, 
Would steer too nigh the sands to boast his wit. 
Great wits are sure to madness near allied, 
And thin partitions do their bounds divide ; 
Else why should he, with wealth and honour 
Refuse his age the needful hours of rest ? [blest, 
Punish a body which he could not please ; 
Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of easel 
And all to leave what with his toil he won, 
To that unfeather'd two-legg'd thing, a son ; 
Got while his soul did huddled notions try, 
And born a shapeless lump, Hke anarchy. 

* Gen. cU. ix. rer. 16» 



JOHN DRYDEN. 



357 



In friendship false, implacable in hate; 
Resolved to ruin, or to rule the state. 
To compass this the triple boml he broke, 
The pillars of the public safety shook. 
And fitted Israel for a foreign yoke ; 
Then sezied with fear, yet still afl'ecting fame, 
Usurp'd a patriot's all-atoning name. 
So easy still it proves in factious times, 
With public zeal to cancel private crimes. 
How safe is treason, and how sacred ill. 
Where none can sin against the people's will ! 
Where crowds can wink, and no offence be known, 
Since in another's guilt they find their own ! 
Yet fame deserved no enemy can grudge ; 
The statesman we abhor, but praise the judge. 
In Israel's courts ne'er sat an Abelhdin 
With more discerning eyes, or hands more clean, 
Unbribed, unsought, the wretched to redress; 
Swift of despatch, and easy of access. 
Oh ! had he been content to serve the crown. 
With virtues only proper to the gown ; 
Or had the rankness of the soil been freed 
From cockle, that oppress'd the noble seed ; 
David for him his tuneful harp had strung. 
And heaven had wanted one immortal song. 
But wild ambition loves to slide, not stand, 
And fortune's ice prefers to virtue's land.* 
Achitophel, grown weary to possess 
A lawful fame, and lazy happiness, 
Disdain'd the golden fruit to gather free. 
And lent the crowd his arm to shake the tree. 



CHARACTER OF GEORGE VILLTERS, THE SECOND 
DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. 

FROM THE SAME. 

Some of their chiefs were princes of the land ; 
In the first rank of these did Zimri stand: 
A man so various, that he seem'd to be 
Not one, but all mankind's epitome: 
Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong; 
Was every thing by starts, and nothing long; 
But, in the course of one revolving moon, 
Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon : 
Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking. 
Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking. 
Blest madman, who could every hour employ 
With something new to wish, or to enjoy ! 
Raising and praising were his u.sual themes. 
And both to show his judgment, in extremes; 
So over violent, or over civil, 
That every man with him was God or Devil, 
In squandering wealth was his peculiar art; 
Nothing went unrewarded but desert. 

[* This List couplet i.s borrowed from some lines under 
a portrait of the Sultan Mustapha I., before Kuolles' His- 
tory of the Turks : 

Greatnesse on gootlnesse loves to slide, not stand, 
And fortune's ice prefers to virtue's land.] 

ft The character of Zimri in my Absalom is in my opi 
nion worth the whole poem: it is not bloody, hut it is 
ridiculous enough : and he for whom it was intended was 
too witty to resent it as an injury. If 1 had railed, I 
might have suffered for it justly: but I managed my own 



Beggar'd by fools, whom still he found too late; 
He had his jest, and they had his estate. 
He laugh'd himself from court, then sought relie' 
By forming parties, but could ne'er be chief; 
For spite of him the weight of business fell 
On Absalom and wise Achitophel : 
Thus, wicked but in will, of means berefl, 
He left not faction, but of that was left.^ 



CHARACTER OF DOEG, OR ELKANAH SETTLE. 

FROM THE SAME. 

DoEG, though without knowing how or why. 

Made still a blundering kind of melody ; [thin, 

Spurr'd boldly on, and dash'd through thick and 

Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in ; 

Free from all meaning, whether good or bad. 

And, in one word, heroically mad : 

He was too warm on picking-work to dwell. 

But fagoted his notions as they fell. 

And if they rhymed and rattled, all was well. 

Spiteful he is not, though he wrote a satire : 

For still there goes some thinking to ill nature : 

He needs no more than l>irds and beasts to think, 

All his occasions are to eat and drink. 

If he call rogue and rascal from a garret, 

He means you no more mischief than a parrot : 

The words for friend and foe alike were made. 

To fetter them in verse is all his trade. 

For almonds he'll cry whore to his own mother. 

And call young Absalom king David's brother. 

Let him be gallows-free by my consent, 

And nothing suffer, since he nothing meant; 

Hanging supposes human soul and reason, 

This animal's below committing treason : 

Shall he be hangd who never could rebel '' 

That's a preferment for Achitophel. 



CHARACTER OF OG, OR SHADWELL.J 

FROM THE SAME. 

Og from a treason-tavern rolling home, 
Round as a globe, and liquor'd every chink, 
Goodly and great he sails behind his link; 
With all this bulk there's nothing lost in Og, 
For every inch that is not fool is rogue : 
A monstrous mass of foul corrupted matter. 
As all the devils had spew'd to make the batter. 
When wine has given him courage to blaspheme. 
He curses God — but God before cursed him ; 
And, if man could have reason, none has more. 
That made his paunch so rich, and him so poor. 
With wealth he was not trusted, for Heaven knew 
What 'twas of old to pamper up a Jew; 

work more happily, perhaps more dexterously. I avoided 
the mention ut ure.t crimes, and applied my.self to the 
representing of blind-sides and litt e extravagancies: to 
which the wictier a man is, he is generally the more 
oliiio\ious. It succeeded a.s 1 wished ; the jest wont round, 
and he was laughed at in his turn, who began the frolic. — 
Dryden.] 

[t Shadwell was very fiit — " more fat than bard beset ms :" 
and hence the ludicrous propriety of the name. Og is tlrr 
Scripture King that ruled over the fat bulls of Basan.] 



358 



JOHN DRYDEN. 



To what would he on quail and pheasant swell, 
That e'en on tripe and carrion could rebel 1 
But though Heaven made him poor, with reve- 
rence speaking, 
He never was a poet of God s making ; 
The midwife laid her hand on his thick skull. 
With this prophetic blessing — Be thou dull: 
Drink, swear, and roar, forbear no lewd delight 
Fit for thy bulk, do any thing but write : 
Thou art of lasting make, like thoughtless men, 
A strong nativity — but for the pen ! 
Eat opium, mingle arsenic in thy drink, 
Still tliou mayst live, avoiding pen and ink. 
I see, I see, 'tis counsel given in vain, 
For treason botch'd in rhyme will be thy bane; 
Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck, 
'Tis fatal to thy fame and to thy neck : 
Why should thy metre good king David blast? 
A jisalm of his will surely be thy last. 



ODE TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. ANNE 
KILLIGKEW* , 

Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies. 
Made in the last promotion of the blest ; 
Whose palms, new pluck'd from paradise, 
In spreading branches more sublimely rise, 
Rich with immortal green, above the rest: 
Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star 
Thou roll'st above us, in thy wand'ring race, 

Or, in procession fix'd and regular, 

Mov'st with the heaven's majestic pace ; 

Or, call'd to more superior bliss. 
Thou treadst, with seraphims, the vast abyss: 
Whatever happy region is thy place. 
Cease thy celestial song a little space ; 
Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine. 

Since heaven's eternal year is thine. 
Hear then a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse. 

In no ignoble verse ; 
But such as thy own voice did practise here, 
When thy first fruits of poesy were given ; 
I'o make thyself a welcome inmate there : 
While yet a young probationer. 
And candidate of heaven. 

If by traduction came thy mind. 

Our wonder is the less to find 
A soul so charming from a stock so good; 
Thy father was transfused into thy blood: 
So wert thou born into a tuneful strain, 
An early, rich, and inexhausted vein. 

But if thy pre-existing soul 

Was form'd, at first, with myriads more, 
It did through all the mighty poets roll, 

Who Greek or Latin laurels wore, [before. 
And was that Sappho last, which once it was 

If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind ! 

Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore: 



[* When Dryden wrote, the word Miss wa^i applied to 
ladieo of loose character: at a later time Sir Joshua Rey- 
nolds's .ei.-ter. thou;ih unm:irried. was Mrs. Reynolds: aiid 
iJarneirs virijin-bride is called, by Dr. JohuBOU, Mrs. Anne 
»liiicbiu.J 



Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find, 

Than was the beauteous frame she left behind ! 
Return to fill or mend thechoirof thy celestial kind. 
* * * * 

O gracious God ! how far have we 
Profaned thy heavenly gift of pc-esy T 
Made prostitute and profligate tne Muse, 
Debased to each obscene and impious use, 
Whose harmony was first ordain'd above 
For tongues of angels, and for hymns of lovcl 
O wretched we ! why were we hurried down 

This lubrique and adulterate age, 
(Nay, added fat pollutions of our own) 

T' increase the streaming ordures of the stage ?f 
What can we say t' excuse our second fall 1 
Let this thy vestal. Heaven, atone for all : 
Her Arethusian stream remains unsoil'd, 
Unmix 'd with foreign filth, and undefiied ; 
Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child. 

* * * * 

When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound. 

To raise the nations under ground ; 

When in the valley of Jehoshaphat, 
The judging God shall close the book of fate ; 

And there the last assizes keep, 

For those who wake, and those who sleep : 
The sacred poets first shall hear the sound. 

And foremost from the tomb shall bound. 
For they are cover'd with the lightest ground ; 
And straight, with in-born vigour, on the wing. 
Like mounting larks, to the new morning sing. 
There thou, sweet Saint, before the quire shall go, 
As harbinger of heaven, the way to show. 
The way which thou so well hast learnt below. 



DESCRIPTION OF LYCURGUS KING OF THRACE, 
AND OF EMETRIUS KING OF INDE. 

FROM THE FABLE OF " PALAMOX AND ARCITE." 

A HUNDRED knights with Palamon there came, 
Approved in fight, and men of mighty name; 
Their arms were several, as their nations were, 
But furnish'd ail alike with sword and spear. 
Some wore coat armour, imitating scale ; 
And next their skins were stubborn shirts of mail. 
Some wore a breast-plate and a light juppon. 
Their horses clothed with rich caparison : 
Some for defence would leathern bucklers use, 
Of folded hides ; and other shields of pruce. 
One hung a pole-axe at his saddle-bow. 
And one a heavy mace to shun the foe ; 
One for his legs and knees provided well. 
With jambeux arm'd, and double plates of steel 
This on his helmet wore a lady's glove. 
And that a sleeve embroider'd by his love. 
With Palamon above the rest in place, 
Lycurgus came, the surly king of Thrace ; 
Black was his beard, and manly was his face ; 



[t"I know not," says Southey in his Life of Cow- 
per, "that Dryden ever regarded the licentiousness of his 
Dramatic Works as a sin to be repentetl of." This beautiful 
pa-'sasre. which was written before Collier exposed the 
obscenities of the stage, has been unnoticed by the poet's 
biographers ; he expresses his regret too fervently tt be 
iusiacere.] 



JOHN DRYDEN. 



359 



The balls of his broatl eyes roU'd in his head, 

And glared betwixt a yellow and a red ; 

He look'd a lion, with a gloomy stare, 

And o'er his eye-brows hung his matted hair: 

Big-boned, and large of limbs, with sinews strong, 

Broad-shoulder'd, and his arms were round and 

long. 
Four milk-white bulls (the Thracian use of old) 
Were yoked to draw his car of burnish'd gold. 
Upright he stood, and bore aloft his shield, 
Conspicuous from afar, and overlook'd the field. 
His surcoat was a bear-skin on his back; 
His hair hung long behind, and glossy raven black. 
His ample forehead bore a coronet 
With sparkling diamonds, and with rubies set: 
Ten brace, and more, of greyhounds, snowy fair, 
And tall as stags, ran loose, and coursed around 

his chair, [bear; 

A match for pards in flight, in grappling tor the 
With golden muzzles all their mouths were bound, 
And collars of the same their necks surround. 
Thus through the fields Lycurgus took his way ; 
His hundred knights attend in pomp and proud 

array. 
To match this monarch, with strong Arcite came 
Emctrius king of Inde, a mighty name, 
On a bay courser, goodly to behold, [gold. 

The trappings of his horse adorn'd with barbarous 
Not Mars bestrode a steed with greater grace ; 
His surcoat o'er his arms was cloth of Thrace, 
Adorn'd with pearls, all orient, round, and great ; 
His saddle was of gold, with emerald set. 
His shoulders large a mantle did attire. 
With rubies thick, and sparkling as the fire: 
His amber-colour'd locks in ringlets run, [sun : 
W^ith graceful negligence, and shone against the 
His nose was aquiline, his eyes were blue, 
Ruddy his lips, and fresh and fair his hue ; 
Some sprinkled freckles on his face were seen. 
Whose dusk setoff the whiteness of the skin : 
His awful presence did the crowd surprise, 
Nor durst the rash spectator meet his eyes, 
Eyes that confess'd him born for kingly sway. 
So fierce, they flash'd intolerable day. 
His a^e in nature's youthful prime appear'd, 
And just began to bloom his yellow beard, 
Whene'er he spoke, his voice was heard around, 
Loud as a trumpet, with a silver sound. 
A laurel wreathed his temples, fresh and green ; 
And myrtle sprigs, the marks of love, were mix'd 

between. 
Upon his fist he bore, for his delight, 
An eagle well reclaim'd, and lily-white. 

His hundred knights attend him to the war. 
All arm'd for battle; save their heads were bare. 
Words and devices blazed on every shield, 
And pleasing was the terror of the field. 
For kings, and dukes, and barons, you might see. 
Like sparkling stars, though different in degree, 
All for th' increase of arms, and love of chivalry. 
Before the king tame leopards led the way. 
And troops of lions innocently play. 
So Bacchus through the conquer'd Indies rode, 
And beasts in gambols frisk'd before the honest 

god. 



PREPARATIONS FOR THE TOURNAMENT. IN 
"PALAMON AND ARCITE." 

In Athens all was pleasure, mirth and play, 
All proper to the spring, and sprightly May ; 
Which every soul inspired with such delight, 
'Twas jesting all the day, and love at night. 
Heaven smiled, and gladded was the heart of man; 
And Venus had the world as when it first began. 
At length in sleep their bodies they compose, 
And dreamt the future fight, and early rose. 

Now scarce the dawning day began to spring. 
As at a signal given, the streets with clamours 

ring: 
At once the crowd arose ; confused and high 
Even from the heaven was heard a shouting cry, 
For Mars was early up, and roused the sky. 
The gods came downward to behold the wars. 
Sharpening their sights, and leaning from their 

stars. 
The neighing of the generous horse was heard, 
For battle by the busy groom prepared, 
Rustling of harness, rattling of the shield, 
Clattering of armour, furbish'd for the field. 
Crowds to the castle mounted up the street. 
Battering the pavement with their coursers' feet 
The greedy sight might there devour the gold 
Of glittering arms, too dazzling to behold; 
And polish'd steel that cast the view aside, 
And crested morions, with their plumy pride. 
Knights, with a long retinue of their squires. 
In gaudy liveries march, and quaint attires. 
One laced the helm, another held the lance, 
A third the shining buckler did advance; 
The courser paw'd the ground with restless feet, 
And snorting foam'd, and champ'd the golden bit. 
The smiths and armourers on palfreys ride, 
Files in their hands, and hammers at their side, 
And nails for loosen'd spears, and thongs for shields 

provide. 
The yeomen guard the streets, in seemly bands: 
And clowns come crowding on with cudgels in 

their hands. 
The trumpets, next the gate, in order placed, 
Attend the sign to sound the martiaf blast ; 
The palace-yard is fill'd with floating tides. 
And the last comers bear the former to the sides. 
The throng is in the midst: the common crew 
Shut out, the hall admits the better few ; 
In knots they stand, or in a rank they walk. 
Serious in aspect, earnest in their talk : 
Factious, and favouring this or t' other side, 
As their strong fancy or weak reason guide: 
Their wagers back their wishes; numbers hold 
With the fair freckled king, and beard of gold. 
So vigorous are his eyes, such rays they cast, 
So prominent his eagle's beak is placed. 
But most their looks on the black monarch bend. 
His rising muscles and his brawn commend; 
His double-biting axe and beamy spear, 
Each asking a gigantic force to rear. 
All spoke as partial favour moved the mind ; 
And, safe themselves, at other's cost divined. 

Waked by the cries, th' Athenian chief arose. 
The knightly forms of combat to dispose ; 



860 



JOHN DRYDEN. 



I nd passing through th' obsequious guards, he sate 
Conspicuous on a throne, sublime in state ; 
There, for the two contending knights he sent; 
Arm'd cap-a-pee, with reverence low they bent. 
He smiled on both, and with superior look 
Alike their offered adoration took. 
The people press on every side, to see 
Their awful prince, and hear his high decree. 
Then signing to their heralds with his hand, 
They gave his orders from their lofty stand. 
Silence is thrice enjoin'd ; then thus aloud 
'J'he king at arms bespeaks the knights and 

listening crowd. 
Our sovereign lord has ponder'd in his mind 
The means to spare the blood of gentle kind ; 
And of his grace, and inborn clemency, 
He modifies his first severe decree ! 
The keener edge of battle to rebate, 
The troops for honour fighting, not for hate. 
He wills not death should terminate their strife ; 
And wounds, if wounds ensue, be short of life; 
But issues, ere the fight his dread command, 
That slings afar, and poniards hand to hand, 
Be banish'd from the field ; that none shall dare 
With shorten'd sword to stab in closer war; 
But in fair combat fight with manly strength, 
Nor push with biting point, but strike at length. 
The tourney is allow'd but one career, 
Of the tough ash, with the sharp-grinded spear, 
But knights unhorsed may rise from ofl" the plain, 
And fight on foot their honour to regain ; 
Nor, if at mischief taken, on the ground 
Be slain, but prisoners to the pillar bound, 
At either barrier placed ; (nor captives made) 
Be freed, or arm'd anew the fight invade. 
The chief of either side, bereft of life. 
Or yielded to his foe, concludes the strife. 
Thus dooms the lord : now valiant knights and 

young 
Fight each his fill with swords and maces long. 

The herald ends ; the vaulted firmament 
With loud acclaims and vast applause is rent : 
Heaven guard a prince so gracious and so good. 
So just, and yet so provident of blood ! 
This was the general cry. The trnmpets sound, 
And warlike symphony is heard around. 
The marching troops through Athens take their 

way, 
The great earl-marshal orders their array. 
The fair from high the passing pomp behold ; 
A rain of flowers is from the windows roll'd, 
The casements are with golden tissue spread, 
And horses' hoofs, for earth, on silken tapestry 

tread ; 
The king goes midmost, and the rivals ride 
In equal rank, and close his either side ; 
Next after these there rode the royal wife, 
With Emily, the cause and the reward of strife. 
The following cavalcade, by three and three. 
Proceed by titles marshall'd in degree. [way, 

Thus through the southern gate they take their 
.\nd at the list arrive ere prime of day. 
There, parting from the king, the chiefs divide, 
And wheeling east and west, before their many 

ride, 



Th' Athenian monarch mounts his throne on high, 
And after him the queen and Emily : 
Next these the kindred of the crown are graced 
With nearer seats, and lords by ladies placed. 
Scarce were they seated, when with clamours 

loud 
In rush'd at once a rude promiscuous crowd ; 
The guards and them each other overbear, 
And in a moment throng the spacious theatre, 
Now changed the jarring noise to whispers low, 
And winds forsaking seas more softly blow ; 
When at the western gate, on which the car 
Is placed aloft, that bears the god of war. 
Proud Arcite entering arm'd before his train, 
Stops at the barrier, and divides the plain. 
Red was his banner, and display'd abroad 
The bloody colours of his patron God. 
At that self-moment enters Palamon 
The gate of Venus, and the rising sun ; 
Waved by the wanton winds, his banner flies 
All maiden white, and shares the people's eyes. 
From east to west, look all the world around, 
Two troops so match'd were never to be found : 
Such bodies built for strength, of equal age, 
In stature fix'd: so proud an equipage: 
The nicest eye could no distinction make. 
Where lay th' advantage, or what side to take. 



FROM "CTMON AND IPIIIGEXIA." 
In that sweet isle where Venus keeps her court, 
And every Grace, and all the Loves, resort; 
Where either sex is form'd of softer earth. 
And takes the bent of pleasure from their birth ; 
There lived a Cyprian lord, above the rest 
Wise, wealthy, with a numerous issue bless'd ; 
But as no gift of fortune is sincere, 
Was only wanting in a worthy heir ; 
His eldest born, a goodly yoiith to view, 
Excell'd the rest in siiape and outward show, 
Fair, tall, his limbs with due proportion join'd, 
But of a heavy, dull, degenerate mind. 
His soul belied the features of his face ; 
Beauty was there, but beauty in disgrace. 
A clownish mien, a voice with rustic sound, 
And stupid eyes that ever loved the ground. 
He look'd like nature's error, as the mind 
And body were not of a piece design'd. 
But made for two, and by mistake in one were 
joined. 

The ruling rod, the father's forming care, 
Were exercised in vain on wit's despair; 
The more inform'd the less he understood, 
And deeper sunk by floundering in the mud. 
Now scorn'd of all, and grown the public shame. 
The people from Galesus changed his name, 
And Cymon call'd, which signifies a brute, 
So well his name did with his nature suit. 

His father, when he found his labour lost, 
And care employ'd that answer'd not the cost, 
Chose an ungrateful object to remove. 
And loathed to see what nature made him love; 
So to his country farm the fool confined ; 
Rude work well suited with a rustic mind. 



JOHN DRYDEN. 



861 



Thus to the wilds the sturdy Cymon went, 

A squire among the swains, and pleased with 

banishment. 
His corn and cattle were his only care, 
And his supreme delight, a country fair. 

It happen'd on a summer's holiday, 
That to the green-wood shade he took his way ; 
For Cymon shunn'd the church, and used not 

much to pray. 
His quarter-staff, which he could ne'er forsake, 
Hung half before, and half behind his back. 
He trudged along, unknowing what he sought, 
And whistled as he went for want of thought. 

By chance conducted, or by thirst constrain'd, 
The deep recesses of the grove he gain'd ; 
Where, in a plain defended by the wood. 
Crept through the matted grass a crystal flood, 
By which an alabaster fountain stood; 
And on the margin of the fount was laid 
(Attended by her slaves) a sleeping maid. 
Like Dian and her nymphs, when tired with sport, 
To rest by cool Eurotas they resort : 
The dame herself the goddess well express'd, 
Not more distinghish'd by her purple vest, 
Than by the charming features of her face, 
And ev'n in slumber a superior grace : 
Her comely limbs composed with decent care. 
Her body shaded with a slight cymar; 
Her bosom to the view was only bare, 
"Where two beginning paps were scarcely spied, 
For yet their places were but signified. 
The fanning wind upon her bosom blows, 
To meet the fanning wind the bosom rose ; 
The fanning wind, and purling streams, continue 

her repose. 
The fool of nature stood with stupid eyes, 
And gaping mouth, that testified surprise, 
Fix'd on her face, nor could remove his sight. 
New as he was to love, and novice to delight : 
Long mute he stood, and leaning on his staff, 
His wonder witness'd with an idiot laugh; 
Then would have spoke, but by hisglimmeringsense 
First found his want of words, and fear'd offence : 
Doubted for what he was he should be known. 
By his clown accent, and his country tone. 
Through the rude chaos thus the running light 
8hot the first ray that pierced the native night ; 
Then day and darkness in the mass were mix'd, 
Tdl gather'd in a globe the beams were fix'd. 
Last shone the sun, who, radiant in his sphere, 
Illumined heaven and earth, and roU'd around 

the year. 
So reason in his brutal soul began, 
Love made him first suspect he was a man ; 
Love made him doubt his broad barbarian sound ; 
By love his want of words and wit he found; 
That sense of want prepared the future way 
To knowledge, and disclosed the promise of a day. 



FROM "THE FLOWEK AXD THE LEAF." 
Attending long in vain, I took the way. 
Which through a path but scarcely printed lay; 
In narrow mazes oft it seem'd to meet. 
And look'd as lightly press'd by fairy feet. 



Wandering I walk'd alone, for still methought 
To some strange end so strange a path was 

wrought : 
At last it led me where an arbour stood. 
The sacred receptacle of the wood: 
This place unmark'd, though oft I walk'd the 

green, 
In all my progress I had never seen ; 
And, seized at once with wonder and delight, 
Gazed all around me, new to the transporting 

sight. 
'Twas benc-h'd with turf, and goodly to be seen 
The thick young grass arose in fresher green : 
The mound was newly made, no sight could pas* 
Betwixt the nice partitions of the grass, 
The well-united sods so closely lay. 
And all around the shades defended it from day ; 
For sycamores with eglantine were spread, 
A hedge about the sides, a covering over head. 
And so the fragrant brier was wove between. 
The sycamore and flowers were mix'd with green. 
That nature seem'd to vary the delight. 
And satisfied at once the smell and sight. 
The master workman of the bower was known 
Through fairy lands, and built for Oberon ; 
Who twining leaves with such proportion drew, 
They rose by measure, and by rule they grew; 
No mortal tongue can half the beauty tell. 
For none but hands divine could work so well. 
Both roof and sides were like a parlour made, 
A soft recess, and a cool summer shade; 
The hedge was set so thick, no foreign eye 
The persons placed within it could espy ; 
But all that pass'd without with ease was seen, 
As if nor fence nor tree was placed between. 
'Twas border'd with a field ; and some was plain 
With grass, and some was sow'd with rising grain, 
That (now the dew with spangles deck'd the 

ground) 
A sweeter spot of earth was never found. 
I look'd and look'd, and still with new delight. 
Such joy my soul, such pleasures fill'd my sight; 
And the fresh eglantine exhaled a breath, 
Whose odours were of power to raise from death. 
Nor sullen discontent, nor anxious care, 
Ev'n though brought thither, could inhabit there; 
But thence they fled as from their mortal foe. 
For this sweet place could only pleasure know. 

Thus as I mused, I cast aside my eye. 
And saw a medlar-tree was planted nigh; 
The spreading branches made a goodly show. 
And full of opening blooms was every bough : 
A goldfinch there I saw with gaudy pride 
Of painted plumes, that hopp'd from side to side. 
Still pecking as she pass'd, and still she drew 
The sweets from every flower, and suck'd the 

dew; 
Sufficed at length, she warbled in her throat. 
And tuned her voice to many a merry note. 
But indistinct, and neither sweet nor clear. 
Yet such as soolh'd my soul, and pleased my ear. 

Her short performance was no sooner tried, 
When she I sought, the nightingale, repLed: 
So sweet, so shrill, so variously she sung, 
That the grove echoed, and the valleys rung ; 



862 



JOHN DRYDEN. 



And I so ravish'd with her heavenly note, 

I stood intranced, and had no room for thought, 

But, all o'er-power'd with ecstasy of bliss. 

Was in a pleasing dream of paradise. 

At length I waked, and, looking round the bower, 

Search'd every tree, and pried on every flower, 

If anywhere by chance I might espy 

The rural poet of the melody, 

For still methought she sung not far away ; 

At last I found her on a laurel f^pray. 

Close by my side she sat, and fair in sight, 

Full in a line against her opposite ; 

Where stood with eglantine the laurel twined, 

And both their native sweets were well conjoin'd. 

On the green bank I sat, and listen'd long, 
(Sitting was more convenient for the song) 
Nor till her lay was ended could I move. 
But wish'd to dwell for ever in the grove ; 
Only methought the time too swiftly pass'd, 
And every note I fear'd would be the last. 
My sight, and smell, and hearing, were employ'd, 
And all three senses in full gust enjoy'd; 
And what alone did all the rest surpass. 
The sweet possession of the fairy place : 
Single, and conscious to myself alone 
Of pleasures to the excluded world unknown; 
Pleasures which nowhere else were to be found, 
And all Elysium in a spot of ground. 

Thus while I sat intent to see and hear. 
And drew perfumes of more than vital air. 
All suddenly I heard th' approaching sound 
Of vocal music, on the enchanted ground ; 
An host of saints it seem'd, so full the quire, 
As if the bless'd above did all conspire 
To join their voices, and neglect the lyre. 
At length there issued from the grove behind 
A. fair assembly of the female kind; 
A train less fair, as ancient fathers tell, 
Seduced the sons of heaven to rebel. 
I pass their form, and every charming grace. 
Less than an angel would their worth debase; 
But their attire, like liveries of a kind 
All rich and rare, is fresh within my mind : 
In velvet white as snow the troop was gown'd. 
The seams with sparkling emeralds set around; 
Their hoods and sleeves the same, and purfled o'er 
With diamonds, pearls, and ail the shining store 
Of eastern pomp; their long descending train, 
With rubies edged, and sapphires, swept the 

plain ; 
High on their heads, with jewels richly set. 
Each lady wore a radiant coronet. 
Beneath the circles, all the quire was graced 
With chaplets green on their fair foreheads 

placed ; 



Of laurel some, of woodbine many more, 
And wreaths of Agnus castus others bore : 
These last, who with those virgin crowns were 

dress'd, 
Appear'd in higher honour than the rest. 
They danced around ; but in the midst was seen 
A lady of a more majestic mien. 
By stature and by beauty mark'd their sovereign 

queen. 
She in the midst began with sober grace ; 
Her servants' eyes were fix'd upon her face, 
And, as she moved or turn'd, her motions view'd. 
Her measures kept, and step by step pursued. 
Methought she trod the ground with greatei 

grace, 
With more of godhead shining in her face ; 
And as in beauty she surpass'd the quire, 
So, nobler than the rest, was her attire. 
A crown of ruddy gold inclosed her brow. 
Plain without pomp, and rich without a show; 
A branch of Agnus castus in her hand 
She bore aloft (her sceptre of command :) 
Admired, adored by all the circling crowd. 
For wheresoe'er she turn'd her face, they bow'd: 
And as she danced, a roundelay she sung. 
In honour of the laurel, ever young : 
She raised her voice on high, and sung so clear. 
The fawns came scudding from the groves to 

hear : 
And all the bending forest lent an ear. 
At every close she maile, th' attending throng 
Replied, and bore the burden of the song: 
So just, so small, yet in so sweet a note. 
It seem'd the music melted in the throat. 

Thus dancing on, and singing as they danced, 
They to the middle of the mead advanced, 
Till round my arbour a new ring they made, 
And footed it about the secret shade. 
O'erjoy'd to see the jolly troop so near. 
But somewhat awed, I shook with holy fear; 
Yet not so much, but that I noted well 
Who did the most in song or dance excel. 



UPOX THE EARL OF DUNDEE. 

FROM THE lATW OF DR. PITCAiaN. 

O LAST and best of Scots ! who didst maintain 
Thy country's freedom from a foreign reign ; 
New people fill the land now thou art gone, 
New gods the temples, and new kings the throne. 

[ Scotland and thee did each in other live; 

I Nor wouldst thou her, nor could she thee, suivive. 
Farewell, who dying didst support the stale, 

I And couldst not fall but with thy country's fate. 



SIR CHARLES SEDLEY. 



[Born, 1639. Died, 1701.) 



Sir Chables Seblet in his riper years made 
some atonement for the disgraces of a licentious 
youth, by his political conduct in opposing the 
arbitrary measures of James, and promoting the 
Revolution. King James had seduced his 
daughter, and made her Countess of Dorchester. 
"For making my daughter a countess," said 
Sedley, " I have helped to make his daughter a 



queen." When his comedy of Bellamiia was 
played, the roof fell in, and he was one of the 
very few that were hurt by the accident. A 
flatterer told him that the fire of the play had 
blown up the poet, house, and all. " No," he 
replied, "the play was so heavy that it broke 
down the house, and buried the poet in his own 
rubbish." 



SONG IN "BELLAMIRA, OR THE MISTRESS.' 
Thyrsis, unjustly you complairt, 

And tax my tender heart 
With want of pity for your pain, 
Or sense of your desert. 

By secret and mysterious springs, 

Alas! our passions move; 
We women are fantastic things. 

That like before we love. 

You may be handsome and have wit, 

Be secret and well bred : 
The person love must to us fit, 

He only can succeed. 

Some die, yet never are believed ; 

Others we trust too soon, 
Helping ourselves to be deceived, 

And proud to be undone. 



TO A VERY YOUNG LADY. 
Ah Chloris! that I now could sit 

As unconcern'd, as when 

Your infant beauty could beget 

No pleasure, nor no pain. 

When I the dawn used to admire, 
And praised the coming day ; 

I little thought the growing fire 
Must take my rest away. 

Your charms in harmless childhood 
Like metals in the mine, 

Age from no face took more away, 
Than youth conceal'd in thine. 



[* From "the Mulberry Garden, a comrdv written by 
the Honourable Sir Charles Sedley." 4t j. 16i 8, This fong 
is (ommjnly printed as the production of '-the Right 
nondurable Duncan Forbes, Lord I'resi^lent of the Court 
of Session," and is paid to have been compjfed in 1710. 
8ee .Motherwellg Ancient Minstrelsy, p. C6; and another 
Editor of Old Songs has said that these "tender and pa- 
thmic stanzas were a«idrcs-cd to Miss Mary Rose, the ele- 
gant and accomplished daughter of Hugh Hose, Esq. of 



But as your charms insensibly 
To their perfection prest, 

Fond Love, as unperceived did fly. 
And in my bosom rest. 

My passion with your teauty grew. 

And Cupid at my heart, 
Still as his mother favour'd you. 

Threw a new flaming dart. 

Each gloried in their wanton part. 

To make a lover, he 
Employ'd the utmost of his art. 

To make a Beauty, she. 

Though now I slowly bend to love 

Uncertain of my fate, 
If your fair self my chains approve 

I shall my freedom hate. 

Lovers, like dying men, may well 

At first disorder'd be, 
Since none alive can truly tell 

What fortune they must see.* 



SONG. 



Love still has something of the sea, 
From whence his mother rose ; 

No time his slaves from doubt can frte. 
Nor give their thoughts repose. 

They are becalni'd in clearest days. 
And in rough weather toss'd; 

They wither under cold delays, 
Or are in tempests lost. 



Kllravock." Ritson commences his collection of English 
Songs with Sedley'sTcrfes; both Hitson and Park were 
ignorant of their Author; and Mr. Chambers, in his .Scot- 
tish Songs, starts with it as a genuine production of old 
Scotland! Burns hns acribed it to Sir Peter Halket, of 
Pitferran. Forbes vr-.'.s born in 1685, .seventeen years after 
the appearance of Setlley's comedy. — See Songs of Enyland 
and , Gotland, vol. i. p. 122,] 

363 



864 



JOHN POMFRET. 



One while they seem to touch the port, 
Then straight into the main 

Some angry wind, in cruel sport, 
The vessel drives again. 

At first Disdain and Pride they fear, 
Which if they chance to 'scape, 

Rivals and Falsehood soon appear, 
In a more cruel shape. 

By such degrees to joy they come, 
And are so long withstood ; 

So slowly they receive the sum, 
It hardly does them good. 

'Tis cruel to prolong a pain ; 

And to defer a joy, 
Believe me, gentle Celemene, 

Offends the winged boy, 

An hundred thousand oaths your fears, 
Perhaps, would not remove ; 

And if I gazed a thousand years, 
I could not deeper love. 



Phillis, you have enough enjoy'd 

The pleasures of disdain; 
Methinks your pride should now be cloy'd, 

And grow itself again: 
Open to love your long-shut breast, 
And entertain its sweetest guest. 



Love heals the wound that Beauty gives. 

And can ill usage slight; 
He laughs at all that Fate contrives. 

Full of his own delight; 
We in his chains are happier far, 
Than kings themselves without 'em are. 

Leave, then, to tame philosophy 

The joys of quietness ; 
With me into love's empire fly. 

And taste my happiness. 
Where even tears and sighs can show 
Pleasures the cruel never know. 



Cosmelia's charms inspire my lays 
Who, fair in Nature's scorn, 

Blooms in the winter of her days. 
Like Glastenbury thorn. 

Cosmelia's cruel at threescore ; 

Like bards in modern plays, 
Four acts of life pass guiltless o'er, 

But in the fifth she slays. 

If e'er, in eager hopes of bliss. 
Within her arms you fall. 

The plaster'd fair returns the kiss. 
Like Thisbe — through a wall. 



JOHN POMFRET. 



[Born, 166T. 

John Pomfret was minister of Maiden, in 
Bedfordshire. He died of the small-pox, in his 
thirty-sixth year. It is asked, in Mr. Southey's 
Specimens of English Poetry, why Pomfret's 



Choice is the most popular poem in the English 
language: it might have been demanded with 
equal propriety, why London bridge is built of 
Parian marble.* 



FROM "REASON. A POEM." 

Custom, the "world's great idol, we adore; 

And knowing this, we seek to know no more. 

What education did at first receive. 

Our ripen'd age confirms us to believe. 

The careful nurse, and priest, are all we need, 

To learn opinions, and our country's creed: 

The parent's precepts early are instill'd. 

And spoil'd the man, while they instruct the child. 

To what hard fate is human kind betray'd. 

When thus implicit faith a virtue made; 

[ * Why is Pomfret the mo-it popular of the English 
PoetP? The fact is certain, and the solution would be use- 
ful — Snuthi-y's ypecimens, vol. i. p. 01. 

Pomfrct'g '■ Choice" exhihitc a Fy tern of life adapted to 
common notions, and equal to (omm >ii e> pectitions; such 
B state HS affords plenty and truuquilli y. without exclu- 
sion of intellectual pleasures. Perhaps uo composition in 



When education more than truth prevails, 
And nought is current but what custom seals ! 
Thus, from the time we first began to know. 
We live and learn, but not the wiser grow. 

We seldom use our liberty aright, 
Nor judge of things by universal light: 
Our prepossessions and affections bind 
The soul in chains, and lord it o'er the mind ; 
And if self-interest be but in the case. 
Our unexamined principles may pass ! [deceive. 
Good Heavens! that man should thus himself 
To learn on credit, and on trust believe ! 



our language has been oftener perused than PomfreVs 

CAour.— JoHXbON. 

Johnson and Southey have written of what was; Mr. 
Campbell of wl at is. I'omfrct's "Choice" is certainly not 
now perufed oftener than any other crmposition in our 
languuge, nor is i. omfiet now the most popular of KuglisV 
poets.] 



THOMAS BROWN. 365 


Better the mind no notions haJ retain'd, 
But still a fair, unwritten blank reinain'd : 
For now, who truth from falsehood would discern, 
Must first disrobe the mind, and all unlearn. 
Errors, contracted in unmindful youth, [truth: 
When once removed, will smooth the way to 
To dispossess the child the mortal lives. 
But death approaches ere the man arrives. 

Those who would learning's glorious kingdom 
find. 
The dear-bought purchase of the trading mind, 
From many dangers must themselves acquit, 
And more than Scylla and Charybdis meet. 
Oh ! what an ocean must be voyaged o'er, 
To gain a prospect of the shining shore ! 
Resisting rocks oppose th' inquiring soul, 
And adverse waves retard it as they roll. 

Does not that foolish deference we pay 
To men that lived long since, our passage stay 1 
What odd, preposterous paths at first we tread, 
And learn to walk by stumbling on the dead ! 
First we a blessing from the grave implore, 
Worship old urns, and monuments adore ! 
The reverend sage, with vast esteem we prize ; 
He lived long since, and must be wondrous wise! 
Thus are we debtors to the famous dead. 
For all those errors which their fancies bred ; 


Errors indeed ! for real knowledge staid 
With those first times, not farther was convey'd: 
While light opinions are much lower brought. 
For on the waves of ignorance they float : 
But solid truth scarce ever gains the shore. 
So soon it sinks, and ne'er emerges more. 

Suppose those many dreadful dangers past. 
Will knowledge dawn, and bless the mind at last 1 
Ah ! no, 'tis now environ'd from our eyes, 
Hides all its charms, and undiscover'd lies ! 
Truth, like a single point, escapes the sight. 
And claims attention to perceive it right ! 
But what resembles truth is soon descried. 
Spreads like a surface, and expanded wide ! 
The first man rarely, very rarely finds 
The tedious search of long inquiring minds : 
But yet what's worse, we know not what we en ; 
What mark does truth, what bright distinction 

bear 1 
How do we know that what we know is true T 
How shall we falsehood fly, and truth pursue 1 
Let none then here his certain knowledge boast; 
'Tis all but probability at most: 
This is the easy purchase of the mind. 
The vulgar's treasure, which we soon may find ! 
But truth lies hid, and ere we can explore 
The glittering gem, our fleeting life is o'er. 


THOMAS 

[Died, 1 

Thomas, usually called Tom Brown, the son 
of a farmer at Shipnel, in Shropshire, was for 
some time a schoolmaster at Kingston-upon- 
Thames, but left the ungenial vocation for the 


BROWN. 

704.] 

life of a wit and author, in London. He was a 
good linguist, and seems rather to have wasted 
than wanted talent. 


SONQ.* 
To charming Celia's arms I flew, 

And there all night I feasted ; 
No god such transport ever knew, 

Or mortal ever tasted. 

Lost in sweet tumultuous joy 
And bless'd beyond expressing, 

How can your slave, my fair, said I, 
Reward so great a blessing ? 

The whole creation "s wealth survey, 
O'er both the Indies wander, 

Ask what bribed senates give away 
And fighting monarchs squander. 

The richest spoils of earth and air, 
The rifled ocean's treasure, 

'Tis all too poor a bribe by far, 
To purchase so much pleasure. 

She blushing cried. My life, my dear. 
Since Celia thus you fancy, 


Give her — but 'tis too much I fear — 
A rundlet of right Nantzy. 


SONG. 
Wine, wine in a morning, 

Makes us frolic and gay. 
That like eagles we soar. 

In the pride of the day ; 
Gouty sots of the night 

Only find a decay. 

'Tis the sun ripes the grape, 
And to drinking gives light : 

We imitate him. 

When by noon we're at height ; 

They steal wine who take it 
When he's out of sight. 

Boy, fill all the glasses. 

Fill them up "ow he shines ; 

The higher he rises 
The more he refines. 

For wine and wit fall 
As their maker declines. 
2f2 


[* To this son? Burns gave what Mrs. Burns emphati- 
cally called a brushing.— See Songs of England and Scot- 
land, vol. 1. p. 149.] 



CHARLES SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. 



CBorn, 1637. Died, 1706.] 



Charles Sacktille was the direct descendant 
of the great Thomas Lord Buckhurst. Of his 
youth it is disgraceful enough to say, that he was 
the companion of Rochester and Sedley; but his 
maturer Hfe, Hke that of Sedley, was illustrated 
by public spirit, and his fortune enabled him to 
be a beneficent friend to men of genius. In 1665, 
while Earl of Buckhurst, he attended the Duke 
of York as a volunteer in the Dutch war, and 
finished his well-known song, " To all you ladies 
now at land" on the Jay before the sea-fij^ht in 
which Opdam, the Dutch admiral, was blown up, 
with all his crew. He was soon after made a gen- 
tleman of the bedchamber to Charles II., and 
sent on short embassies to France. From James 
II. he also received some favourable notice, but 
joined in the opposition to his innovations, and, 



with some other lords, appeared at Westminster 
Hall to countenance the bishops upon their trial. 
Before this period he had succeeded to the estate 
and title of the Earl of Middlesex, his uncle, as 
well as to those of his father, the Earl of Dorset. 
Having concurred in the Revolution, he was re- 
warded by William with the office of lord-cham- 
berlain of the household, and with the Order of 
the Garter; but his attendance on the king even- 
tually hastened his death, for being exposed in an 
open boat with his majesty, during sixteen hours 
of severe weather, on the coast of Holland, his 
health was irrecoverably injured. The point and 
sprightliness of Dorset's pieces entitle him to some 
remembrance, though they leave not a slender 
apology for the grovelling adulation that was 
shown to him by Dryden in his dedications. 



SONO. 

WMTTEN AT BEA, TS THE FIRST DUTCH W,4R, 1665, THE NIQHT 
BEFORE A.V E.NQAOEMENT. 

To all you ladies now at land, 

We men at sea indite; 
But first would have you understand 

How hard it is to write : 
The Muses now, and Neptune too, 
We must implore to write to you. 
With a fa, la, la, la, la. 

For though the Muses should prove kind, 

And fill our empty brain; 
Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind, 

To wave the azure main. 
Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, 
Roll up and down our ships at sea. 
With a fa, &c. 

Then if we write not by each post, 

Think not we are unkind ; 
Nor yet conclude our ships are lost, 

By Dutchmen, or by wind : 
Our tears we'll send a speedier way, 
The tide shall bring them twice a-day. 
With a fa, &c. 

The king, with wonder and surprise, 
Will swear the seas grow bold ; 

Because the tides will higher rise. 
Than e'er they used of old: 

But let him know, it is our tears 

Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs. 
With a fa, &c. 

Should foggy Opdam chance to know 

Our sad and dismal story ; 
Tne Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, 

And quit their fort at Goree : 



For what resistance can they find 
From men who've left their hearts behind ? 
With a fa, &c. 

Let wind and weather do its worst. 

Be you to us but kind ; 
Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, 

No sorrow we shall find : 
'Tis then no matter how things go. 
Or who's our friend, or who's our foe. 
With a fa, &c. 

To pass our tedious hours away. 

We throw a merry main ; 
Or else at serious ombre play: 

But why should we in vain 
Each other's ruin thus pursue 1 
We were undone when we left you. 
With a fa, &c. 

But now our fears tempestuous grow, 

And cast our hopes away ; 
Whilst you, regardless of our woe, 

Sit careless at a play : 
Perhaps, permit some happier man 
To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan. 
With a fa, &c. 

When any mournful tune you hear, 

That dies in every note ; 
As if it sigh'd with each man's care, 

For being so remote; 
Think how often love we've made 
To you, when all those tunes wefe play'd. 
With a fa, &c. 

In justice you cannot refuse 
To think of our distress, 



JOHN PHILIPS. 



When we for hopes of honour lose 

Our certain happiness ; 
All those designs are but to prove 
Ourselves more worthy of your love. 
With a fa, &c. 

And now we've told you all our loves, 
And likewise all our fears, 

In hopes this declaration moves 
Some pity from your tears; 

Let's hear of no inconstancy. 

We have too much of that at sea. 
With a fa, la, la, la, la. 



Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes. 

United, cast too fierce a light, 
Which blazes high, but quickly dies. 

Pains not the heart, but hurts the sight. 

Love is a calmer gentler joy, 

Smooth are his looks, and soft his pace ; 
Her Cupid is a blackguard boy. 

That runs his link full in your face. 



GEORGE STEPNEY. 



[Born, 1863. Died, 1707.] 



George Stepney was the youthful friend of 
Montague, Earl of Halifax, and owed his prefer- 
ments to that nobleman. It appears, from his 
verses on the burning of Monmouth's picture, 
that his first attachment was to the Tory interest, 
but he left them in sufficient time to be rewarded 
as a partisan by the Whigs, and was nominated 
to several foreign embassies. In this capacity he 



went successively to the Imperial Court, to that 
of Saxony, Poland, and the States-General ; and 
in all his negotiations is said to have been suc- 
cessful.* Some of his political tracts remain m 
Lord Somers's collection. As a poet. Dr. Johnson 
justly characterizes him as equally deficient in 
the grace of wit and the vigour of nature. 



TO THE EVENING STAR. 

ENGUSHED FROM A GREEK IDTILTDM. 

Bright Star! by Venus fix'd above. 
To rule the happy realms of Love ; 
Who in the dewy rear of day, 
Advancing thy distinguish'd ray, 
Dost other lights as far outshine 
As Cynthia's silver glories thine ; 



Known by superior beauty there. 
As much as Pastorella here. 

Exert, bright Star, thy friendly light. 
And guide me through the dusky night! 
Defrauded of her beams, the Moon 
Shines dim, and will be vanish'd soon. 
I would not rob the shepherd's fold; 
I seek no miser's hoarded gold ; 
To find a nymph I'm forced to stray. 
Who lately stole my heart away. 



JOHN PHILIPS. 



[^orn, 1676. Died, 1708.] 



The fame of this poet (says the grave doctor 
of the last century,) will endure as long as Blen- 
heim is remembered, or cider drunk in England. 
He might have added, as long as tobacco shall be 
smoked ; for Philips has written more merito- 
riously about the Indian weed, than about his 
native apple; and his Muse appears to be more 
in her element amidst the smoke of the pipe than 
of the battle. 

His father was archdeacon of Salop, and minis- 
ter of Bampton, in Oxfordshire, where the poet 
was born. He was educated at Winchester, and 
(fterward at Cambridge. He intended to have 
followed the profession of physic, and delighted 
in the study of natural history, but seems to have 
relinquished scientific pursuits when the reputa- 



tion of his Splendid Shilling, ahout the year 1703, 
introduced him to the patronage of Bolingbroke, 
at whose request, and in whose house, he wrote 
his poem on the Battle of Blenheim. This, like 
his succeeding poem on Cider, was extravagantly 
praised. Philips had the merit of studying and 
admiring Milton, but he never could imitate him 
without ludicrous effect, either in jest or earnest. 
His Splendid Shilling is the earliest, and one of 
the best of our parodies; but Blenheim is as com 
pletely a burlesque upon Milton as the Splendid 
Shilling, though it was written and read with 
gravity. In describing his hero, Marlborough, 

[* His diplomatic correspondence is now in the Britisb 
Museum.] 



stepping out of Queen Anne's drawing-room, he 
unconsciously carries the mock heroic to perfec- 
tion, when he says, 

" His plumy (rest 
Nods horrible. With more terrific port 
He walks, and seems already in the fight." 



Yet such are the fluctuations of taste, that con- 
temporary criticism bowed with solemn admira- 
tion over his Miltonic cadences. He was medi- 
tating a still more formidable poem on the Day 
of Judgment, when his hfe was prematurely 
terminated by a consumption.* 



THE SPLENDID SHILLING. 

« Sing, heavenly Muse! 

Things unattempted yet, in prose or rhyme," . 
A Shilling, Breeches, and Chimeras dire. 

Happy the man, who void of cares and strife, 
In silken or in leathern purse retains 
A Splendid Shilling; he nor hears with pain 
New oysters cried, nor sighs for cheerful ale ; 
But with his friends, when nightly mists arise, 
To Juniper's Magpie, or Town-Hallt repairs: 
Where, mindful of the nymph, whose wanton eye 
Transfix'd his soul, and kindled amorous flames, 
Chloe, or Phillis, he each circling glass 
Wisheth her health, and joy, and equal love. 
Meanwhile, he smokes, and laughs at merry tale, 
Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint. 
But I, whom griping Penury surrounds. 
And Hunger, sure attendant upon Want, 
With scanty oftals, and small acid tiif, 
(Wretched repast !) my meagre corpse sustain : 
"Then solitary walk, or doze at home 
In garret vile, and with a warming puff 
Regale chill'd fingers ; or from tube as black 
As winter-chimney, or well-polish'd jet. 
Exhale mundungus, ill-perfuming scent ! 
Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter size. 
Smokes Cambro-Briton (versed in pedigree, 
Sprung from Cadwallader and Arthur, kings 
Full famous in romantic tale) when he 
O'er many a craggy hill and barren cliff. 
Upon a cargo of famed Cestrian cheese. 
High over-shadowing rides, with a design 
To vend his wares, or at th' Arvonian mart, 
Or Maridunum, or the ancient town 
Yclep'd Brechinia, or where Vaga's stream 
Encircles Ariconium, fruitful soil! 
Whence flow nectareous wines, that well may vie 
With Massic, Setin, or renown'd Falern. 

Thus while my joyless minutes tedious flow, 
With looks demure, and silent pace, a Dun, 
Horrible monster! hated by gods and men, 
To my aerial citadel ascends. 
With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate, 
With hideous accent thrice he calls; I know 
The voice ill-boding, a)id the solemn sound. 
What should I do ? o^' whither turn 1 Amazed, 
Confounded, to the d4rk recess I fly 
Of wood-hole; straight my bristling hairs erect ^ 



[* Fenton. in a lettcB to the father of the Wartons, 
makes mention of a copy of verses by Philips against 
Blackmore. The poen^, if recoverable, would be a cu- 
riofitv. 

The fame of Philips will live through his Splendid Shil- 
lini; and the poetic praises of Thomson and Cowper.] 

+ Two noted alehouses at Oxford in 1700. 



Through sudden fear ; a chilly sweat bedews 
My shuddering limbs, and (wonderful to tell !) 
My tongue forgets her faculty of speech ; 
So horrible he seems! His faded brow, 
Entrench'd with many a <rown, and conic beard, 
And spreading band, admired by modern saints, 
Disastrous acts forebode ; in his right hand 
Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves. 
With characters and figures dire inscribed, 
Grievous to mortal eyes ; (ye gods avert 
Such plagues from righteous men !) Behind him 

stalks 
Another monster, not unlike himself. 
Sullen of as[)eit, by the vulgar call'd 
A Catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods, 
With force incredible, and magic charms. 
Erst have endued ; if he his ample palm 
Should haply on ill-fated shoidder lay 
Of debtor, straight his body, to the touch 
Obsequious (as whilom knights were wont) 
To some enchanted castle is convey'd. 
Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains. 
In durance strict detain him, till, in form 
Of Money, Pallas sets the captive free. 

Beware, ye Debtors ! when ye walk, beware, 
Be circumspect ; oft with insidious ken 
The caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft 
Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave, 
Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch 
With his unhallow'd touch. So (poets sing) 
Grimalkin, to domestic vermin sworn 
An everlasting foe, with watchful eye 
Lies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap. 
Protending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice 
Sure ruin. So her disembowell'd web 
Arachne, in a hall or kitchen, spreads 
Obvious to vagrant flies: she secret stands 
Within her woven cell; the humming prey, 
Regardless of their fate, rush on the toiJs 
Inextricable, nor will aught avail 
Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue ; 
The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone. 
And butterfly, proud of expanded wings 
Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares. 
Useless resistance make : with eager strides, 
She towering flies to her expected spoils ; 
Then, with envenom'd jaws, the vital blood 
Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave 
Their bulky carcasses triumphant drags. 

So pass my days. But, when nocturnal 

shades 
This world envelop, and th' inclement air 
Persuades men to repel benumbing frosts 
With pleasant wines, and crackling blaze of 

wood ; 



WILLIAM WALSH. 



Me lonely sitting, nor the glimmering light 
Of make-weight candle, nor the joyous talk. 
Of loving friend, delights; distress'd, forlorn, 
Amidst the horrors of the tedious night, 
Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal thoughts 
My anxious mind ; or sometimes mournful verse 
Indite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades, 
Or desperate lady near a purling stream, 
Or lover pendent on a willow-tree. 
Meanwhile I labour with eternal drought. 
And restless wish, and rave; my parched throat 
Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repone : 
But if a slumber haply does invade 
My weary limbs, my fancy's still awake, 
Thoughtful of drink, and, eager, in a dream, 
Tipples imaginary pots of ale. 
In vain; awake I find the settled thirst 
Still gnawing, and the pleasant phantom curse. 
Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarr'd. 
Nor taste the fruits that the sun's genial rays 
Mature, john-apple, nor the downy peach, 
Nor walnut in rough-furrow'd coat secure, 
Nor medlar, fruit delicious in decay ; 
Afflictions great ! yet greater still remain : 



My galligaskins, that have loi.g withstood 
The winter's fury, and encroaching frosts, 
By time subdued (what will not time subdue !) 
An horrid chasm disclosed with orifice 
Wide, discontinuous; at which the winds 
Eurus and Auster, and the dreadful force 
Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronian waves, 
Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blasts, 
Portending agues. Thus a well-fraught ship. 
Long sail'd secure, or through th' JEgean deep. 
Or the Ionian, till crusing near 
The Lilybean shere, with hideous crush 
On Scylla, or Charybdis (dangerous rocks !) 
She strikes rebounding ; whence the shatter'd oak, 
So fierce a shock unable to withstand. 
Admits the sea; in at the gaping side 
The crowding waves gush with impetuous rage. 
Resistless, overwhelming ; horrors seize 
The mariners ; Death in their eyes appears. 
They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear, 

they pray ; 
(Vain efforts !) still the battering waves rush in, 
Implacable, till, deluged by the foam, 
The ship sinks foundering in the vast abyss.* 



WILLIAM WALSH. 



[Born, 1663. Died, 1709.] 



WiLLi.'kM Walsh was knight for his native 
county, Worcestershire, in several parliaments, 
and gentleman of the horse to Queen Anne, under 
the Duke of Somerset. Though a friend to the 
Revolution, he was kind to Dryden, who praised 



him, as Pope must have done, merely from the 
motive of personal gratitude ; for except his en 
couragement of the early genius of Pope, he 
seems to have no claim to remembrance.l 



SONG. 
Of all the torments, all the cares, 

With which our lives are curst; 
Of all the plagues a lover bears, 

Sure rivals are the worst. 

By partners in each other kind 
Afflictions easier grow; 

In love alone we hate to find 
Companions of our woe. 



[* "The Splendid Shilling," has the uncommon merit 
of an original ile.<ign, unless it may be thought precluded 
by the ancient "Centos." But the merit of such per- 
formances begins and ends with the first author. lie that 
ehou'd again adapt Milton's phrase to the gross incidents 
01 common life, and even adapt it with some art, which 
47 



Sylvia, for all the pangs you see 
Are lab'ring in my breast, 

I beg not you would favour me. 
Would you but slight the rest. 

How great soe'er your rigours are. 
With them alone I'll cope; 

I can endure my own despair, 
But not another's hope. 



would not be difficult, must yet expect a small part of 
the prais-e which Phillips has obtained ; he can only hope 
to .be considered as the repeater of a jest. — Johnson.] 

[t All we know of Walsh is his Cde to King AVilliam, 
and Pope's epithet of " knowing Walsh."— Bvron.] 



ANONYMOUS. 



"HOLLA, JIT FANCY, WHITHER WILT THOU GO?" 

FROM A CHOICE COLLECTION OF COMIO AND 8EM0D8 
SCOTS POEMS. ED. 1709. 

In melancholy Fancie, 

Out of myself, 
In the Vulcan dancie, 
All the world surveying, 
No where staying, 
Just like a fairy elf; 
Out o'er the top of highest mountains skipping, 
Out o'er the hills, the trees, and valleys, tripping, 
Out o'er the ocean, seas, without an oar or shipping: 
Holla, my Fancy, whither wilt thou go 1 

Amidst the misty vapours. 

Fain would I know 
What doth cause the tapours ; 
Why the i louds benight us, 
And affright us. 

Whilst we travel here below. 
Fain would I know what makes the roaring 

thunder ; 
And what the lightnings be that rent the clouds 

asunder, 
And what these comets are on which we gaze with 
Holla, my Fancy, &c. [wonder : 

Fain would I know the reason 

Why the little ant 
All the summer season 
Layeth up provision, 
On condition 

To know no winter's want ; 
And how these housewives that are so good and 

painful. 
Do untp their husbands prove so good and gainful. 
And why the lazy drones to them do prove dis- 
HoUa, my Fancy, &c. [dainful : 

Ships, ships, I will descry you 

Amidst the main ; 
I will come and try you, 
\^'hat you are protecting. 
And projecting. 
One goes abroad for merchandise and trading. 
Another stays to keep his country from invading, 
And third is coming home with rich and wealthy 
Holla, my Fancy, &c. [lading; 

When I look before me. 

There I do behold 
There's none that sees or knows me. 
All the world's a gadding. 
Running, madding ; 
None doth his station hold. 
370 



He that is below envieth him that riseth, 
And he that is above, him that's below despiseth ; 
So every man his plot and counterplot deviseth : 
Holla, my fancy, &c. 

Look, look, what bustling 

Here do I espy : 
Here another justling. 
Every one turinoiling. 
The other spoiling. 

As 1 did pass them by. 
One sitteth musing in a dumpish passion, 
Another hangs his head because he's out of fashion, 
A third is fully bent on sport and recreation: 
Holla, my Fancy, &c. 

Amidst the foamy ocean 
Fain would I know 
What doth cause the motion. 
And returning. 
In its journeying. 
And doth so seldom swerve ; 
And how these little fishes that swim beneath 

salt water. 
Do never blind their eyes, methinks it is a matter 
An inch above the reach of old Erra Pater: 
Holla, my Fancy, &c. 

Fain would I be resolved 

How things were done, 
And where bull was calved 
Of bloody Phalaris, 
And where the tailor is 

That works to the man in the moon. 
Fain would I know how Cupid aims so rightly. 
And how these little fairies do dance and leap so 

lightly, 
And where fair Cynthia makes her assemblies 
Holla, my Fancy, &c. [nightly : 



ON A WOMAN'S IXCOXSTANCY. 

FROM THE SAME. 

1 LOVED thee once, I'll love no more ; 
Thine be the grief as is the blame ; 
Thou art not what thou wast before. 
What reason I should be the same ? 
He that can love, unloved again, 
Hath better store of love than brain: 
God send me love my debts to j)ay. 
While unthrifts fool their love away. 

Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, 
If thou hadst still continued mine; 
Yea. if thou hadst remain'd thy own, 
I might perchance have yet been thine. 



ROBERT GOULD. 



37] 



But thou thy freedom didst recall, 
That it thou inight'st elsewhere enthral ; 
And then how could I but disdain, 
A captive's captive to remain ? 

When now desires had conquer'd thee, 
And changed the object of thy will. 
It had been lethargy in me, 
No constancy, to love thee still. 
Yea, it had been a sin to go, 
And prostitute aflection so, 
Since we are taught no prayers to say 
To such as must to others pray. 

Yet do thou glory in thy choice. 
Thy choice of his good fortune boast; 
I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice, 
To see him gain what I have lost. 
The height of iny disdain shall be 
To laugh at him, to blush for thee ; 
To love thee still, but go no more 
A begging at a beggar's door.* 



THE CHURCH-BUILDER. 
From Poems for the October Club. Lend. 1711. 
K WRETCH had committed all manner of evil. 
And was justly afraid of death and the devil ; 



Being touch'd with remorse, he .sent for a priest, 
He was wondrous godly, he pray'd and con 

fess'd ; 
But the father, unmoved with the marks of con 

trition. 
Before absolution imposed this condition : 

" You must build and endow, at your own proper 

charge, 
A church," quoth the parson, " convenient and 

large. 
Where souls to the tune of four thousand and odd. 
Without any crowding, may sit and serve God." 
" I'll do't," cried the penitent, " father, ne'er 

fear it; 
My estate is encumber'd, but if I once clear it, 
The beneficed clerks should be sweetly increased — 
Instead of one church, I'd build fifty at least." 

But ah! what is man] I speak it with sorrow. 

His fit of religion was gone by to-morrow; 

He then huff"d the doctor, and call'd him to 

naught, 
There were churches to spare, and he'd not give 

a groat. 
When he niention'd his vow, he cried, "D — n 

me, I'm sober. 
But all yesterday I was drunk with October." 



ROBERT GOULD. 



A DOMESTIC of the Earl of Dorset, and after- 
ward a schoolmaster, who wrote two dramas — 



"The Rival 

tressed." 



Sisters," and " Innocence Dis- 



SOXG. 

FROM "THE VIOLEXCE OF LOVE, OR THE Rf^AL SISTERS." 

Fair and soft, and gay and young. 

All charm — she play'd, she danced, she sung: 

There was no way to 'scape the dart, 

No care could guard the lover's heart. 

Ah, why, cried I, and dropp'd a tear, 

Adoring, yet despairing e'er 

To have her to myself alone, 

Why was such sweetness made for one ? 

But, growing bolder, in her ear 
I in soft numbers told my care ; 
She heard, and raised me from her feet, 
And .seem'd to glow with equal heat. 
Like heaven's, too mighty to express. 
My joys could but be known by guess; 
Ay, fool, said I, whnt have I done. 
To wish her made for more than one ! 

But long she had not been in view, 
Before her eyes their beams withdrew ; 

[* This is by Sir I'obort Aytnn ni;cl w.i.« Mnong the 
poems of liis in the Aytou MS. once in .Mr. Ueber's hands. 
See ^ote alto at p. 141.J 



Ere I had reckon'd half her charms, 
She sunk into another's arms. 
But she that onc^ could faithless be, 
Will favour him no more than me : 
He too, will find he is undone, 
And that she was not made for one. 



SONG. 

FROM THE SAME. 

C.ELiA is cruel : Sylvia, thou, 

I must confe-ss, art kind ; 
But in her cruelty, I vow, 

I more repose can find. 
For, oh ! thy fancy at all games does fly. 
Fond of address, and Willing to comply. 

Thus he that loves must be ut;done, 

Each way on rocks we fall ; 
Either you will be kind to none, 

Or wor.se, be kind to all. 
Vain are our hopes, and endless is our care, 
We must be jealous, or we must despah-. 



DR. WALTER POPE. 



Dr. Walter Pope was junior proctor of Ox- 
ford, in 1668, when a controversy took place re- 
specting the wearing of hooils and caps, which 
the reigning party considered as the rehcs of 
popery. Our proctor, however, so stoutly op- 
posed the revolutionists on this momentous point, 
that the venerable caps and hoods continued to 



be worn till the Restoration This affair he used 
to call the most glorious action of his life. Dr. 
Pope was. however, a man of wit and infoima- 
tion, and one of the first chosen fellows of the 
Royal Society. He succeeded Sir Christoi.her 
Wren as Professor of Astronomy in Gresham 
College. 



THE OLD MAN'S WISH. 
If I live to grow old, lor I find I go down, 
Let this be my fate : in a country town. 
May I have a warm house, with a stone at the gate, 
And a cleanly young girl to rub my bald pate. 
May I govern my passion with an absolute sway, 
And grow wiser and better, as my strength 

wears away. 
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay. 

Near a shady grove, and a murmuring brook. 
With the ocean at distance, whereon I may look; 
With a spacious plain, without hedge or stile. 
And an easy pad-nag to ride out a mile. 

May I govern, &c. 
With Horace and Petrarch, and two or three more 
Of the best wits that reign'd in the ages before ; 
With roast mutton, rather than ven'son or teal. 
And clean, though coarse linen, at every meal. 

May I govern, &c. 



With a pudding on Sundays, with stout hum- 
ming liquor. 
And remnants of Latin to welcome the vicar; 
With Monte Fiascone or Burgundy wine. 
To drink the king's health as oft as I dine. 
May I govern, &c. 

With a courage undaunted may I face my last 

day. 
And when I am dead may the better sort say, — 
In the morning when sober, in the evening when 

mellow. 
He's gone, and [has] left not behind him his 
fellow : 
For he govern'd his passion with an absolute 

sway. 
And grew wiser and better, as his strength 

wore away. 
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay. 



THOMAS PARNELL. 

CBorn, 1679. Died, 17177] 



The compass of Parnell's poetry is not exten- 
sive, but its tone is peculiarly delightful : not from 
mere correctness of expression, to which some 
critics have stinted its praises, but from the grace- 
ful and reserved sensibility that accompanied his 
polished phraseology. The mriosa felicitus, the 
studied happiness of his diction, does not spoil 
its simplicity. His poetry is like a flower that 
has been trained and planted by the skill of the 
gardener, but which preserves, in its cultured 
state, the natural fragrance of its wilder air. 

His ancestors were of Congleton, in Cheshire. 
His father, who had been attached to the repub- 
lican party in the civil wars, went to Ireland at 
the Restoration, and left an estate which he pur- 
chased in that kingdom, together with another 
at Cheshire, at his death, to the poet. Parnell 
was educated at the university of Dublin, and 
having been permitted, by a dispensation, to take 



deacon's orders under the canonical age, had the 
archdeaconry of Clogher conferred upon him by 
the bishop of that diocese, in his twenty-sixth 
year. About the same time he married a Miss 
Anne Minchin, an amiable woman, whose death 
he had to lament not many years after their 
union, and whose loss, as it affected Parnell, even 
the iron-hearted Swift mentions as a heavy mis- 
fortune. 

Though born and bred in Ireland, he seems to 
have had too little of the Irishman in his local 
attachments. His aversion to the manners of his 
native country was more fastidious than amiable. 
When lie hail once visited London, he became 
attached to it for ever. His zest or talents for 
society made him the favourite of its brightest 
literary circles. His pulpit oratory was also 
much admired in the metropolis; and he renewed 
his visits to it every year. This, however. wa» 



THOMAS PARNELL. 



373 



only the bright side of his existence. His spirits 
were very unequal, and when he found them 
ebbing, he used to retreat to the solitudes of Ire- 
land, where he fed the disease of his imagination, 
by frightful descriptions of his retirement. During 
his intimacy with, the Whigs in England, he con- 
tributed some papers, chiefly Visions, to the 
Spectator and Guardian. Afterward his personal 
friendship was engrossed by the Tories, and they 
persuaded him to come over to their side in poli- 
tics, at the ijuspicious moment when the Whigs 
were going out of power. In the frolics of the 
Scriblerus club, of which he is said to have been 
the founder, whenever literary allusions were re- 
quired for the ridicule of pedantry, he may be 



supposed to have been the scholar most able to 
supply them ; for Pope's correspondence shows, 
that among his learned friends he applied to none 
with so much anxiety as to Parnell. The death 
of the queen put an end to his hopes of prefer- 
ment by the Tories, though not before he had 
obtained, through the influence of Swift, the vicar- 
age of Finglass, in the diocese of Dublin. His 
fits of despondency, after the death of his wife, 
became more gloomy, and these aggravated a 
habit of intemperance which shortened his days. 
He died, in his thirty-eighth year, at Chester, on 
his way to Ireland,* and he was buried in Trinity 
church, in that city, but without a memorial to 
mark, the spot of his interment. 



A FAIRY TALE, IN THE ANCIENT ENGLISH 
STYLE. 

In Britain's isle, and Arthur's days, 
When midnight fairies daunced the maze, 

Lived Edwin of the Green ; 
Edwin, I wis, a gentle youth, 
Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth, 
Though badly shaped he been. 

His mountain back mote well be said 
To measure heighth against his head, 

And lift itself above ; 
Yet, spite of all that Nature did 
To make his uncouth form forbid, 

This creature dared to love. 

He felt the charms of Edith's eyes. 
Not wanted hope to gain the prize. 

Could ladies look within ; 
But one Sir Topaz dress'd with art, 
And if a shape could win a heart. 

He had a shape to win. 

Edwin, if right I read my song, 
With sliglited passion paced along, 

All in the moony light; 
'Twas near an old enchanted court. 
Where sportive fairies made resort 

To revel out the night. 

His heart was drear, his hope was cross'd, 
'Twas late, 'twas far, the path was lost 

That reach'd the neighbour town ; 
With weary steps he quits the shades. 
Resolved, the darkling dome be treads 

And drops his limbs adown. 

But scant he lays him on the floor, 
When hollow winds remove the door. 

And trembling rocks the ground : 
And, well I ween to count aright, 
At once a hundred tapers liglit 

On all the walls around. 



[* He is said to have died in 1717; lut in the parifh 
regis^ter tlie entry of Lis buiiiil is the ISth October, 171S. 
See Goldsmith's Misc. WurLs by Prior, vol. iv. p. 512.J 



Now sounding tongues assail his ear, 
Now sounding feet approachen near. 

And now the sounds increase: 
And from the corner where he lay, 
He sees a train profusely gay, 

Come prankling o'er the place. 

But (trust me, gentles !) never yet 
Was dight a masking half so neat. 

Or half so rich before ; 
The country lent the sweet perfumes. 
The sea the pearl, the sky the plumes. 

The town its silken store. 

Now whilst he gazed, a gallant, drest 
In flaunting robes above the rest, 

With awful accent cried, 
"What mortal of a wretched mind. 
Whose si^'hs infect the balmy wind. 

Has here presumed to hide^" 

At this the swain, whose venturous soul 
No fears of magic art control. 

Advanced in open sight; 
"Nor have I cause of dread," he said, 
" Who view, by no presuniption led. 

Your revels of the night. 

" 'Twas grief, for scorn of faithful love, 
Which made my steps unweeting rove 

Amid the nightly dew." 
" 'Tis well," the gallant cries again, 
" We fairies never injure nten 

Who dare to tell us true. 

"Exalt thy love-dejected heart, 
Be mine the task, or ere we part, 

To make thee grief res'gn ; 
Now take the pleasure of thy chaunce ; 
Whilst I with Mab, my partner, daunc« 

Be little Mable thine." 

He spoke, and all a sudden there 
Light music floats in wanton air; 

The monarch leads the queen: 
The rest their fairy partners found : 
And Mable trimly tript the ground 

With Edwin of the Green. 
2G 



374 



THOMAS PARNELL. 



The dauncing past, the board was laid, 
And siker such a feast was made 

As heart and lip desire ; 
Withouten hands the dishes fly, 
The glasses with a wish come nigh, 

And with a wish retire. 

But, now to please the fairy king, 
Full every deal they laugh and sing. 

And antic feats devise; 
Some wind and tumhle like an ape. 
And other some transmute their shape 

In Edwin's wondering eyes. 

Till one at last, that Robin hight, 
Renown'd for pinching maids by night. 

Has bent him up aloof; 
And full against the beam he flung, 
Where by the back the youth he hung 

To sprawl uneath the roof. 

From thence, "Reverse my charm," he cries, 
" And let it fairly now suffice 

The gambol has been shown." 
But Oberon answers with a smile, 
" Content thee, Edwin, for a while. 

The vantage is thine own." 

Here ended all the phantom-play ; 
They smelt the fresh approach of day. 

And heard a cock to crow ; 
The whirling wind that bore the crowd 
Has clapp'd the door, and whistled loud, 

To warn them all to go. 

Then, screaming, all at once they fly, 
And all at once the tapers die ; 

Poor Edwin falls to floor; 
Forlorn his state, and dark the place ; 
Was never wight in such a case 

Through all the land before. 

But soon as Dan Apollo rose, 
Full jolly creature home he goes. 

He feels his back the less ; 
His honest tongue and steady mind 
Had rid him of the lump behind, 

Which made him want success. 

With lusty livelyhed he talks. 
He seems a dauncing as he walks, 

His story soon took wind ; 
And beauteous Edith sees the youth 
Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth, 

Without a bunch behind. 

The story told, Sir Topaz moved, 
The youth of Edith erst approved, 

To see the revel scene : 
At close of eve he leaves his home. 
And wends to find the ruin'd dome 

All on the gloomy plain. 

As thpre he bides, it so befel. 
The wind came rustling down a dell, 
A shaking seized the wall ; 



Up spring the tapers as before. 
The fairies bragly foot the floor, 
And music fills the hall. 

But, certcs, sorely sunk with woe, 
Sir Topaz sees the elfin show. 

His spirits in him die: 
When Oberon cries. '• A man is near, 
A mortal passion, cleped fear, 

Hangs flagging in the sky." 

With that Sir Topaz, hapless youth ! 
In accents foultering, ay for ruth, 

Intreats them pity grant; 
For als he been a mister wight, 
Betray'd by wandering in the night, 

To tread the circled haunt. 

"A losell vile," at once they roar; 
" And little skill'd of fairy lore. 

Thy cause to come we know: 
Now has thy kestrel courage fell ; 
And fairies, since a lie you tell, 

Are free to work thee woe." 

Then Will, who bears the wispy fire 
To trail the swains among the mire. 

The caitifl' upward flung ; 
There, like a tortoise in a shop. 
He dangled from the chamber top, 

Where whilome Edwin hung. 

The revels now proceeds apace, 
Deftly they frisk it o'er the place, 

They sit, they drink, and eat; 
The time with frolic mirth beguile. 
And poor Sir Topaz hangs the while 

Till all the rout retreat. 

By this the stars began to wink. 
They shriek, they fly, the tapers sink, 

And down y-drops the knight: 
For never spell by fairy laid 
With strong enchantment bound a glade, 

Beyond the length of night. 

Chill, dark, alone, adreed, he lay, 
Till up the welkin rose the day, 

Then deem'd the dole was o'er: 
But wot ye well his harder lotl 
His seely back the bunch had got 

Which Edwin lost afore. 

This tale a Sybil-nurse ared ; 

She softly stroked my youngling head. 

And when the tale was done, 
" Thus some are born, my son, ' she cries, 
" With base impediments to rise. 

And some are born with none. 

" But virtue can itself advance 

To what the favourite fools of chance 

By fortune seem'd design'd ; 
Virtue can gain the odds of fate. 
And from itself shake off the weight 

Upon th' unworthy mind."* 



[* Never was the old manner of speaking more happily 
applied, or a tale better told, than this. — Goldsmith.] 



THOMAS PARNELL. 



375 



THE BOOK-WORM. 
Come hither, boy, we'll hunt to-day 
The book-worm, ravening beast of prey, 
Produced by parent earth, at odds, 
As^ fame reports it, with the gods. 
Him frantic hunger wildly drives 
Against a thousand authors' lives : 
Through all the fields of wit he flies ; 
Dreadful his head with clustering eyes, 
With horns without, and tusks within, 
And scales to serve him for a skin. 
Observe him nearly, lest he climb 
To wound the bards of ancient time, 
Or down the vale of fancy go 
To tear some modern wretch below. 
On every corner fix thine eye, 
Or ten to one he slips thee by. 
See where his teeth a passage eat : 
We'll rouse him from the deep retreat. 
But Xvho the shelter 's forced to givel 
'Tis sacred Virgil, as I live ! 
From leaf to leaf, from song to song, 
He draws the tadpole form along; 
He mounts the gilded edge before ; 
He's up, he scuds the cover o'er; 
He turns, he doubles, there he past. 
And here we have him, caught at last. 
Insatiate brute, whose teeth abuse 
The sweetest servants of the Muse ! 
(Nay, never offer to deny, 
I took thee in the fact to fly.) 
His roses nipp'd in every page, 
My poor Anacreon mourns thy rage ; 
By thee my Ovid wounded lies 
By thee my Lesbia's sparrow dies ; 
Thy rabid teeth have half destroy'd 
The work of love in Biddy Floyd; 
They rent Belinda's locks away, 
And spoil'd the Blouzelind of Gay. 
For all, for every single deed. 
Relentless justice bids thee bleed. 
Then fall a victim to the Nine, 
Myself the priest, my desk the shrine. 

Bring Homer, Virgil, Tasso near, 
To pile a sacred altar here ; 
Hold, boy, thy hand outruns thy wit. 
You reach'd the plays that Dennis writ; 
You reach'd me Philips' rustic strain ; 
Pray take your mortal bards again. 

Come, bind the victim, — there he lies, 
And here between his numerous eyes 
This venerable dust I lay. 
From manuscripts just swept away. 

The goblet in my hand I take, 
(For the libation 's yet to make,) 
A health to poets! all their days 
May they have bread, as well as praise ; 
Sense may they seek, and less engage 
In papers fill'd with paity-rage ; 
But if their riches spoil their vein, 
Ye Muses, make them poor again ! 

Now bring the weapon, yonder blade, 
With which my tuneful pens are made. 



I strike the scales that arm thee round. 
And twice and thrice I print the wound , 
The sacred altar floats with red ; 
And now he dies, and now he's dead. 

How like the son of Jove I stand, 
This Hydra stretch'd beneath my hand ! 
Lay bare the monster's entrails here, 
To see what dangers threat the year; 
Ye gods ! what sonnets on a wench ! . 
What lean translations out of French ! 
'Tis plain, this lobe is so unsound, 
S prints before the months go round. 

But hold, before I close the scene. 
The sacred altar should be clean. 
Oh had I Shadwell's second bays, 
Or, Tate, thy pert and humble lays ! 
(Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow 
I never miss'd your works till now,) 
I'd tear the leaves to wipe the shrine 
(That only way you please the Nine :) 
But since I chance to want these two, 
I'll make the songs of Durfey do. 

Rent from the corpse, on yonder pin 
I hang the scales that braced it in ; 
I hang my studious morning-gown. 
And write my own inscription down. 

" This trophy from the Python won. 
This robe, in which the deed was done ; 
These, Parnell, glorying in the feat. 
Hung on these shelves, the Muses' seat. 
Here ignorance and hunger found 
Large realms of wit to ravage round : 
Here ignorance and hunger fell : 
Two foes in one I sent to hell. 
Ye poets, who my labours see. 
Come share the triumph all with me ! 
Ye critics ! born to vex the Muse, 
Go mourn the grand ally you lose." 



AN IMITATION OF SOME FRENCH VERSES. 
Relentless Time ! destroying power, 

Whom stone and brass obey, 
Who givest to every flying hour 
To work some new decay ; 

Unheard, unheeded, and unseen, 

Thy secret saps prevail, 
And ruin man, a nice machine, 

By nature form'd to fail. 

My change arrives; the change I meet 

Before I thought it nigh. 
My spring, my years of pleasure fleet. 

And all their beauties die. 

In age I search, and only find 

A poor unfruitful gain, 
Grave wisdom stalking slow behind, 

Oppress'd with loads of pain. 

My ignorance could once beguile, 

And fancied joys inspire ; 
My errors cherish'd hope to smile 

On newly-born desire. 



But now experience shows, the bhss 

For which I fonJly sought, 
Not worth the long impatient wish, 

And ardour of the thought. 

My youth met Fortune fair array'd, 

In all her pomp she shone. 
And might perhaps have well essay'd 

To make her gifts my own : 

But when I saw the blessings shower 

On some unworthy mind, 
I left the chase, and own'd the power 

Was justly painted blind. 

I pass'd the glories which adorn 
The splendid courts of kings. 

And while the persons moved my scorn, 
I rose to scorn the things. 

My manhood felt a vigorous fire 

By love increased the more ; 
But years with coming years conspire 

To break the chains I wore. 

In weakness safe, the sex I see 

With idle lustre shine; 
For what are all their joys to me. 

Which cannot now be mine ? 

But hold — I feel my gout decrease, 

My troubles laid to rest. 
And truths which would disturb my peace 

Are painful truths at best. 

Vainly the time I have to roll 

In sad reflection flies ; 
Ye fondling passions of my soul ! 

Ye sweet deceits ! arise. 

I wisely change the scene within, 
To things that used to please ; 

In pain, philosophy is spleen. 
In health, 'tis only ease. 



A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH. 
By the blue taper's trembling light, 
No more I waste the wakeful night, 
Intent with endless view to pore 
The schoolmen and the sages o'er: 
Their books from wisdom widely stray, 
Or point at best the longest way. 
I'll seek a readier path, and go 
Where wisdom s surely taught below. 

How deep yon azure dyes the sky ! 
Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lie, 
While through their ranks in silver pride 
The nether crescent seems to glide. 
The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe. 
The lake is smooth and clear beneath. 
Where once again the spangled show 
Descends to meet our eyes below. 
The grounds, which on the right aspire, 
In dimness from the view retire : 
The left presents a place of graves. 
Whose wall the silent water laves. 



That stVeple guides thy doubtful sight 
Among the livid gleams of night. 
There pass with melancholy state 
By all the solemn heaps of fate. 
And think, as softly-sad you tread 
Above the venerable dead, 
"Time was, like thee, they life possest 
And time shall be, that thou shalt rest." 

Those with bending osier bound, 
That nameless have the crumbled ground, 
Quick to the glancing thought disclose. 
Where toil and poverty repose. 

The flat smooth stones that bear a name, 
The chisel's slender help to fame, 
(Which ere our set of friends decay. 
Their frequent steps may wear away,) 
A middle race of mortals own. 
Men, half ambitious, all unknown. 

The marble tombs that rise on high. 
Whose dead in vaulted arches lie, 
Whose pillars swell with sculptured stones. 
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones; 
These, all the poor remains of state. 
Adorn the rich, or praise the great; 
Who, while on earth in fame they live. 
Are senseless of the fame they give. 

Ha ! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades, 
The bursting earth unveils the shades ! 
All slow, and wan, and wrapp'd with shrouds, 
They rise in visionary crowds. 
And all with sober accent cry, 
" Think, mortal, what it is to die." 

Now from yon black and funeral yew,' 
That bathes the charnel-house with dew, 
Methinks I hear a voice begin; 
(Ye ravens, cease your croaking din, 
Ye tolling clocks, no time resound 
O'er the long lake and midnight ground!) 
It sends a peal of hollow groans. 
Thus speaking from amongst the bones. 

When men my scythe and darts supply. 
How great a king of fears am I ! 
They view me like the last of things ; 
They make, and then thy draw, my strings. 
Fools ! if you less provoked your fears. 
No more my spectre form appears. 
Death 's but a path that must be trod, 
If man would ever pass to God: 
A port of calms, a state to ease 
From the rough rage of swelling seas. 

Why then thy flowing sable stoles. 
Deep pendant cypress, mourning poles. 
Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds. 
Long palls, drawn hearses, cover'd steeds. 
And plumes of black, that, as they tread, 
Nod o'er the 'scutcheons of the dead 1 

Nor can the parted body know. 

Nor wants the soul, these forms of woe ; 



THOMAS TARNELL. 



As moil who long in prison dwell, 
With lamps that glimmer round the cell, 
Whene'er their suli'ering years are run, 
Spring foth to greet the glittering sun: 
Such joy, though far transcending sense. 
Have pious souls at parting hence. 
On earth, and in the body placed, 
A ivvv. nn.i pv'.f years, they waste: 
But when their chains are cast aside, 
See the glad scene unfolding wide. 
Clap the glad wing, and tower away. 
And mingle with the blaze of day.* 



TIIE HERMIT. 
Far in a wild, unknown to public view. 
From youth to age a reverend hermit grew ; 
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, 
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well: 
Remote from men, with God he pass'd the days, 
Pnvycr all his business, all his pleasure praise. 

A life so sacred, such serene repose, 
Seem'd Heaven itself, till one suggestion rose; 
That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey, 
This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway : 
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, 
And all the tenor of his soul is lost: 
So when a smooth expanse receives imprest 
Calm nature's image on its watery, breast, 
Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow. 
And skies beneath with answering colours glow; 
But if a stone the gentle sea divide, 
Swift rufHmg circles curl on every side. 
And glimmering fragments of a broken sun. 
Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run. 

To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight. 
To find if books, or swains, report it right, 
(For yet by swains alone the world he knew, 
Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew,) 
He quits li:s cell: the pilgrim stall' he bore. 
And fix'd the scallop in his hat before; 
Then with the sun a rising journey went. 
Sedate to think, and watching each event. 

The morn was wasted in the pathless grass. 
And long and lonesome was the wild to pass: 
But when the southern sun had warm'd the day, 
A youth came pot-ting o'er a crot-sing way; 
His raiment decent, his complexion fair, 
And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair. 
I'lieii near approaching, Father, hail ! he cried, 
And hail, my son, the reverend sire repl.ed ; 
Words follow'd words, from question answer 

flow'd. 
And talk of various kind deceived the road; 
Till each with other pleased, and loth to part. 
While in their age they diller, join in heart. 



[* The grent fiult of this piece is. that it is in eight- 
fyllabie linos, very improper for tlie fo im: i y of the .-ub- 
jiMt: o.hfiwise lUe iioeui is natuial, ani the retiectious 

JUft.— GU^UMITU., 

48 



Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound. 
Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around. 

Now sunk the sun; the closing hour of day 
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray ; 
Nature in silence bid the world repose ; 
When near the road a stately palace rose: 
There, by the moon, through ranks of trees they 

pass. 
Whose verdure crown'd their sloping sides of 

grass. 
It chanced the noble master of rr:e dome 
Still made his house the wandering stranger's 

home: 
Yet sti!! the kindness, from a thirst of praise. 
Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease. 
The pair arrive: the liveried servants wait; 
Their lord receives them at the pompous gate. 
The table groans with costly piles of food. 
And all is more than hospitably good. 
Then led to rest, the day's long toil they drown 
Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down. 

At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of day. 
Along the wide canals the zephyrs play: 
Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep. 
And shake the neighbouring wood to banish sleep, 
Up rise the guests, obedient to the call : 
An early banquet deck'd the splentlid hall ; 
Rich luscious wine a golden goblet graced. 
Which the kind master forced the guests to tr.ste. 
Then, jjleased and thankful, from the porch they go, 
And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe: 
His cup was vanish'd ; for in secret guise 
The younger guest purloin'd the glittering prize. 

As one who spies a serpent in his way, 
Glistening and basking in the summer ray, 
Disorder'd stops to shun the danger near. 
Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear; 
So seem'd the sire, when far upon the road, 
The shining spoil his wily partner show'd. 
He stopp'd with silence, walk'd with trembling 

heart. 
And much he wish"d, but durst not ask to part: 
Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard 
That generous actions meet a base reward. 

While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds. 
The changing skies hang out their sable clouds; 
A sound in air presaged approaching rain. 
And beasts to covert scud across the plain. 
Warn'd by the signs, the wandering pair retreat. 
To seek for shelter at a neighbouring seat. 
'Twas built with turrets, on a rising ground. 
And strong, and large, and unimproved around; 
It owner's temper, timorous and severe. 
Unkind and griping, caused a desert there. 

As near the miser's heavy doors they drew. 
Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ; 
The nimble lightning mix'd with showers began. 
And o'er their heads loud rolling thunders ran. 
Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain 
Driven by the wind, and batter'd by the rain 
2a2 



At lenglh some pity warmM the master's breast, 
('Twas then his threshold first received a guest); 
Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care, 
And half he welcomes in the shivering pair; 
One frugal faggot lights the naked walls, 
And nature's fervour through their limbs recalls: 
Bread of the coarsest sort, with eager wine, 
(Each hardly granted) served them both to dine; 
And when the tempest first appear'd to cease, 
A ready warning bid them part in peace. 
With still remark the pondering hermit view'd. 
In one so rich, a life so poor and rude : 
And why should such, within himself he cried. 
Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside ? 
But what new marks of wonder soon took place, 
In every settling feature of his face. 
When from his vest the young companion bore 
That cup, the generous landlord own'd before, 
And paid profusely with the precious bowl 
The stinted kindness of this churlish soul ! 

But now the clouds in airy tumult fly; 
The sun emerging ope's an azure sky ; 
A fresher green the smelling leaves display. 
And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day : 
The weather courts them from the poor retreat, 
And the glad master bolts the wary gate. 

While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom 
wrought 
With all the travel of uncertain thought: 
His partner's acts without their cause appear, 
'Twas there a vice, and seem'd a madness here: 
Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes. 
Lost and confounded with the various shows. 

Now night's dim shades again involve the sky. 
Again the wanderers want a place to lie. 
Again they search, and find a lodging nigh. 
The soil improved around, the mansion neat. 
And neither poorly low nor idly great : 
It seem'd to speak its master's turn of mind, 
Content, and not to praise, but virtue, kind. 

Hither the walkers turn with weary feet. 
Then bless the mansion, and the master greet: 
Their greeting fair, bestow'd with modest guise. 
The courteous master hears, and thus replies: 

Without a vain, without a grudging heart, 
To him who gives us all, I yield a part; 
From him you come, for him accept it here, 
A frank and sober, more than costly cheer. 
He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread. 
Then talk of virtue till the time of bed. 
When the grave household round his hall repair, 
Warn'd by a bell, and close the hours with prayer. 

At length the world, renew'd by calm repose. 
Was strong for toil ; the dappled morn arose; 
Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept 
Near the closed cradle where an infant slept. 
And wriihfcd his neck: the landlord's little pride 
(O strange return!) grew black, and gasp'd, and 
died. 



Horrors of horrors ! what, his only son ! 
How look'd our hermit when the fact was done] 
Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part. 
And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart. 

Confused, and struck with silence at the deed, 
He flies, but trembling fails to fly with speed. 
His steps the youth pursues ; the country lay 
Perplex'd with roads; a servant show'd the way: 
A river cross'd the path ; the passage o'er 
Was nice to find; the servant trod before ; 
Long arms of oaks an open bridge sui>plied, 
And deep the waves beneath the bending glide. 
The youth, who seem'd to watch a time to sin, 
Approach'd the careless guide, and thrust him in ; 
Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his bead. 
Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead. 

Wild sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes, 
He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries, 
Detested wretch ! — But scarce his speech began, 
When the strange partner seem'd no longer man: 
His youthful face grew more serenely sweet; 
His robe turn'd white, and flow'd upon his feet, 
Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair; 
Celestial odours breathe through purpled air; 
And wings, whose colours glitter'd on the day, 
Wide at his back their gradual plumes display. 
The form elherial burst upon his sight, 
And moves in all the majesty of light. 

Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew 
Sudden he gazed, and wist not what to do; 
Surprise in secret chains his words suspends, 
And in a calm his settling temper ends. 
But silence here the beauteous angel broke 
(The voice of music ravish'd as he spoke.) 

Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown, 
In sweet memorial rise before the throne : 
These charms success in our bright region find, 
And force an angel down to calm thy mind ; 
For this, commission'd, I forsook the sky ; 
Nay, cease to kneel — thy fellow-servant I. 

Then know the truth of government divine. 
And let these scruples be no longer thine. 

The Maker justly claims that world he made, 
In this the right of Providence is laid ; 
Its sacred majesty through all depends 
On using second means to work his ends : 
'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye, 
The Power exerts his attributes on high; 
Your actions uses, nor controls your will, 
And bids the doubting sons of men be still. 

What strange events can strike with more 
surprise, 
[ Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyesl 

Yet, taught by these, confess th' Almighty just, 
{ And where you can't unriddle, learn to trust ! 
! 

I The great, vain man, who fared on costly food, 
I Whose life was too luxurious to be good — 



THOMAS PARNELL. 



379 



Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine, 
And forced his guests to morning draughts ol'wine, 
Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost, 
A»d still he welcomes, but with less of cost. 

The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted door 
Ne'er moved in duty to the wandering poor ; 
With him I left the cup, to teach his mind 
That Heaven can bless' if mortals will be kind. 
Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl, 
And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. 
Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead, 
With heaping coals of fire ufion its head ; 
In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, 
And loose from dross the silver runs below. 

Long had our pious friend in virtue trod. 
But now the child halfwean'd his heart from God; 
(Child of his age) for him he lived in pain. 
And measured back his steps to earth again. 
To what excesses had his dotage run ! 
But God, to save the father, took the son. 
To all but thee, in fits he seem'd to go, 
(And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow) ; 
The poor fond parent humbled, in the dust, 
Now owns in tears the punishment was just. 

But now had all his fortune felt a wrack, 
Had that false servant sped in safety back ; 
This*" night his treasured heaps he meant to steal, 
And what a fund of charity would fail ! 
Thus Heaven instructs thy mind : this trial o'er, 
Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more. 

On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew. 
The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew. 
Thus look'd Elisha when, to mount on high, 
His master took the chariot of the sky ; 
The fiery pomp ascending, left to view ; 
The prophet gazed, and wish'd to follow too. 

The bending hermit here a prayer begun, 
<' Lord ! as in heaven, on earth thy will be done !" 
Then, gladly turning, sought his ancient place, 
And pass'd a life of piety and peace. 



PIETY, OR THE VISION. 

'TwAS when the night in silent sable fled. 
When cheerful morning sprung with rising red. 
When dreams and vapours leave to crowd the brain. 
And best the vision draws its heavenly scene ; 
'Twas then, as slumbering on my couch I lay, 
A sudden splendour seem'd to kindle day, 
A breeze came breathing in a sweet perfume. 
Blown from eternal gardens, fiU'd the room ; 
And in a void of blue, that clouds invest, 
Appcar'd a daughter of the realms of rest; 
Her head a ring of golden glory wore. 
Her honour'd hand the sacred volume bore, 
Her raiment glittering seem'd a silver white, 
And all her sweet companions sons of light. 

Straight as I gazed, my fear and wonder grew, 
Fear barr'd my voice, and wonder fix'd my view; 
When lo ! a cherub of the shining crowd 
That sail'd as guardian in her azure cloud, 



Fann'd the soft air, and downward seem'd to glide, 
And to my lips a living coal applied. 
Then while the warmth o'er all my pulses ran, 
Diliusing comfort, thus the maid began : 

" Where glorious mansions are prepared above, 
The seats of music, and the seats of love, 
Thence I descend, and Piety my name. 
To warm thy bosom with celestial flame, 
To teach thee praises mix'd with humble prayers. 
And tune thy soul to sing seraphic airs. 
Be thou my bard." A vial here she csjnght 
(An angel's hand the crystal vial brought) ; 
And as with awful sound the word was said. 
She pour'd a sacred unction on my head ; 
Then thus proceeded : "Be thy muse thy zeal. 
Dare to be good, and all my joys reveal. 
While other pencils flattering forms create. 
And paint the gaudy plumes that deck the great; 
While other pens exalt the vain delight. 
Whose wasteful revel wakes the depth of night; 
Or others softly sing in idle lines 
How Damon courts, or Amaryllis shines ; 
More wisely thou select a theme divine. 
Fame is their recompense, 'tis Heaven is thine. 
Despise the raptures of discorded fire, 
Where wine, or passion, or applause inspire 
Low restless life, and ravings born of earth, 
Whose meaner subjects speak their humble birth. 
Like working seas, that when loud winters blow. 
Not made for rising, only rage below. 
Mine is a warm, and yet a lambent heat, 
More lasting still, as more intensely great; 
Produced where prayer, and praise, and pleasure 

breathe. 
And ever mounting whence it shot beneath. 
Unpaint the love, that, hovering over beds 
From glittering pinions, guilty pleasure sheds ; 
Restore the colour to the golden mines 
With which behind the feather'd idol shines ; 
To flowering greens give back their native care, 
The rose and lily, never his to wear ; 
To sweet Arabia send the balmy breath; 
Strip the fair flesh, and call the phantom Death: 
His bow he sabled o'er, his shafts the same. 
And fork and point them with eternal flame. 

" But urge thy powers, thine utmost voice 
advance. 
Make the loud strings against thy fingers dance : 
'Tis love that angels praise and men adore, 
'Tis love divine that asks it all and more. 
Fling back the gates of ever-blazing day. 
Pour floods of liquid light to gild the way ; 
And all in glory wrapt, through paths untrod, 
Pursue the great unseen descent of God. 
Hail the meek virgin, bid the child appear. 
The child is God, and call him Jesus here. 
He comes, but where to rest? A manger's nigh. 
Make the great Being in a manger lie; 
Fill the wide sky with angels on the wing, 
Make thousands gaze, and make te.n thousand sing 
Let men afflict him, men he came to save, 
And still afflict him till he reach the grave ; 
Make him resign'd, his loads of sorrow meet. 
And me, like Mary, weep beneath hia feet ; 



380 



THOMAS PARNELL. 



I'll bathe my tresses there, my prayers rehearse, 
And glide in flames of love along my verse. 

"Ah ! while I speak, I feel my bosom swell, 
My raptures smother what I long to tell. 
'Tis God ! a present God ! through cleaving air 
I see the throne, and see the Jesus there 
Placed on the right. He shows the wounds he bore 
(iMy fervours oft have won him thus before) : 
How pleased he looks, my words have reach'd his 
He bids the gates unbar, and calls me near." [ear ; 

She ceased. The cloud on which she seem'd to 
tread 
Its curls unfolded, and around her spread ; 
Bright angels waft their wings to raise the cloud, 
And sweep their ivory lutes, and sing aloud ; 
The scene moves off, while all its ambient sky 
Is turn'd to wondrous music as they fly ; 
And soft the swelling sounds of music grow, 
And faint their softness, till they fail below. 

My downy sleep the warmth of Phoebus broke, 
And while my thoughts were settling, thus I spoke : 
Thou beauteous vision ! on the soul impress'd, 
When most my reason would appear to rest, 
'Twas sure with pencils dipp'd in various lights. 
Some curious angel limn'd thy sacred sights; 
From blazing suns his radiant gold he drew, 
While moons the silver gave, and air the blue. 
I'll mount the roving wind's expanded wing, 
And seek the sacred hill, and light to sing 
('Tis known in Jewry well) ; I'll make my lays, 
Obedient to thy summons, sound with praise. 

But still I fear, unwarm'd with holy flame, 
I take for truth the flatteries of a dream ; 
And barely wish the wondrous gift I boast, 
And faintly practise what deserves it most. 

Indulgent Lord ! whose gracious love displays 
Joy in the light, and fills the dark with ease ! 
Be this, to bless my days, no dream of bliss ; 
Or be, to bless the nights, my dreams like this. 



IIYMN TO CONTENTMENT. 
Lovely, lasting peace of mind 
Sweet delight of human kind ! 
Heavenly born, and bred on high. 
To crown the favourites of the sky 
With more of happiness below 
Than victors in a triumph know ! 
Whither, whither art thou fled. 
To lay thy meek contented head ; 
What happy region dost thou please 
To make the seat of calms and ease ! 

Ambition searches all its sphere 
Of pomp and state to meet thee there. 
Increasing avarice would find 
Thy presence in its gold enshrined. 
The bold adventurer ploughs his way 
Through rocks amidst the foaming sea, 
To gain thy love; and then perceives 
Thou wert not in the rocks and waves. 



The silent heart, which grief assails. 

Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales, 

Sees da'sies open, rivers run. 

And seeks (as I have vainly done) 

Amusing thought; but learns to know 

That solitude's the nurse of woe. 

No real happiness is found 

In trailing purple o'er the ground: 

Or in a soul exalted high. 

To range the circuit of the sky. 

Converse with stars above, and know 

All nature in its forms below ; 

The rest it seeks, in seeking dies, 

And doubts at last, for knowledge, rise. 

Lovely, lasting peace, appear. 
This world itself, if thou art here, 
Is once again with Eden blest. 
And man contains it in his breast. 

'Twas thus, as under shade I stood, 
I sung my wishes to the wood, 
And, lost in thought, no more perceived 
The branches whisper as they waved: 
It seem'd as all the quiet place 
Confess'd the presence of his grace. 
When thus she spoke — Go rule thy will, 
Bid thy wild passions all be still. 
Know God — and bring thy heart to know 
The joys which froni religion flow : 
Then every grace shall prove its guest. 
And I'll be there to crown the rest. 

Oh ! by yonder mossy seat, 
In my hours of sweet retreat. 
Might I thus my soul employ, 
With sense of gratitude and joy; 
Raised as ancient prophets were. 
In heavenly vision, praise and prayer, 
Pleasing all men, hurting none. 
Pleased and bless'd with God alone: 
Then while the gardens take my sight. 
With all the colours of delight; 
While silver waters glide along. 
To please my ear, and court my song; 
I'll lift my voice, and tune my string. 
And thee, great Source of nature, sing. 

The sun that walks his airy way. 
To light the world, and give the day ; 
The moon that shines with borrow'd light 
The stars that gild the gloomy night ; 
The seas that roll unnuinber'd waves; 
The wood that spreads its shady leaves ; 
'J'he field whose ears conceal the grain. 
The yellow treasure of the plain; 
All of these, and all I see. 
Should be sung, and sung by me: 
They speak their Maker as they can. 
But want and ask the tongue of man. 

Go search among your idle dreams. 
Your busy or your vain extremes; 
And find a life of equal bliss, 
Or own the next begun in this. 



NICHOLAS ROWE. 



[Born, 1673. Died, 1718.] 



RowE was entered of the Middle Temple at 
sixteen, but, forsaking the law, commenced his 
dramatic career at the age of twenty-five. On 



the accession of George I. he was made poei 
laureate and land-surveyor of the customs in th<» 
port of London. 



FROM THE "FAIR PENITENT." 

ACT II. SCENE I. 

Tiucilla conjuring Calista to conquer her passion for 
Lothario. 

Cal, Be dumb for ever, silent as the grave, 
Nor let thy fond officious love disturb 
My solemn sadness with the sound of joy ! 
If thou wilt soothe me, tell me some dismal tale 
Of pining discontent and black despair; 
For, oh ! I've gone around through all my thoughts, 
But all are indignation, love, or shame, 
And aiy dear peace of mind is lost for ever ! 

Luc. Whydoyou followstill that wandering fire, 
That has misled your weary steps, and leaves you 
Benighted in a wilderness of woe, 
That false Lothario ] Turn from the deceiver ; 
I'urn, and behold where gentle Altamont, 
Kind as the softest virgin of our sex. 
And faithful as the simple village swain. 
That never knew the courtly vice of changing. 
Sighs at your feet, and woos you to be happy. 

Cut. Away ! I think not of him. My sad soul 
Has form'd a dismal melancholy scene. 
Such a retreat as I would wish to find; 
An unfrequented vale, o'ergrovvn with trees, 
Mossy and old, within who.se lonesome shade 
Ravens, and birds ill-omen'd, only dwell: 
No sound to break the silence, but a brook 
That, bubbling, winds among the weeds: no mark 
Of any human shape that had been there. 
Unless a skeleton of some poor wretch. 
Who had long since, like me, by love undone, 
Sought thnt sad place out to despair and die in ! 

Luc. Alas, for pity ! 

Cul. There I fain would hide me 
From the base world, from malice, andfromshame; 
For 'tis the solemn counsel of my soul 
Never to live with public loss of honour: 
'Tis fi.x'd to die, rather than bear the insolence 
Ot each aflected she that tells my story. 
And blesses her good stars that she is virtuous. 
To be a tale for fools ! scorn 'd by the women, 
And pitied by the men! Oh, insupportable! 

Lui. Can you perceive the man.fcstdestruction, 
The gaping gull' that opens just before you, 
And yet rush on, though conscious of the danger? 
Oh, hear me, hear your ever faithful creature; 
By all the good I wish, by all the ill 
Mv trembling heart forebodes, let me intreat you 



Never to see this faithless man again : 
Let me forbid his coming. 

Cal. On thy life 
I charge thee no: my genius drives me on; 
I must, I will behold him once again; 
Perhaps it is the crisis of my fate, 
And this one interview shall end my cares. 
My labouring heart, that swells with indignation, 
Heaves to discharge the burden ; that once done, 
The bu.-y thing shall rest within its cell, 
And never beat again. 



ACT T. SCENE I. 

Sciolto, the fnther of Cnlista, finds her watrhing the dead 
body of Lothario by lamp-light, in a room hung round 
with black. 

Scl. This dead of night, this silent hour of 
darkness. 
Nature for rest ordain'd, and soft repose ; 
And yet distraction, and tumultuous jars, 
Keep all our frighted citizens awake : 
The senate, weak, divided, and irresolute, 
Want power to succoiSr the afilicted state. 
Vainly in words and long debates they're wise. 
While the fierce factions scorn their peaceful 

orders. 
And drown the voice of law, in noise and anarchy. 
Amidst the general wreck, see where she stands, 
[Foinling to Caj-ista 
liike Helen in the night when Troy was sack'd, 
Spectatress of the mischief which she made. 

Cul. It is Sciolto ! Be thyself, my soul ; 
Be strong to bear his fatal indignation. 
That he may see thou art not lost so far, 
But somewhat still of his great spirit lives 
In the forlorn Calista. 

Sri. Thou wert once 
My daughter. 

Cal. Happy were it had I died, 
And never lost that name! 

ScL That's something yet; 
Thou wert the very darling of my age: 
I thought the day too short to gaze upon thee. 
That all the blessings I could gather for thee, 
By cares on earth, and by my prayers to heaven 
Were little for my fondness to bestow ; 
Why didst thou turn to folly, then, and curse me' 

Cul. Because my soul was rudely drawn 'lom 
yours, 

381 



382 



NICHOLAS ROWE. 



A poor imperfect copy of my father, 

Wiiere goodness, and the strength of l anly 

virtue, 
Was thinly planted, and the idle void 
Fill'd up with light belief, and easy fondness; 
It was because I loved, and was a woman. 

Sci. Hadst thou been honest, thou hadst been 
a cherubim ; 
But of that joy, as of a gem long lost, 
Beyond redemption gone, think we no more. 
Hast thou e'er dared to meditate on death 1 
Cul. I have, as on the end of shame and sorrow. 
Sri. Ha! answer me! Say, hast thou coolly 
thought] 
'Tis not the stoic's lessons got by rote, 
The pomp of words, and pedant dissertations, 
That can sustain thee in that hour of terror; 
Books have taught cowards to talk nol)ly of it, 
But when the trial conies, they stand aghast; 
Hast thou consider'd what may happen after it? 
How thy account may stand, and what to answer? 
Cal. I have turn'd my eyes inward upon myself. 
Where foul offence and shame have laid all waste ; 
Therefore my soul abhors the wretched dwelling. 
And longs to find some better place of rest. 
Sci. 'Tis justly thought, and worthy of that 
spirit. 
That dwelt in ancient Latian breasts, when Rome 
Was mistress of the world. I would go on, 
And tell thee al! my purpose; but it sticks 
Here at my heart, and cannot find a way. 

Cul. Then spare the telling, if it be a pain, 

And write the meaning with your poniard here. 

<SVi. Oh! truly guess'd — see'st thou this 

trembling hand — [HaUlinfiupadagge.r. 

Thrice justice urged — and thrice the slackening 

sinews 
Forgot their office, and confess'd the father. 
At length the stubborn virtue has prevail'd. 
It must, it must be so — Oh ! take it then, 

[Giving Uie dagger. 
And know the rest untaught ! 

Cul. I understand you. 
It is but thus, and both are satisfied. 

[Slie offers to hill herself: Sciolto catches hold of 
Iter arm. 
Sii. A moment ! give me yet a moment's 
space. 
The stern, the rigid judge has been obey'd ; 
Now nature, and the father, claim their turns. 
I've held the balance with an iron hand, 
And put off every tender human thought. 
To doom my child to death ; but spare my eyes 
The most unnatural sight, lest their strings crack. 
My old brain split, and I grow mad with horror! 

Cal. Ha ! Is it possible ! and is there yet 
Some little dear remains of love and tenderness 
For poor, undone Calista, in your heart 1 

Sci. Oh ! when I think what pleasure I took 
in thee. 
What joys thou gavest me in thy prattling infancy 
Thy sprightly wit, and early blooming beauty ! 
How have I stood, and fed my eyes upon tliee, 
Then, lifting up my hands, nnd wondering, 
oless'd thee — 



By my strong grief, my heart even melts within 

me ; 
I could curse Nature, and that tyrant. Honour, 
For making me thy father, and thy judge; 
Ihou art my daughter still! 
Cul. For that kind word, 
Thus let me fall, thus humbly to the earth, 
Weep on your feet, and bless you for this goodness. 
Oh ! 'tis too much for this offending wretch. 
This parricide, that murders with her crimes. 
Shortens her father's age, and cuts him off. 
Ere little more than half his years be number'd. 
Sci. Would it were otherwise — but thou must 

die!— 
Cal. That I must die, it is my only comfort ; 
Death is the privilege of human nature. 
And life without it were not worth our taking : 
Thither the poor, the prisoner, and the mourner, 
Fly for relief, and lay their burthens down. 
Come then, and take me into thy cold arms, 
Thou meagre shade ! here let me breathe my 

last, 
Charm'd with my father's pity and forgiveness, ■ 
More than if angels tuned their golden viols. 
And sung a requiem to my parting soul. 

Sci. I am summon'd hence ; ere this my friends 

expect me. 
There is I know not what of sad presage. 
That tells me I shall never see thee more ; 
If it be so, this is our last farewell. 
And these the parting pangs which nature reels. 
When anguish rends the heart-strings. — Oh my 
daughter ! [Hxit S ;iolto. 

Cal. Now think, thou cursed Calista ! now 

behold 
The desolation, horror, blood, and ruin. 
Thy crimes and fatal folly spread around, 
That loudly cry for vengeance on thy head. 
Yet Heaven, who knows our weak imperfect 

natures. 
How blind with passions, and how prone to evil, 
Makes not too strict inquiry for offences. 
But is atoned by penitence and prayer: 
Cheap recompense ! here 'twould not be received. 
Nothing but blood can make the expiation. 
And cleanse the soul irom inbred, deep pollution.— 
And see, another injured wretch is come. 
To call for justice from my tardy hand. 

Siilir Altamont. 
Jit. Hail to you, horrors! hail, thou house of 

death! 
And thou, the lovely mistress of the shades. 
Whose beauty gilds the more than midnight 

darkness, 
And makes it grateful as the dawn of day. 
Ah, take me in, a fellow-mourner, with thee! 
I'll number groan for groan, and tear for tear; 
And when the fountain of thy eyes is dry. 
Mine shall suj)ply the stream, and weep for both. 
Cul. I know thee well; thou art the injured 

Aitamont, 
Thou comest to urge me with the wrongs I've 

done thee ; 
But know, I stand upon the brink of life. 



NIf'HOLAS ROWE. 



And in a moment mean to set me free 
From shame and thy uphraiding. 

Jit. Falsely, falsely 
Dost thou accuse me ! When did I complain, 
Or murmur at my fatel For thfse I have 
Forgot the temper of Italian husbands, 
And fondness has prevail'd upon revenge. 
I bore my load of infamy with patience, 
As holy men do punishment from heaven; 
Nor thought it hard, because it came from thee. 
Oh, then, forbid me not to mourn thy loss, 
To wish some better fate had ruled our loves, 
And that Calista had been mine, and true. 

Cal. Oh, Altamont! 'tis hard for souls like 
mine. 
Haughty and fierce, to yield they've done amiss. 
But, oh, behold! my proud disdainful heart 
Bends to thy gentler virtue. Yes, I own, 
Such is thy truth, thy tenderness, and love, 
Such are the graces that adorn thy youth, 
That, were I not abandon'd to destruction. 
With thee I might have lived for ages blest. 
And died in peace within thy faithful arms. 

Alt. Then happiness is stdl within our reach. 
Here let remembrance lose our past misfortunes, 
Tear all records that held the fatal story; 
Here let our joys begin, from hence go on, 
In long successive order. 

Cul. What! in death! 

Mt. Then thou art fix'd to diel — But be it so; 
We'll go together; my adventurous love 
Shall follow thee to those uncertain beings. 
Whether our lifeless shades are doom'd to wander 
In gloomy groves, with discontented ghosts; 
Or whether through the upper air we flit. 
And tread the fields of light; still I'll pursue 

thee. 
Till fate ordains that we shall part no more. 

Cal. Oh, no ! Heaven has some other better 
lot in store 
To crown thee with. Live, and be happy long : 
Live, for some maid that shall deserve thy good- 
ness, 
Some kind, unpractised heart, that never yet 
Has listen'd to the false ones of thy sex. 
Nor known the arts of ours ; she shall reward 

thee, 
Meet thee with virtues equal to thy own. 
Charm thee with sweetness, beauty, and with 

truth; 
Be blest in thee alone, and thou in her. 



COLIN'S COMPLAINT. 
Despairing beside a clear stream, 

A shepherd forsaken was laid ; 
And while a false nymph was his theme, 

A willow supported his head. 



The wind that blew over the plain. 
To his sighs with a sigh did reply, 

And the brook, in return to his pain, 
Ran .•nournfully murmuring by. 

Alas! silly swain that I was! 

Thus sadly complaining he cried; 
When first I beheld that fair face, 

'Tvv ere better by far I had died : 
She taik'd, and I bless'd her dear tongue, 

When she smiled, 'twas a pleasure too great, 
I listen'd, and cried when she sung. 

Was nightingale ever so sweet! 

How foolish was I to believe. 

She could dote on so lowly a clown, 
Or that her fond heart would not grieve 

To forsake the fine folk of the town ; 
To think that a beauty so gay 

So kind and so constant would prove, 
Or go clad, like our maidens, in gray. 

Or live in a cottage on love ! 

What though I have skill to complain. 

Though the muses my temples have crown'd, 
What though, when they hear my soft strain, 

The virgins sit weeping around 1 
Ah, Colin ! thy hopes are in vain. 

Thy pipe and thy laurel resign. 
Thy false one inclines to a swain 

Whose music is sweeter than thine. 

All you, my companions so dear. 

Who sorrow to see me betray 'd, 
Whatever I sutler, forbear. 

Forbear to accuse the false maid. 
Though through the wide world I should range, 

'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly ; 
'Twas hers to be false and to change, 

'Tis mine to be constant and die. 

If while my hard fate I sustain. 

In her breast any pity is found. 
Let her come with the nymphs of the plain, 

And see me laid low in the ground: 
The last humble boon that I crave. 

Is to shade me with cypress and yew ; 
And when she looks down on my grave, 

Let her own that her shepherd was true 

Then to her new love let her go. 

And deck her in golden array; 
Be finest at every fine show. 

And frolic it all the long day : 
While Colin, forgotten and gone. 

No more shall be taik'd of or seen. 
Unless when beneath the pale moon. 

His ghost shall glide over the green.* 



[* This by Mr. ROwe is better than any thing ef lli« kind 
1 our language. — Goldsmith.] 



SAMUEL GARTH. 



Samttri *»>ftb "vas an eminent physician, an 
accomplisheo schoUi, diu( a benevolent man. 
No fcuils, bt'..vt m jyoiiiics or literature, es- 
traiigetl him from litrrcry niert where he found 
(l. He was an early encojrrtger of Pope, and 
at the same time the friewd o<' Addison and 
(iranville; a zealous Whig, but the warm ad- 
mirer of Dryden, whose funeral oration he pro- 
nounced. His Dispensary was M-utren from a 
more honourable motive than satlit generally 



possesses, viz. the promotion of charity, being m 
tended to ridicule the selfishness of the apothe- 
caries, and of some of the faculty, who opposed 
an institution that was meant to furnish the 
poor with medicines gratuitously.* It is an 
obvious imitation of the Lutrin. Warton blames 
the poet for making the fury, Disease, talk like 
a critic. It is certain, however, that criticism 
is often a disease, and can sometimes talk like 
a fury. 



THE DISPENSARY. CANTO I 
Spkak, goddess ! since 'tis thou that be»t * anst tell 
How ancient leagues to modern disco.u /ell ; 
And why physicians were so cautious grown 
Of others' lives, and lavish of their own ; 
How by a journey to th' Elysian plain 
Peace triumph'd, and old Time return'd pgnin. 

Not far from that most celebrated place, 
Where angry Justice shows her awful face; 
Where little villains must submit to fate. 
That great ones may enjoy the world in sinie ; 
There stands a dome, majestic to the sight. 
And sumptuous arches bear its oval height; 
A golden globe, placed high with artful skill 
Seems, to the distant sight, a gilded pill : 
This pile was, by the pious patron's aim, 
Raised for a use as noble as its frame; 
Nor did the learn'd society decline 
The propagation of that great design ; 
In all her mazes, nature's face they view'd, 
And, as she disappear'd, their search pursued. 
Wrapp'd in the shade of night the goddess lies, 
Yet to the learn'd unveils her dark disguise. 
But shuns the gross access of vulgar eyes. 

Now she unfolds the faint and dawning strife 
Of infant atoms kindling into life ; ' 
How ductile matter new meanders takes, 
And slender trains of twisting fibres makes; 

[* The origin of the Dispensary has not hitherto bi'en 
explniiieil Hi;h sufficient fulness or acpurnoy; tliere wiis 
a selfish motive on the part of Garth and his associates for 
this college (harity to the poor. Soon after the liestora- 
tiou, the apotheeariea 

taught the art 
By doctors' bills to play the doctors part, 

ventured out of their assigned walk of life, and to oom- 
poundipg added the art of prescription. This was tread- 
ing' iujuriousjy, it wa.s thought, on the peculiar province 
of the College of f hysiciaus, who, incens.d at the intru- 
sion of the drug,-ist gentry, advertiscul that they wou d 
give cdvice gialis to the poor, ai;d estiblish » dispensary 
of their own, f >r the sale of medicines at their intrinsic 
value. Hence the lo-tility so ludicrously dei-icied in this 
poem by (iaith, and the une.xplaineJ aUusiou of Dryden 
in his epistle to hid Chesterton cousin — 
384 



And how the viscous seeks a closer tone, 

By just degrees to harden into bone ; 

While the more loose flow from the vital urn. 

And in full tides of purple streams return; 

How lambent flames from life's bright lamps 

arise, 
And dart in emanation through the eyes; 
How from each sluice a gentle torrent pours. 
To slake a feverish heat with ambient showers ; 
Whence their mechanic powers the spirits claim; 
How great their force, how delicate their frame; 
How the same nerves are fashion'd to sustain 
The greatest pleasure and the greatest pain ; 
Why bilious juice a golden light puts on, 
And floods of chyle in sil-ver currents run ; 
How the dim speck of entity began 
T' extend its recent form, and stretch to man ; 
To how minute an origin we owe 
Young Ammon, Ctesar, and the great Nassau; 
W'hy paler looks impetuous rage proclaim, 
And why chill virgins redden into flame; 
Why envy oft transforms with wan disguise. 
And why gay mirth sits smiling in the eyes; 
All ice, why Lucrece; or Sempronia, fire; 
Why Scarsdale rages to survive desire ; 
When Milo's vigour at the Olympic's shown, 
Whence tropes to Finch, or impudence to Sloane; 
How matter, by the varied shape of pores. 
Or idiots frames, or solemn senators. 



The apothecary train is wholly blind. 

From files a random recije they take. 

And many deaths of one prescription make. 

Garth, generous as his .^luse, prescril es ar.d gives: 

The shopman sells, and by destruction lives. 

It appears from the law reports of the time, that the 
College of I'hysicians brou;;Lt a penal a(tion. under its 
charter, against one 1 ose, an apothecary, for attending a 
butcher, and that the Couit of Queen's Dench do<ided in 
their favour, that the making up and couipoui.ding of 
medicines w.is the business of an apothecary, but the 
ju<lying wh!,t was proper for the ca'e, and advising what 
to take for that purpose, wiis the business of a physici;;n. 
The House of Lo ds. in 171)3, reversed this decision: and 
since then, it has leen the law of the land that apotheoa- 
ties may advise as well as administer.] 



SAMUEL GARTH. 



385 



Hence 'tis we wait the wondrous cause to find, 
How body acts upon impassive mind ; 
How fumes of wine the thiniiing part can fire, 
Past hopes revive, and present joys inspire ; 
Why our complexions oft our soul declare. 
And how the passions in the feature are; 
How touch and harmony arise between 
Corporeal figure, and a form unseen ; 
How quick their faculties the limbs fulfil, 
And act at every summons of the will. 
With mighty truths, mysterious to descry. 
Which in the womb of distant causes lie. 

But now no grand inquiries are descried. 
Mean faction reigns where knowledge should 

preside, 
Feuds are increased, and learning laid aside. 
Thus synods oft concern for faith conceal, 
And for important nothings show a zeal: 
The drooping sciences neglected pine, 
And Paean's beams with fading lustre shine. 
No readers here with hectic looks are found, 
Nor eyes in rheum, through midnight-watching, 

drowji'd ; 
The lonely edifice in sweats complains 
That nothing there but sullen silence reigns. 

This place, so fit for undisturb'd repose. 
The God of Sloth for his asylum chose ; 
Upon a couch of down, in these abodes. 
Supine with folded arms he thoughtless nods; 
Indulging dreams, his godhead lull to ease. 
With murmurs of soft rills, and whispering trees: 
Tlie poppy and each numbing plant dispense 
Their drowsy virtue, and dull indolence ; 
No passions interrupt his easy reign. 
No problems puzzle his lethargic brain ; 
But dark oblivion guards his peaceful bed. 
And lazy fogs hangs lingering o'er his head. 

As at full length the pamper'd monarch lay, 
Battening in ease, and slumbering life away ; 
A spiteful noise his downy chains unties. 
Hastes forward, and increases as it flies. 

First, some to cleave the stubborn flint engage. 
Till, urged by blows, it sparkles into rage: 
Some temper lute, some spacious vessels move; 
These furnaces erect, and those approve ; 
Here phials in nice discipline are set. 
There gallipots are ranged in alphabet. 
In this place, magazines of pills you spy: 
In that, like forage, herbs in bundles lie;' 
While lifted pestles, brandish'd in the air. 
Descend in peals, and civil wars declare. 
Loud strokes, with pounding spice, the fabric rend, 
And aromatic clouds in spires ascend. 

So when the Cyclops o'er their anvils sweat. 
And swelling sinews echoing blows repeat ; 
From the volcanos gross eruptions rise. 
And curling sheets of smoke obscure the skies. 

The slumbering god, amazed at this new din, 
Thri9e strove to rise, and thrice sunk down again. 



Listless he stretch'd, and gaping rubb'd his eyes. 
Then falter'd thus betwixt half words and sighs. 

How impotent a deity am I ! 
With godhead born, but cursed, that cannot die! 
Through my indulgence, mortals hourly share 
A grateful negligence, and ease from care. 
LuH'd in my arms, how long have I withheld 
The northern monarchs from the dusty field! 
How I have kept the British fleet at ease. 
From tempting the rough dangers of the seas ! 
Hibernia owns the mildness of my reign, 

I And my divinity's adored in Spain. 

I I swains to sylvan solitudes convey. 
Where, stretch'd on mossy beds, they waste away 

I In gentle joys the night, in vows the day. 
What marks of wondrous clemency I've shown, 

; Some reverend worthies of the gown can own : 

I Triumphant plenty, with a cheerful grace. 
Basks in their eyes, and sparkles in their face. 
How sleek their looks, how goodly is their mien, 
When big they strut behind a double chin ! 
Each faculty in blandishments they lull, 
Aspiring to be venerably dull; 
No learn'd debates molest their downy trance. 
Or discompose their pompous ignorance ; 
But, undisturb'd, they loiter life away. 
So wither green, and blossom in decay; 
Deep sunk in down, they, by my gentle care. 
Avoid th' inclemencies of morning air. 
And leave to tatter'd crape the drudgery of prayer 

Urim was civil, and not void of sense. 
Had humour, and a courteous confidence : 
So spruce he moves, so gracefully he cocks, 
The hallow'd rose declares him orthodox: 
He pass'd his easy hours, instead of prayer. 
In madrigals, and phillysing the fair; 
Constant at feasts, and each decorum knew. 
And soon as the dessert appear'd, withdrew; 
Always obliging, and without ottence. 
And fancied, for his gay impertinence. 
But see how ill mistaken parts succeed; 
He threw oft' my dominion, and would read ; 
Engaged in controversy, wrangled well ; 
In convocation language could excel; 
In volumes proved the church without defence, 
By nothing guarded but by Providence ; 
How grace and moderation disagree. 
And violence advances charity. 
Thus writ till none would read, becoming soon 
A wretched scribbler, of a rare bufibon. 

Mankind my fond propitious power has trif.d. 
Too oft to own, too much to be denied. 
And all I ask are shades and silent bowers. 
To pass in soft forgetfulness my hours. 
Oft have my fears some distant villa chose. 
O'er their quietus where fat judges doze. 
And lull their cough and conscience to repose . 
Or, if some cloister's refuge I implore, 
Where holy drones o'er dying tapers snore. 
The peals of Nassau's arms these eyes unclose, 
Mine he molests, to give the world repose 
That ease I oft'er with contempt he flies, 
I His couch a trench, his canopy the skies. 



Nor climes nor seasons his resolves control, 
The equator has no heat, no ice the pole. 
With arms resistless o'er the globe he flies, 
And leaves to Jove the empire of the skies. 

But, as the slothful god to yawn begun, 
He shook off the dull mist, and thus went on: 

'Twas in this reverend dome I sought repose, 
These walls were that asylum I had chose. 
Here have I ruled long undisturb'd with broils, 
And laugh'd at heroes, and their glorious toils. 
My annals are in mouldy mildews wrought, 
With easy insignificance of thought. 
But now some busy, enterprising brain 
Invents new fancies to renew my pain, 
And labours to dissolve my easy reign. 



With that, the god his darling phantom calU. 
And from his faltering lips this message falls : 

Since mortals will dispute my power, I'll try 
Who has the greatest empire, they or I. 
Find envy out ; some prince's court attend. 
Most likely there you'll meet the famish'd fiend; 
Or where dull critics authors' fate foretell; 
Or where stale maids, or meagre eunuchs, dwell; 
Tell the bleak fury what new projects reign 
Among the homicides of Warwick-lane ; 
And what the event, unless she straight inclines 
To blast their hopes, and baffle their designs. 

More he had spoke, but sudden vapours rise, 
And with their silken cords tie down his eyes. 



PETER ANTHONY MOTTEUX. 



[Born, 1660. Died, 1718.] 



The revocation of the Edict of Nantes brought 
over many ingenious artists to this country from 
France; but we should hardly have expected an 
increase to our poets among them : yet Peter 
Anthony Motteux, who was born and educated 
at Rouen in Normandy, was driven to England 
by the event of that persecution, and acquired 
so much knowledge of the language as to write 
a good translation of Don Quixote, and to be- 



come a successful writer in our drama. But his 
end was not so creditable : he was found dead 
in a disorderly house, in the parish of St. 
Clement Danes, and was supposed either to have 
been murdered, or to have met with his death 
from trying an experiment which is not fit to be 
repeated. He established himself respectably 
in trade, and had a good situation in the post- 
office. 



SONG. 

FROM "MARS AND VENUS." 

Scorn, though Beauty frowns, to tremble ; 

Lovers, boldly urge your flame ; 
For a woman will dissemble. 

Loves the joy, but hates the name. 

Her refusing, your pursuing. 

Yield alike a pleasing pain, 
Ever curing, and renewing. 

Soon appeased to rage again. 

If the soldier storms and rages. 
Face him with a lovely maid ; 

This his fury soon assuages, 
And the devil soon is laid. 

He ne'er conquers but by toiling, 
But the fair subdues with ease; 

Blood he sheds with hatred boiling, 
But the fair can kill and please. 



A RONDELEATJX. 
m "the mock marriage," bt scott. 

Man is for woman made. 
And woman made for man: 

As the spur is for the jade. 

As the scabbard for the blade, 
As for liquor is the can. 

So man's for woman made. 
And woman made for man. 

As the sceptre to be sway'd, 

As to night the serenade. 
As for pudding is the pan, 
As to cool us is the fan, 

So man's for woman made, 
And woman made for man. 

Be she widow, wife, or maid, 
Be she wanton, be she staid, 
Be she well or ill array'd, 

* * * 

So man's for woman made, 
And woman made for man. 



JOSEPH ADDISON. 

[Born, 1672. Died, 17190 



A LETTER FROM ITALY* 

T) THE RIGHT HONOURABLE CHARLES LORD HAUFAX. 

While you, my lord, the rural shades admire, 
And from Britannia's puhlic posts retire, 
]\'or longer, her ungrateful sons to please. 
For their advantage sacrifice your ease : 
Me into foreign realms my fate conveys. 
Through nations fruitful of immortal lays. 
Where the soft season and inviting clime 
Conspire to trouble your repose with rhyme. 

For wheresoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes. 
Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise, 
Poetic fields encompass me around, 
And still I seem to tread on classic ground ; 
For here the Muse so oft her harp has strung. 
That not a mountain rears its head unsung; 
Renown'd in verse each shady thicket grows, 
\nd every stream in heavenly numbers flows. 

How am I pleased to search the hills and 
woods 
'or rising springs and celebrated floods ! 

view the Nar, tumultuous in his course, 
And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his source; 
To see the Mincio draw his watery store. 
Through* the long windings of a fruitful shore; 
And hoary Albula's infected tide 
O'er the warm bed of smoking sulphur glide. 

Fired with a thousand raptures, I survey 
Eridanus through flowery meadows stray. 
The king of floods ! that, rolling o'er the plains. 
The towering Alps of half their moisture drains. 
And proudly swoln with a whole winter's snows. 
Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows. 

Sometimes, misguided by the tuneful throng, 
I look for streams immortalized in song. 
That lost in silence and oblivion lie, 
(Dumb are their fountains, and their channels 

dry,) 
Yet run for ever by the Muse's skill. 
And in the smooth description murmur still. 

Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire. 
And the famed river's empty shores admire, 
That, destitute of strength, derives its course 
From thirsty urns, and an unfruitful source ; 
Yet sung so often in poetic lays. 
With scorn the Danube and the Nile surveys; 

[* Few poems have done more honour to English genius 
than this. Tlieve is in it a strain of political thinking 
that was, at the time, new in our poetry. Had the har- 
mony of this been equal to I'opc's versification, it wouid 
'le iiicmitestahly tin- fncst pot m in our language; but 
there is a dryness in the numl ers which greatly lessens 
the pleasure excited by the poets judgment and imagina- 
tion.- UoLDbMnn.l 



So high the deathless Muse exalts her themci! 
Such was the Boyne, a poor inglorious stream, 
That in Hibernian vales obscurely stray'd. 
And unobserved in wild meanders play'd ; 
Till by your lines and Nassau's sword renown'd, 
Its rising billows through the world resound. 
Where'er the hero's godlike acts can pierce, 
Or where the fame of an immortal verse. 

Oh, could the Muse my ravish'd breast inspire 
With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire. 
Unnumber'd beauties in my verse should shine. 
And Virgil's Italy should yield to mine! 

See how the golden groves around me smile, 
That shun the coast of Britain's stormy isle. 
Or, when transplanted and preserved with care, 
Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern air. 
Here kindly warmth their mountain juice ferments 
To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents: 
Even the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom, 
And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume. 
Bear me, some god, to Baia's gentle seats, 
Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats; 
Where western gales eternally reside, 
And all the seasons lavish all their pride: 
Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers together rise 
And the whole year in gay confusion lies. 

Immortal glories in my mind revive, 
And in my soul a thousand passions .strive. 
When Rome's exalted beauties I descry 
Magnificent in piles of ruin lie. 
An amphitheatre's amazing height 
Here fills my eye with terror and delight. 
That, on its public shows, unpeopled Rome, 
And held, uncrowded, nations in its womb : 
Here pillars rough with sculpture pierce the skies. 
And here the proud triumphal arches rise. 
Where the old Romans, deathless acts display'd, 
Their base degenerate progeny upbraid : 
Whole rivers here forsake the fields below. 
And wondering at their height through airy chan 

nels flow. 
Still to new scenes my wandering Muse retires, 
And the dumb show of breathing rocks admires; 
Where the smooth chisel all its force has shown, 
And soften'd into flesh the rugged stone. 
In solemn silence, a majestic band. 
Heroes, and gods, and Roman consuls stand. 
Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown, 
And emperors in Parian marble frown; [sued, 
While the bright dames, to whom they humbly 
Still show the charms that their proud hearts 

subdued. 
Fain would I Raphael's godlike art rehearse, 
And show the immortal labours in my verse, 



388 



JOSEPH ADDISON. 



Where from the mingled strength of shade and 

light 
A new creation rises to my sight, 
Such heavenly figures from his pencil flow. 
So warm with life his blended colours glow. 
From theme to theme with secret pleasure toss'd, 
Amidst the soft variety I'm lost : 
Here pleasing airs my ravish'd soul confound 
With circling notes and labyrinths of sound ; 
Here domes and temples rise in distant views, 
And opening palaces invite my Muse. 

How has kind Heaven adorn'd the happy land, 
And scatter'd blessings with a wasteful hand ! 
But what avail her unexhausted stores, 
Her blooming mountains, and her sunny shores. 
With all the gifts that Heaven and earth impart, 
The smiles of nature, and the charms of art. 
While proud oppression in her valleys reigns, 
And tyranny usurps her happy plains! 
The poor inhabitant beholds in vain 
The reddening orange and the swelling grain: 
Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines. 
And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines : 
Starves, in the midst of nature's bounty curst. 
And in the loaden vineyard dies for thirst. 

O Liberty, thou goddess, heavenly bright. 
Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight! 
Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign, 
And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train ; 
Eased of her load subjection grows more light, 
And poverty looks cheerful in thy sight; 
Thou rnakest the gloomy flice of nature gay, 
Givest beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day. 

Thee, goddess, thee, Britannia's isle adores; 
How has she oft exhausted all her stores. 
How oft in fields of death thy presence sought. 
Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought! 
On foreign mountains may the sun refine 
The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine, 
With citron groves adorn a distant soil. 
And the fat olive swell with floods of oil: 
We envy not the warmer clime, that lies 
In ten degrees of more indulgent skies, 
Nor at the coarseness of our heaven repine. 
Though o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine; 
Tis liberty that crowns Britannia's isle, 
'Vud makes her barren rocks and her bleak moun- 
tains smile. 



AN ODE. 
How are thy servants blest, Lord ! 

How sure is their defence ! 
Eternal wisdom is their guide, 

Their help Omnipotence. 

In foreign realms, and lands remote. 

Supported by thy care. 
Through burning climes I pass'd unhurt. 

And breathed in tainted air. 

Thy mercy sweeten'd every soil. 

Made every region please : 
Th» hoary Alpine hills it warm'd, 

fi' i smoothed the Tyrrhene seas. 



Think, O my soul, devoutly think. 

How, with aflVighted eyes, 
Thou saw'st the wide-extended deep, 

In all its horrors rise. 

Confusion dweU on every face. 

And fear in every heart ! 
When waves on waves, and gulfs on gulfs, 

O'ercame the pilot's art. 

Yet then from all my griefs, Lord ! 

Thy mercy set me free ; 
Whilst in the confidence of prayer, 

My soul took hold on thee. 

For though in dreadful whirls we hung 

High on the broken wave, 
I knew thou wert not slow to hear. 

Nor impotent to save. 

The storm was laid, the winds retired, 

Obedient to thy will ; 
The sea, that roar'd at thy command, 

At thy command was still. 

In midst of dangers, fears, and death, 

Thy goodness I'll adore ; 
And praise thee for thy mercies past, 

And humbly hope for more. 

My life, if thou preservest my life, 

Thy sacrifice shall be; 
And death, if death must be my doom, 

Shall join my soul to thee. 



PARAPHRASE ON PSAUI XXHI. 

The Lord my pasture shall prepare. 
And feed me with a shepherd's care ; 
His presence shall my wants supply. 
And guard me with a watchful eye : 
My noon-day walks he shall attend. 
And all my midnight hours defend. 

When in the sultry glebe I faint. 
Or on the thirsty mountain pant; 
To fertile vales and dewy meads 
My weary, wandering steps he leads : 
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow. 
Amid the verdant landscape flow. 

Though in the paths of death I tread, 
With gloomy horrors overspread. 
My steadfast heart shall fear no ill. 
For thou, O Lord, art with me still ; 
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid. 
And guide me through the dreadful shade. 

Though in a bare and rugged way. 
Through devious, lonely wilds I stray, 
Thy bounty shall my wants beguile. 
The barren wilderness shall smile. 
With sudden greens and herbage crown'd, 
And streams shall murmur all around. 



MATTHEW PRIOR. 



[Boro, 1666. Died, 17710 



Prior was the nephew of the keeper of a 
tavern at Charing Cross, where he was found by 
the Earl of Dorset, and sent at his expense to he 
educated at Cambridge. By the same nobleman's 
influence he went as secretary with the Earl of 
Berkeley, our ambassador at the Hague, where 
King William was so pleased with his conduct 
as to appoint him one of the gentlemen of the 
bedchamber. In 1697 he was secretary of lega- 
tion at the treaty of Ryswick, and the next year 
held the same oiKce at the court of France. On 
his return, after having been with the king at 
Loo, he was made under secretary of state, and 
on losing his place at the Earl of Jersey's re- 
moval, he was made a commissioner of trade. 

He sat in the parliament that met in 1701 : 
but in the progress of Queen Anne's war, though 
he celebrated Blenheim and Ramillies as a poet, 
he deserted as a politician to the Tories, and 
accompanying Bolingbroke to Paris for pacific 



objects, remained there till he rose to the rank 
of ambassador, the duties of which office he had 
for some time previously fulfilled. The vindic- 
tive Whigs committed him to custody for two 
years, after his return, on a charge of high 
treason. At fifty-three years of age he found 
himself, after all his important employments, 
with no other means of subsistence than his fel- 
lowship at Cambridge ; but the publication of his 
poems by subscription, and the kindness of Lord 
Harley, restored him to easy circumstances for 
the rest of his life. 

Prior was one of the last of the race of poets 
who relied for ornament on scholastic allusion 
and pagan machinery; but he used them like 
Swift, more in jest than earnest, and with good 
effect.* In his Alma he contrives even to clo he 
metaphysics in the gay and colloquial plea- 
santry, which is the characteristic charm of his 
manner. 



THE LADY'S LOOKING-GLASS. 

IN IMITATION OP A GREEK IDTLUUM. 

Celia and I the other day 
Walk'd o'er the sand-hills to the sea : 
The setting sun adorn'd the coast, 
His beams entire, his fierceness lost : 
And, on the surface of the deep, 
The winds lay only not asleep: 
The nymph did like the scene appear, 
Serenely pleasant, calmly fair : 
Soft fell her words, as Hew the air. 
With secret joy I heard her say, • 
That she would never miss one day 
A walk so fine, a sight so gay. 

But, O the change ! the winds grow high; 
Impending tempests charge the sky; 
The lightning fiies, the thunder roars ; 
And big waves lash the frighten'd shores. 
Struck with the horror of the sight. 
She turns her head, and wings her flight; 
And, trembling, vows she'll ne'er again 
Approach the shore, or view the main. 

[* Prior's fictions are mytho'ogic-al. Venus, after the 
example of the tlreek t-pi^n-m, a.<ks when she was seen 
laked unci bathing. 'Iheii (.'upii,! is vtiatahen ; then Cupid 
^ disarmed ;\Wn he lojes his daftf to G.n^viede; tht^ii 
Ju/nler sends him a >umuiuus by M rcuiy. 'Ihmi Giloe 
goes a kuuting wiih an tcrij qairer yriioj'ul ut her side; 
liiiina mistakes lier for one of her nyniplis, and Cupid 
laughs at the blubder. AU this is surely det-picable. — 
Johnson. 



Once more at least look back, said I, 
Thyself in that large glass descry : 
When thou art in good humour drest; 
When gentle reason rules thy breast; 
The sun upon the calmest sea 
Appears not half so bright as thee : 
'Tis then that with delight I rove 
Upon the boundless depth of love : 
I bless my chain ; I hand my oar; 
Nor think on all I left on shore. 

But when vain doubt and groundless fea^ 
Do that dear foolish bosom tear; 
When the big lip and watery eye 
Tell me, the rising storm is nigh; 
'Tis then, thou art yon angry main, 
Deform'd by winds, and dash'd by rain: 
And the poor sailor, that must try 
Its fury, labours less than I. 

Shipwreck'd, in vain to land I make. 
While love and fate still drive me back: 
Forced to doat on thee thy own way, 
I chide thee first, and then obey : 
Wretched when from thee, vex'd when nigh, 
I with thee, or without thee, die. 



'• When Prior wrote," says Cowper, " Venus and Cupid 
were i.ot so ob o ete as now. His sontemjorary writers, 
and some that su -ceode I hiai, did net think them bene;ith 
tl:eir notice. Tilullus, in reali'y, di believed ihcdr exist- 
ence as nuvha.'i we i!o: j-ct Tibulos is allowrd to be the 
prince of all poetical inn; maratos. though he mentions 
tlicm in almost every page Thi^re is a fiushion -u these 
thiii^.', which the Doctor seem,s to have forgotten." -Le'ter 
to Uiiwin, Junuary ttli, 17^-2.] 

2 u 2 3*59 



390 



MATTHEW PRIOR. 



AN A_NSWER TO CHLOE. 
Dear Chloe, bow blubber'd is that pretty face ! 

Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurl'd ! 
Pr'ythee quit this caprice ; and (as old Falstaff 
says) 
Let us even talk a little like folks of this world. 

How canst thou presume thou hast leave to destroy 
The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keep- 
ing ! 

Those looks were designed to inspire love and joy ; 
More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping. 

To be vex'd at a trifle or two that I writ, 

Your judgment at once, and my passion you 

wrong: 

f ou take that for fact which will scarce be found 

wit : [song 7 

Odd's-life ! must one swear to the truth of a 

What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, 

shows 

The difference there is betwixt nature and art: 

1 court others in verse; but I love thee in prose: 

And they have my whimsies, but thou Last my 

heart. 

The god of us verse-men (you know, child,) the 
sun. 

How ailer his journeys he sets up his rest : 
If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run, 

At night he declines on his Thetis 's breast. 

"^o when I am wearied with wnndering all day, 
To thee, my delight, in the evening I come ; 

'^o matter what beauties I saw in my way, 
They were but my visits, but thou art my home. 

Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war. 
And let us like Horace and Lydia agree ; 

For thou art a girl as much brighter than her. 
As he was a poet sublimer than me. 



TIIE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASK 
I SENT for Radcliffe ; was so ill, 

That other doctors gave me over : 
He felt my pulse, prescribed hb pill, 
And I was likely to recover. 

But, when the wit began to wheeze. 
And wine had warm'd the politician, 

Cured yesterday of my disease, 
I died last night of my physician. 



PARTIAL FAME. 
'1'he sturdy man, if he in love obtains. 
In open pomp and triumph reigns: 
The subtle woman, if she should succeed. 
Disowns the honour of the deed. 

Though he, for all his boast, is forced to yield, 
'l"hough she can always keep the field : 
He vaunts his conquests, she conceals her shame; 
•low partial is the voice of fame ! 



SONG. 
In vain you tell your parting lover — 
You wish fair winds may waft him over: 
Alas ! what winds can happy prove. 
That bear me far from what I love 1 
Can equal those that I sustain, 
From slighted vows and cold disdatn ! 
Be gentle, and in pity choose 
To wish the wildest tempests loose, 
That, thrown again upon the coast 
Where first my shipwreck'd heart was lost, 
I may once more repeat my pain ; 
Once more in dying notes complain 
Of slighted vows and cold disdain. 



AN EPITAPH. 
Intekr'd beneath this marble stone 
Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan. 
While rolling threescore years and one 
Did round this globe their courses run, 
If human things went ill or well, 
If changing empires rose or fell. 
The morning pass'd, the evening came, 
And found this couple still the same. 
They walk'd, and eat, good folks : what then ? 
Why then they walk'd and eat again; 
They soundly slept the night away ; 
They did just nothing all the day : 
And, having buried children four. 
Would not take pains to try for more. 
Nor sister either had nor brother; 
They seem'd just tallied for each other. 

Their moral and economy 
Most perfectly they made agree ; 
Each virtue kept its proper bound, 
Nor tresspass'd on the other's ground. 
Nor fame nor censure they regarded ; 
They neither punish'd nor rewarded. 
He cared not what the footman did; 
Her maids she neither praised nor chid : 
So every servant took his course. 
And, bad at first, they all grew worse. 
Slothful disorder fill'd his stable. 
And sluttish plenty deck'd her table. 
Their beer was strong: their wine was port; 
Their meal was large ; their grace was short. 
They gave the poor the remnant meat. 
Just when it grew not fit to eat. 

They paid the church and parish rate, 
And took, hut read not, the receipt ; 
For which they claim'd their Sunday's due, 
Of slumbering in an upper pew. 

No man's defects sought they to know; 
So never made themselves a foe. 
No man's good deeds did they commend ; 
So never raised themselves a friend. 
Nor cherish'd they relations poor -, 
That might decrease their present store : 
Nor barn nor house did they repair ; 
That might oblige their future heir. 

They neither added nor confounded; 
They neither wanted nor abounded. 
Each Christmas they accounts did clear, 
And wound theii- bottom round the year. 



MATTHEW PRIOR. 



391 



^for tear nor smile did they employ 
At news of public grief or joy. 
When bells were rung and bonfires made, 
Tf ask'd, they ne'er denied their aid ; 
Their jug was to the ringers carried, 
Whoever either died or married. 
Their billet at the fire was found, 
Whoever was deposed or crown'd. 

Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise; 
They would not learn, nor could advise: 
Without love, hatred, joy, or fear, 
They led — a kind of — as it were : 
Nor wish'd, nor car'd, nor laugh'd, nor cried: 
And so they lived, and so they died. 

PROTOGENES AND APELLES. 
When poets wrote, and painters drew, 
As Nature pointed out the view ; 
Ere Gothic forms were known in Greece 
To spoil the well-proportion'd piece ; 
And in our verse ere monkish rhymes 
Had jangled their fantastic chimes ; 
Ere on the flowery lands of Rhodes 
'I'hose knights had fix'd their dull abodes, 
Who knew not much to paint or write, 
Nor cared to pray, nor dared to fight : 
Protogenes, historians note. 
Lived there, a burgess, scot and lot ; 
And, as old Pliny's writings show, 
Apelles did the same at Co. 
Agreed these points of time and place, 
Proceed we in the present case. 

Piqued by Protogenes's fame, 
From Co to Rhodes, Apelles came. 
To see a rival and a friend. 
Prepared to censure, or commend; 
Here to absolve, and there object, 
As art with candour might direct. 
He sails, he lands, he cornes, he rings ; 
His servants follow with the things: 
Appears the governante of th' house, 
F^or such in Greece were much in use : 
If young or handsome, yea or no, 
Concerns not me or thee to know. 

Does Squire Protogenes live here I 
)[es. Sir, says she, with gracious air. 
And court'sey low, but just cali'd out 
By lords peculiarly devout. 
Who came on purpose. Sir, to borrow 
Our Venus, for the feast to-morrow, 
To grace the church: 'tis Venus' day: 
I hope, Sir, you intend to stay. 
To see our Venus; 'tis the piece 
The most renown'd throughout all Greece; 
So like th' original, they sa^ ; 
But I have no great skill that way. 
But, Sir, at six ('tis now past three) 
Dromo must make my master's tea : 
At six. Sir, if you please to come, 
You'll find my master. Sir, at home. 

Tea, says a critic, big with laughter. 
Was found some twenty ages after; 
Authors, before they write, should read. 
'Tis very true ; but we'll proceed. 



And, Sir, at present, would you please 
To leave your name — Fair maiden, yes. 
Reach me that board. No sooner spoke 
But done. With one judicious stroke. 
On the plain ground Apelles drew 
A circle regularly true : 
And will you please, sweetheart, said he, 
To show your master this for me 1 
By it he presently will know 
How painters write their names at Co. 

He gave the pannel to the maid. 
Smiling and court'sying, Sir, she said, 
I shall not fail to tell my master : 
And, Sir, for fear of all disaster, 
I'll keep it my ownself : safe bind, 
Says the old proverb, and safe find. 
So, Sir, as sure as key or lock — 
Your servant. Sir, — at six o clock. 

Again at six Apelles came. 
Found the same prating civil dame. 
Sir, that my master has been here, 
Will by the board itself appear. 
If from the perfect line be found 
He has presumed to swell the round, 
Or colours on the draught to lay, 
'Tis thus, (he order'd me to say) 
Thus write the painters of this isle : 
Let those of Co remark the style: 

She said ; and to his hand restored 
The rival pledge, the missive board. 
Upon the happy line were laid 
Such obvious light, and easy shade, 
That Paris' apple stood contest. 
Or Leda's egg, or Chloe's breast. 
Apelles view'd the finish'd piece : 
And live, said he, the arts of Greece ! 
Howe'er Protogenes and I 
May in our rival talents vie ; 
Howe'er our works may have express'd 
Who truest drew, or colour'd best, 
When he beheld my flowing line. 
He found at least I could design ; 
And from his artful round, I grant 
That he with perfect skill can paint. 

The dullest genius cannot fail 
To find the moral of my tale ; 
That the distinguish'd part of men, 
With compass, pencil, sword, or pen. 
Should in life's visit leave their name, 
In characters which may proclaim 
That they with ardour strove to raise 
At once their arts, and country's praise ; 
And in their working took great care. 
That all was full, and round, and fair.* 



THE CAMELEON. 
As the Cameleon, who is known 
To have no colours of his own ; 
But borrows from his neighbour's hue 
His white or black, his green or blue; 



[* This story, which Prior took in a very plain stat** 
f;om I'liny and enlivened with his own exquisite humour, 
has )>een altered by Mason and weakened : — it is hot easy 
to add to Prior when he wrote in his happiest mot-ds.l 



392 MATTHEW PRIOR. 


And struts as much in ready light, 


There Alma settled in the tongue. 


Which credit gives him upon sight, 


And orators from Athens sprung. 


As if the rainbow were in tail 


Observe but in these neighbouring lands 


Settled on him and his heirs male ; 


The different use of mouths and hands; 


So the young 'squire, when first he comes 


As men reposed their various hopes, 


From country shool to Will's or Tom's, 


In battles these, and those in tropes. 


And equally, in truth, is fit 


In Britain's isles, as Heylin notes, 


To be a statesman, or a wit; 


The ladies trip in petticoats; 


Without one notion of his own, 


Which, for the honour of their nation, 


He saunters wildly up and down, 


The quit but on some great occasion. 


Till some acquaintance, good or bad, 


Men there in breeches clad you view ; 


Takes notice of a staring lad. 


They claim that garment as their due. 


Admits him in among the gang; 


In Turkey the reverse appears ; 


They jest, reply, dispute, harangue : 


Long coats the haughty husband wears, 


He acts and talks, as they befriertd him. 


And greets his wife with angry speeches 


Smear'd with the colours which they lend him. 


If she be seen without her breeches. 


Thus, merely as his fortune chances. 


In our fantastic climes, the fair 


His merit or his vice advances. 


W'ith cleanly powder dry their hair; 


If haply he the sect pursues, 


And round their lovely breast and head 


That read and comment upon news; 


Fresh flowers their mingled odours shed. 


He takes up their mysterious face ; 


Your nicer Hottentots think meet 


He drinks his coffee without lace; 


With guts and tripe to deck their feet: 


This week his mimic tongue runs o'er 


With down-cast looks on Totta's legs 


What they have said the week before ; 


The ogling youth most humbly begs 


His wisdom sets all Europe right. 


She would not from his hopes remove 


And teaches Marlborough when to fight. 


At once his breakfast and his love : 


Or if it be his fate to meet 


And, if the skittish nymph should fly, 


With folks who iiave more wealth than wit; 


He in a double sense must die. 


He loves cheap port, and double bub ; 


We simple toasters take delight 


And settles in the Hum-drum club; 


To see our women's teeth look white, 


He learns how stocks will fall or rise ; 


And every saucy, ill-bred fellow 


Holds poverty the greatest vice ; 


Sneers at a mouth profoundly yellow. 


Thinks wit the bane of conversation, 


In China none hold women sweet. 


And says that learning spoils a nation. 


Except their snags are black as jet. 


But if at first, he minds his hits. 


King Chihu put nine queens to death, 


And drinks champagne among the wits ; 


Convict on statute. Ivory Tcelh. 


Five dee'p he toasts the towering lasses ; 


At Tonquin, if a prince should die 


Repeats you verses wrote on glasses; 


(As Jesuits write, who never lie,) 


Is in the chair : prescribes the law ; 


The wife, and counsellor, and priest. 


And lies with those he never saw. 


Who served him most, and loved him best. 




Prepare and light his funeral fire. 




And cheerful on the pile expire. 
In Europe, 'twould be hard to find 




FROM "ALMA; OR, THE PROGRESS OF THE MIND."* 


In each degree one half so kind. 


CANTO n. 


Now turn we to the farthest east. 


And there observe the gentry dress'd. 


Turn we this globe, and let us see 


Prince Giolo, and his royal sisters. 


How different nations disagree 


Scarr'd with ten thousand comely blisters ; 


In what we wear, or eat and drink; 


The marks remaining on the skin. 


Nay, Dick, perhaps in what we think. 


To tell the quality within. 


In water as you smell and taste 


Distinguish'd slashes deck the great: 


The soils through which it rose and past ; 


As each excels in birth or state, 


In Alma's manners you may read 


His oylet-holes are more and ampler: 


The place where she was born and bred. 


The king's own body was a sampler. 


One people from their swaddling bands 


Happy the climate, where the beau 


Released their infants' feet and hands ; 


Wears the same.suit for use and show: 


Here Alma to these limbs was brought, 


And at a small expense your wife. 


And Sparta's offspring kick'd and fought. 


If once well pink'd, is clothed for life. 


Another taught their babes to talk, 


Westward again, the Indian fair 


tire they could yet in go-carts walk : 


Is nicely smear'd with fat of bear : 


[* What Prior meant by this poem I cannot understand ; 


was written in imitation of Uudibras I cannot concciTe. 


V the Greek motto to it one «ould think it was either to 


In former years they were both favourites cf mine, and 


la'ugh at the subjeit or his reader. There are scmo parts 


I often read them; but I never saw in them the Itast re- 


Df it very fine"; and let them save the badness of the rest. 


semblance 10 each other: nor do 1 now. exiept that they 


-GOLIISMITH. 


are composed in verse cf the same measure.— Cuw per Leir 


What suggested to Johnson the thought that the Alma 


Ur to Unwin, •21st March, 1784.] 



Before you see, you smell your toast ; 
And sweetest she who stinks the most. 
The finest sparks and cleanest beaux 
Drip from the shoulders to the toes : 
How sleek their skins ! their joints how easy ! 
There slovens only are not greasy. 

I niention'd different ways of breeding: 
Begin we in our children's reading. 
To master John the English maid 
A horn-book gives of gingerbread ; 
And, that the child may learn the better. 
As he can name, he eats the letter. 
Proceeding thus with vast delight. 
He spells and gnaws from left to right. 
But, show a Hebrew's hopeful son 
Where we suppose the book begun. 
The child would thank you for your kindness, 
And read quite backward from oar Jinis. 
Devour he learning ne'er so fast, 
Great A would be reserved the last, 

An equal instance of this matter 
Is in the manners of a daughter. 
In Europe if a harmless maid. 
By nature and by love betray'd. 
Should, ere a wife, become a nurse, 
Her friends would look on her the worse. 
In China, Dampier's travels tell ye 
(Look in his Index for Pagelli,) 
Soon as the British ships unmoor, 
And jolly long-boat rows to shore, 
Down come the nobles of the land; 
Each brings his daughter in his hand, 
Beseeching the imperious tar 
To make her but one hour his care. 
The tender mother stands affrighted. 
Lest her dear daughter should be slighted : 
And poor miss Yaya dreads the shame 
Of going back the maid she came. 

Observe how custom, Dick, compels. 
The lady that in Europe dwells: 
After her tea, she slips away. 
And what to do, one need not say. 
Now see how great Pomonqiie's queen 
Behaved herself amongst the men : 
Pleased with her punch, the gallant soul 
First drank, then water'd in the bowl ; 
And sprinkled in the captain's face 
The marks of her peculiar grace. 



To close this point we need not roam 

For instances so far from home. 

What parts gay France from sober Spain 7 

A little rising rocky chain. 

Of men born south or north o' th' hill, 

Those seldom move, these ne'er stand still. 

Dick, you love maps, and may perceive 

Rome not far distant from Geneve. 

If the good Pope remains at home. 

He's the first prince in Christendom. 

Choose then, good Pope, at home to stay, 

Nor westward curious take thy way : 

Thy way unhappy shouldst thou take, 

From Tiber's bank to Leman lake. 

Thou art an aged priest no more. 

But a young flaring painted whore: 

Thy sex is lost, thy town is gone ; 

No longer Rome, but Babylon. 

That some few leagues should make this 
chaoge. 

To men unlearn'd seems mighty strange. 
But need we, friend, insist on thisl 

Since, in the very Cantons Swiss, 

All your philosophers agree, 

And prove it plain, that one may be 
A heretic, or true believer. 

On this, or t' other side a river. 

Here, with an artful smile, quoth Dick, 

Your proofs come mighty full and thick — 

The bard, on this extensive chapter 
Wound up into poetic rapture. 
Continued : Richard, cast your eye 
By night upon a winter-sky : 
Cast it by day-light on the strand 
Which compasses fair Albion's land: 
If you can count the stars that glow 
Above, or sands that lie below. 
Into those common-places look, 
Which from great authors I have took, 
And count the proofs I have collected, 
To have my writings well protected. 
These I lay by for time of need. 
And thou may'st at thy leisure read. 
For standing every critic's rage, 
I safely will to future age 
My sysletii, as a gift, bequeath. 
Victorious over spile and death. 



DR. GEORGE SEWELL. 



[Died, Feb. 8, 1726.3 



Dr. George Sewell, author of " Sir Walter 
Raleigh, a tragedy ;" several papers in the fifth 
volume of the Tattler, and ninth of the Spec- 
tator ; a life of John Philips ; and some other 
things. There is something melancholy in this 
poor man's history. He was a physician at 
Hampstead, with very little practice, and chiefly 
subsisted on the invitations of the neighbour- 



ing gentlemen, to whom his amiable character 
made him acceptable; but at his death not a 
friend or relative came to commit his remains 
to the dust ! He was buried in the meanest 
manner, under a hollow tree, that was once 
part of the boundary of the churchyard of 
Hampstead. No memorial was placed over his 



SIR JOHN VANBRUGH. 



VEKSES, 

LTD TO BE WEITTEN BY THE AUTHOR ON mMSELF, WHEN HE 
WAS IN A CONSDMPTION. 

Why, Damon, with the forward day, 

Dost thou thy little spot survey. 

From tree to tree, with doubtful cheer, 

Pursue the progress of the year, 

What winds arise, what rains descend. 
When thou before that year shalt end 1 

What do thy noon-day walks avail, 
To clear the leaf, and pick the snail, 
Then wantonly to death decree 
An insect usefuUer than thee 1 



Thou and the worm are brother-kind, 
As low, as earthy, and as blind. 

Vain wretch ! canst thou expect to see 
The downy peach make court to thee 1 
Or that thy sense shall ever meet 
The beau-flower's deep-embosom 'd sweet. 

Exhaling with an evening blast? 

Thy evenings then will all be past. 

Thy narrow pride, thy fancied green, 
(For vanity 's in little seen) 
All must be left when death appears, 
In spite of wishes, groans, and tears; 
Nor one of all thy plants that grow, 
But rosemary will with thee go. 



SIR JOHN VANBRUGH. 



[Born, 166C. Died, 1726.] 



Sir John Vanbrugh,* the poet and architect, 
was the oldest son of Mr. Giles Vanbrugh, of 
London, merchant; he was born in the parish 
of St. Stephen, Walbrook, 1666. He received a 
very liberal education, and at the age of nineteen 
was sent by his father to France, where he con- 
tinued several years. In 1703, he was appointed 
Clarencieux King of Arms, and in 1706 was corn- 
missioned by Queen Anne to carry the habit and 
ensigns of the order of the garter to King George 



the First, then at Hanover. He was also made 
comptroller-general of the board of works, and 
surveyor of the gardens and waters. In 1714, he 
received the order of knighthood, and in 1719 
married Henrietta Maria, daughter of Colonel 
Yarborough. Sir John died of a quinsey at his 
house in Scotland-yard, and is interred in the 
family vault under the church of St. Stephen, 
Walbrook. He left only one son, who fell at the 
battle of Fontenoy.f 



FABLE, RELATED BY A BEAU TO ESOP. 

A Band, a Bob-wig, and a Feather, 
Attack'd a lady's heart together. 
The Band, in a most learned plea, 
Made up of deep philosophy. 
Told her, if she would please to wed 
A reverend beard, and take instead 
Of vigorous youth. 
Old solenm truth. 
With books and morals, into bed, 
How happy she would be. 

The Bob, he talked of management, 
What wond'rous blessings heaven sent 
On care, and pains, and industry : 
And truly he must be so free 
To own he thought your airy beaux. 
With powder'd wigs, and dancing shoes, 



[* The fnmily of Sir Jnhn A'anbrugh is stated, in the 
Biogntijliia Dramiitica, to have come originally from France ; 
but my frieiid, the ilev. Ueorge Vanbrugh, rector of Augh- 
ton. in Lanojifhire, the only surviving descendant of the 
family, informs me that his ancestors were eminent mer- 
chant.s of Antwerp, and tied out of Flanders when the Duke 
of Alvii tried to ei-tablish the inquisition in those provinces. 
They first took refuge in Holland, and from thence came 
over to Kngland to enjoy the protestant protection of Queen 
Elizabeth. 



Were good for nothing (mend his soul !) 
But prate, and talk, and play the fool. 

He said 'twas wealth gave joy and mirth, 

And that to be the dearest wife 

Of one, who labour'd all his life 

To make a mine of gold his own. 

And not spend sixpence when he'd done. 

Was heaven upon earth. 

When these two blades had done, d'ye see, 
The Feather (as it might be me,) 
Steps out, sir, from behind the skreen, 
With such an air and such a mien — 
Look you, old gentlemen, — in short 
He quickly spoil'd the statesman's sport. 

It proved such sunshine weather 
That you must know, at the first beck 
The lady leap'd about his neck, 

And off they went together. 



[+ No man who has been satirized by Swift, and 
prai.'^ed by Keynolds, could have much chance cf l.eing 
furgotlen ; but the fame of him who was at oi.ce the 
author of "The Itelapse" and "The Provoketl Wife." and 
the architect of Castle Howard and Blenheim, i-taiids inde- 
pendent of even fuih subsidiaries. — Allan Cun.nknuhaw's 
Lives ofBritisk Artists, vol. iv. p. 253.] 



WILLIAM CONGREYE. 



CBorn, 1669. Died, 1729.] 



FROM "THE MOURNING BRIDE." 

AInieria meeting her husband Aiphonso, whom she had 
im.'gined to be Ueatl, now disguised as the captive Osmyn, 
at the tomb of his father Anselmo. 

Enter Almeria and Leonora. 

Aim. It was a fancied noise, for all is hush'd. 

Leon. It bore the accent of a human voice. 

Aim, It was thy fear, or else some transient 
wind 
Whistling through hollows of this vaulted aisle. 
We'll listen 

Leon. Hark ! [dreadful ! 

Aim. No, all is hush'd, and still as death — 'tis 
How reverend is the face of this tall pile, 
Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads, 
To bear aloft its arch'd and ponderous roof, 
By its own weight made steadfast and immovable. 
Looking tranquillity. It strikes an awe 
And terror on my aching sight; the tombs 
And monumental caves of death look cold, 
And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart. 
Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice ; 
Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear 
Thy voice — my own affrights me with its echoes.* 

LeoH. Let us return ; the horror of this place, 
And silence, will increase your melancholy. 

Aim. It may my fears, but cannot add to that. 
No, I will on ; show me x\nselmo's tomb, [earth, 
Lead me o'er bones and skulls, and mouldering 
Of human bodies ; for I'll mix with them, 
Or wind me in the shroud of some pale corpse. 
Yet green in earth, rather than be the bride 
Of Garcia's more detested bed : that thought 
Exerts my spirits, and my present fears 
Are lost in dread of greater ill. Then show me. 
Lead me, for I am bolder grown: lead on 
Where I may kneel, and pay my vows again. 
To him, to Heaven, and my Alphonso's soul. 

Leon. I go ; but Heaven can tell with what regret. 
[Exeunt. 
Enter II eu. 

Heli. I wander through this maze of monu- 
ments. 



[* This is the passage that Johnson admired so much. 
"Congreve," he said, "has one finer piissuge than any tlat 
can be found in i^^hakspoare. \\ hat i mi au is. Ihat you can 
shew me no pa.'Siige wliere there is simply a dosci initio ii of 
material objects without any intermixture of moral noiions, 
whiih produced such an effect." — Croker'a Bnsiodl, vol. ii. 
p. 66. ■' If 1 were required," he says, in his life of Con- 
greve, " to select from the whole mnss of English poetry 
I he most poetical pariig'tiph, 1 know not what J could j re- 
fer to this. lie who read< these lines eijoys for a nif mL^nt 
the 1 owers of a poet; he feels what he remembers to have 
te t before; but he feels it with a gre-.t iuciex-e r,f sensi- 
bility: he recognises .t fimiliar ima^e, but meets it igain 
amplified jind eximndcd, embellii-hed with beauty and 
enlarged with majesty." Mr. Croker had much improved 
bis edition of Hot well, if he h:id illustrated Johnson's cou- 
versution by his own writings.] 



Yet cannot find him — Hark ! sure tis the voice 
Of one complaining — there it sounds ! I'll follow it. 

[Exit. 
Scene II. — Opening, discovers a place of Tombs : one Monur 
mentj/ronim^ the view, greater than the rest. 

Enter Almeru and Leonora. 

Leon. Behold the sacred vault, within whose 
womb. 
The poor remains of good Anselmo rest. 
Yet fresh and unconsumed by time or worms. 
What do I see ! Oh, Heaven ! either my eyes 
Are false, or still the marble door remains 
Unclosed ; the iron gates, that lead to death 
Beneath, are still wide stretch'd upon their hinge, 
And staring on us with unfolded leaves ! [me ; 

.dim. Sure 'tis the friendly yawn of death for 
And that dumb mouth, significant in show, 
Invites me to the bed, where I alone [weary 

Shall rest ; shows me the grave where nature. 
And long oppress'd with woes and bending cares. 
May lay the burthen down, and sink in slumbers 
Of peace eternal. Death, grim death, will fold 
Me in his leaden arms, and press me close 
To his cold, clayey breast! My father, then, 
Will cease his tyranny ; and Garcia, too. 
Will fly my pale deformity with loathing. 
My soul, enlarged from its vile bonds, will mount, 
And range the starry orbs, and milky-ways, 
Of that refulgent world, where I shall swim 
In liquid light, and float on seas of bliss, 
To my Alphonso's soul. Oh, joy too great! 
Oh, ecstasy of thought ! Help me, Anselmo ; 
Help me, Aiphonso; take me, reach thy hand; 
To thee, to thee I call ; to thee, Aiphonso ; 
Oh, Aiphonso ! 

OsMTN ascending from the tomb. 
Osm. Who calls that wretched thing that was 

Aiphonso ] 
Aim. Angels, and all the host of heaven, sup- 
port me ! 
Osm. Whence is that voice, whose shrillness, 
from the grave. 
And growing to his father's shroud, roots up 
Aiphonso 1 

Aim. Mercy ! providence ! Oh, speak. 
Speak to it quickly, quickly ; speak to me. 
Comfort me, help me, hold me, hide me, hide me, 
Leonora, in thy bosom, from the light. 
And from my eyes ! 

Osm. Amazement and illusion ! 
Rivet and nail me where I stand, ye powers, 

[Oominr/forwaia 

That, motionless, I may be still deceived! 
Let me not stir, nor breathe, lest I dissolve 
That tender, lovely form of painted air, 
So like Almeria. Ha ! it sinks, it falls: 
I'll catch it ere it goes, and grasp her shade '. 
335 



S'J6 



WILLIAM CONGREVE 



'Tis life ! 'tis warm ! 'tis she, 'tis she herself! 
Mor dead, nor shade, but breathing and alive ! 
It is Almeria, it is my wife ! 

Enter IIeu. 

Leon, Alas ! she stirs not yet, nor lifts her eyes ! 
He, too, is fainting Help me, help me, stran- 
ger, 
Whoe'er thou art, and lend thy hand to raise 
These bodies. 

Hel. Ah ! 'tis he 1 and with Almeria ! 

Oh, miracle of happiness I Oh, joy 
Unhoped for! Does Almeria hve'! 

Usui. Where is she 1 
Let me behold, and touch her, and be sure 
'Tis she; show me her face, and let me feel 
Her lips with mine — 'Tis she, I am not deceived : 
I taste her breath, I warm her and am warmed. 
Look up, Almeria, bless me with thy eyes ; 
Look on thy love, thy lover, and thy husband ! 

Aim. I have sworn I'll not wed Garcia: why 
do ye force me 1 
Is this a father 1 

Usm. Look on thy Alphonso. 
Thy father is not here, my love, nor Garcia : 
Nor am I what I seem, but thy Alphonso. [me? 
Wilt thou not know me 1 Hast thou then forgot 
Hast thou thy eyes, yet canst not see Alphonso 1 
Am I so altered, or art thou so changed. 
That, seeing my disguise, thou seest not me 1 

Abii. It is, it is Alphonso ! 'tis his face, 
His voice — I know him now, I know him all. 
Oh, take me to thy arms, and bear me hence. 
Back to the bottom of the boundless deep. 
To seas beneath, where thou so long hast dwelt. 
Oh, how hast thou return'd 1 How hast thou 

charm'd 
The wildness of the waves and rocks to this ; 
That, thus, relenting, they have given thee back 
To earth, to light and life, to love and me ] 

Osm. Oh, I'll not ask, nor answer, how or why 
We both have backward trod the paths of fate. 
To meet again in life ; to know I have thee, 
Is knowing more than any circumstance, 

Or means, by which I have thee 

To fold thee thus, to press thy balmy lips, 
And gaze upon thy eyes, is so much joy, 
I have not leisure to reflect or know. 
Or trifle time in thinking. 

Mm. Stay awhile 

Let me look on thee yet a little more. 

Osm. What would'st thou 1 thou dost put me 
from thee. 

Mm, Yes 

Osm. And why 1 What dost thou mean 1 Why 
dost thou gaze so 1 

Aim, I know not ; 'tis to see thy face, I think — 
It is too much ! too much to bear and live 1 
To see thee thus again in such profusion 
Of joy, of bliss — I cannot bear — I nmst 
Be mad — I cannot be transported thus, 

Usm. Thou excellence, thou joy, thou heaven 
of love! ' 

Aim, Where hast thou been 1 and how art thou 
alive ■• 



How is all this? All-powerful Heaven, what are 

we 1 
Oh, my strain'd heart — let me again behold thee. 
For I weep to see thee — Art thou not paler? 
Much, much ; how thou art changed ! 
Osm. Not in my love. 
Aim, No, no ! thy griefs, I know, have done 

this to thee. 
Thou hast wept much, Alphonso; and, I fear. 
Too much, too tenderly, lamented me. 

Osm. Wrong not my love, to say too tenderly. 
No more, my life ; talk not of tears or grief; 
Afliiction is no more, now thou art found. 
Why dost thou weep, and hold thee from my 

arms. 
My arms which ache to hold thee fast, and grow 
To thee with twining ? Come, come to my heart ! 

,/lim. I will, for I should never look enough. 
They would have married me ; but I had sworn 
To Heaven and thee, and sooner would have 

died — 
Osm. Perfection of all faithfulness and love ! 
Aim, Indeed I would — Nay, I would tell thee 

all. 
If I could speak ; how I have mourn'd and pray'd ; 
For I have pray'd to thee, as to a saint; 
And thou hast heard my prayer; for thou art come 
To my distress, to my despair, which Heaven 
Could only, by restoring thee, have cured. 

Osm. Grantme but life, good Heaven, but length 

of days, 
To pay some part, some little of this debt. 
This countless sum of tenderness and love, 
For which I stand engaged to this all-excellence; 
Then bear me in a whirlwind to my fate. 
Snatch me from life, and cut me short unwarnd : 
Then, then 'twill be enough — I shall be old, 
I shall have pass'd all aeras then 
Of yet unmeasured time; when I have made 
This exquisite, this most amazing goodness. 
Some recompense of love and matchless truth. 

Aim. 'Tis more than recompense to see thy face 
If Heaven is greater joy, it is no happiness. 
For 'tis not to be borne — What shall I say ? 
I have a thousand things to know and ask. 
And speak — That thou art here beyond all hope, 
All thought; and all at once thou art before me, 
And with such suddenness hast hit my sight. 
Is such surprise, such mystery, such ecstasy. 
It hurries ail my .soul, and stuns my sense. 
Sure from thy father's tomb thou didst arise ? 
Osm, I did : and thou, my love, didst call me ; 

thou. [thou alone ! 

Aim. True ; but how camest thou there ? Wert 
Osm. I was, and lying on my father's lead, 
When broken echoes of a distant voice 
Uisturb'd the sacred silence of the vault. 
In murmurs round my head. I rose and listen'd. 
And thought I heard thy spirit call Alphonso; 
I thought I saw thee too ; but, Oh, I thought not 

That I indeed should be so blest to see thee 

Aim. But still, how camest thou thither? How 

thus? Ha? 

What's he, who, like thyself, is started here 
Ere seen ■• 



ELIJAH FENTON. 



397 



Osm. Where ? Ha! What do I see, Antonio 1 
I am fortunate indeed — my friend, too, safe ! 

Heli. Most happily, in finding you thus biess'd. 

^Im. More miracles ! Antonio escaped ! 

Osm. And twice escaped ; both from the rage 
of seas 
And war: for in the fi^ht I saw him fall. 

Heli. But fell unhurt, a prisoner as yourself, 
And as yourself made free; hither I came, 
Impatiently to seek you, where I knew 
Your grief would lead you to lament Anselmo. 

Osm. There are no wonders; or else all is 
wonder. [up, 

Heli. I saw you on the ground and raised you 
When with astonishment I saw Almeria. 

Osm. I saw her too, and therefore saw not thee. 

jllm. Nor I; nor could I, for my eyes were 
yours. 

Osm. What means the bounty of all gracious 
Heaven, 
That persevering, still, with open hand. 
It scatters good, as in a waste of mercy ! 
Where will this end ] But Heaven is infinite 
In all, and can continue to bestow, 
When scanty number shall be spent in telling. 

Leon. Or I am deceived, or I beheld the glimpse 
Of two in shining habits cross the aisle ; 
Who, by their pointing, seem to mark this place. 

Mm. Sure I have dreamt, if we must part so 
soon. 

Osm. I wish at leSst our parting were a dream, 
Or we could sleep till we again were met. 

Heli Zara and Selim, sir; I saw and know 
them : 
You must be quick, for love will lend her wings. 

Mm. What love 1 Who is she 1 Why are you 
alarm'd 1 

Osm. She's the reverse of thee ; she's my un- 
happiness. 
Harbour no thought that may disturb thy peace ; 
But gently take thyself away, lest she 
Should come, and see the straining of my eyes 
To follow thee. 
Retire, my love, I'll think how we may meet 



To part no more; my friend will tell thee all ; 

How I escaped, how I am here, and thus ; 

How I am not called Alphonso, now, but Osmyn 

And he Heli. All, all he will unfold, 

Ere next we meet 

./?/wi. Sure we shall meet again 

Osm. We shall ; we part not but to meet again 

Gladness and warmth of ever-kindling love 

Dwell with thee, and revive thy heart in absence! 
[Exeunt Alm. Leon, and IIeu. 

Yet I behold her — yet — and now no more. 

Turn your lights inward, eyes, and view my 
thoughts. 

So shall you still behold her — 'twill not be. 

Oh, impotence of sight ! Mechanic sense ! 

Which to exterior objects owest thy faculty. 

Not seeing of election, but necessity. 

Thus do our eyes, as do all common mirrors. 

Successively reflect succeeding images : 

Not what they would, but must ;. a star, or toad ; 

Just as the hand of chance administers. 

Not so the mind, whose undetermined view 

Resolves, and to the present adds the past. 

Essaying farther to futurity ; 

But that in vain. I have Almeria here 

At once, as I before have seen her often 



Tell me no more I am deceived, 
That Chloe's false and common ; 

I always knew (at least believed) 
She was a very woman : 

As such I liked, as such caress'd ; 

She still was constant when possess'd, 
She could do more for no man. 

Bnt, oh ! her thoughts on others ran. 
And that you think a hard thing; 

Perhaps she fancied you the man. 
And what care 1 a farthing] 

You think she's false, I'm sure she's kind; 

I take her body, you her mind. 
Who has the better bargain ] 



ELIJAH FENTON. 



[Born, 1683. Died, 1730.] 



Elijah Fenton was obliged to leave the uni- 
versity on account of his non-juring principles. 
He was for some time secretary to Charles, Earl 
of Orrery ; he afterward taught the grammar- 
school of Sevenoaks, in Kent; but was induced, 
by Bolingbroke, to forsake that drudgery for the 
more unprofitable state of dependence upon a 
political patron, who, after all, left him disap- 
pointed and in debt. Pope recommended him to 
Craggs as a literary instructor, but the death of 
that statesman again subverted his hopes of pre- 
ferment; and he became an auxiliary to Pope in 
translating the Odyssey, of which his share was 
the first, fourth, nineteeth, and twentieth books. 



The successful appearance of his tragedy of Ma- 
riamne on the stage, in 1723, relieved him from 
his difficulties, and the rest of his life was com- 
fortably spent in the employment of Lady Trum- 
bull, first as tutor to her son, and afterward as 
auditor of her accounts. His character was thai 
of an amiable but indolent man, who drank, in 
his great chair, two bottles of port wine a day 
He published an edition of the poetical works ol 
Milton and of Waller.* 

[* Fenton wrote nothiii;:; equal to hi:j Ode to the Lord 

Gower, which is, says Josepli Warton, written in the true 

spirit of lyric poetry. It 1ms receiretl t'X) the praise." oj 

Pope and Akenside, but is better in parts than as a whole.i 

21 



AN ODE TO THE EIGHT HON. JOHN LORD GOWER. 

■WTUTTEN IN THE SPRING OF 1716. 

O'er winter's long inclement sway, 

At length the lustj Spring prevails ; 
And swift to meet the smiling May, 

Is wafted by the western gales. 
Around him dance the rosy Hours, 
And damasking the ground with flowers, 

With ambient sweets perfume the morn; 
With shadowy verdure flourish'd high, 
A sudden youth the groves enjoy ; 

Where Philomel laments forlorn. 
By her awaked, the woodland choir 
To hail the coming god jirepares ; 
And tempts me to resume the lyre, 
Soft warbling to the vernal airs. 
Yet once more, O ye Muses !* deign 
For me, the meanest of your train, 

Unhlamed t' approach your blest retreat : 
Where Horace wantons at your spring, 
And Pindar sweeps a bolder string ; 

Whose notes th' Aonian hills repeat. 
Or if invoked, where Thames's fruitful tides, 

Slow through the vale in silver volumes play ; 
Now your own Phoebus o'er the month presides, 
Gives love the night, and doubly gilds the day; 
Thither, indulgent to my prayer. 
Ye bright, harmonious nymphs, repair 

To swell the notes I feebly raise : 
So, with aspiring ardours warm'd 
May Gower's propitious ear be charm'd 
To listen to my lays. 
Beneath the Pole on hills of Snow, 

Like Thracian Mars, th' undaunted Swedef 
To dint of sword defies the foe; 

In fight unknowing to recede : 
From Volga's banks, th' imperious Czar 
Leads forth his furry troops to war; 
Fond of the softer southern sky : 
The Soldan galls th' lUyrian coast; 
But soon the miscreant moony host 
Before the Victor-Cross shall fly. 
But here, no clarion's shrilling note 

The Muse's green retreat can pierce; 
The grove, from noisy camps remote, 
Is only vocal with my verse : 



Here, wing'd with innocence and joy, 
Let the soft hours that oer me fly 

Drop freedom, health, and gay desires ; 
While the bright Seine, t' exalt the soul, 
With sparkling plenty crowns the bowl. 

And wit and social mirth inspires. 
Enamour'd of the Seine, celestial fair, 

(The blooming pride of Thetis' azure train,) 
Bacchus, to win the nymph who caused his care, 
Lash'd his swift tigers to the Celtic plain : 
There secret in her sapphire cell, 
He with the Nais wont to dwell ; 

Leaving the nectar'd feasts of Jove: 
And where her mazy waters flow 
He gave the mantling vine to grow, 
A trophy to his love. 
Shall man from Nature's sanction stray. 

With blind opinion for his guide ; 
And rebel to her rightful sway. 

Leave all her beauties unenjoy'd 1 
Fool ! Time no change of motion knows ; 
With equal speed the torrent flows. 

To sweep Fame, Power, and Wealth away : 
The past is all by death possest ; 
And frugal fate that guards the rest. 
By giving, bids him live To-Day. 
O Gower! through all the destined space. 

What breath the Powers allot to me 
Shall sing the virtues of thy race, 

United and complete in thee. 
O flower of ancient English faith ! 
Pursue th' unbeaten Patriot-path, 

In which confirm 'd thy father shone; 
The light his fair example gives. 
Already from thy dawn receives 

A lustre equal to its own. 
Honour's bright dome, on lasting columns rear'd 

Nor envy rusts, nor rolling years consume ; 

Loud Paeans echoing round the roof are heard. 

And clouds of incense all the void perfume. 

There Phocion, Laelius, Capel, Hyde, 

With Falkland seated near his side, 

Fix'd by the Muse, the temple grace; 
Prophetic of thy happier fame, 
She to receive thy radiant name. 
Selects a whiter space. 



EDWARD WARD. 



[Born, 1667, 

Edwakd (familiarly called Ned) Ward was a 
low-born, uneducated man, w ho followed the trade 
of a publican. He is said, however, to have at- 
tracted many eminent persons to his house by his 
colloquial powers as a landlord, to have had a 
general acquaintance among authors, and to have 
been a great retailer of literary anecdotes. In 
those times the tavern was a less discreditable 
haunt than at present, and his literary acquaint- 
ance might probably be extensive. Jacob offended 
him very much by saying, in his account of the 

(* Borrow'd ficm Milton's minor poems, whenre, in 1716, 
<ne might Btcal with safety.] f Charles XII. 



Died, 1731.] 

poets, that he kept a public-house in the city. He 
publicly contradicted the assertion as a falsehood, 
stating that his house was not in the city, but in 
Moorfields. Ten thick volumes attest the indus- 
try, or cacocihes, of this facetious puhliian, who 
wrote his very will in verse. His favourite mea- 
sure is the Hudibrastic. His works give a com- 
plete picture of the mind of a vulgar but acute 
cockney. His sentiment is the pleasure of eating 
and drinking, and his wit and humour are equally 
gro.ss ; but his descriptions are still curious and 
full of life, and are worth preserving, as delinea- 
tions of the manners of the times. 



JOHN GAY. 



399 



SONG. 
GIVE me, kind Bacchus, thou god of the vine, 
Not a pipe or a tun, but an ocean of wine ; 
And a ship that's well-mann'd with such rare 

merry fellows. 
That ne'er forsook tavern for porterly ale-house. 
May her bottom be leaky to let in the tipple. 
And no pump on board her to save ship or people; 
So that each jolly lad may suck heartily round, 
And be always obliged to drink or be drown'd ! 
Let a fleet from V*irginia, well laden with weed, 
And a cargo of pipes, that we nothing may need, 
Attend at our stern to supply us with guns, 
And to weigh us our funk, not by pounds, but by 

tuns. 
When thus fitted out we would sail cross the line. 
And swim round the world in a sea of good wine ; 
Steer safe in the middle, and vow never more 
To renounce such a life for the jdeasures on shore. 
Look cheerfully round us and comfort our eyes 
With a deluge of claret inclosed by the skies ; 
A sight that would mend a pale mortal's com- 
plexion. 
And make him blush more than the sun by re- 
flexion. 
No zealous contentions should ever perplex us, 
No politic jars should divide us or vex us; 
No presbyter Jack should reform us or ride us ; 
The stars and our whimsical noddles should 

guide us. 
No blustering storms should possess us with fears, 
Or hurry us, like cowards, from drinking to 
prayers, 



But still with full bowls we'd for Bacchus main- 
tarn 
The most glorious dominion o'er the clarety 

main; 
And tipple all round till our eyes shone as bright 
As the sun does by day, or the moon does by night. 
Thus would I live free from all care or design. 
And when death should arrive I'd be pickled in 

wine; 
That is, toss'd over-board, have the sea for my 

grave. 
And lie nobly entomb'd in ablood-colour'd wave; 
That, living or dead, both my body and spirit 
Should float round the globe in an ocean of claret, 
The truest of friends and the best of all juices. 
Worth both the rich metals that India produces: 
For all men we find, from the young to the old. 
Will exchange for the bottle their silver and 

gold, 
Except rich fanatics — a pox on their pictures ! 
That make themselves slaves to their prayers and 

their lectures ; 
And think that on earth there is nothing divine, 
But a canting old fool and a hag full of coin. 
What though the dull saint make his standard 

and sterling 
His refuge, his glory, his god, and his darling ; 
The mortal that drinks is the only brave fellow, 
Though never so poor he's a king when he's 

mellow; 
Grows richer than Croesus with whimsical 

thinking, 
And never knows care whilst he follows his 

drinking. 



JOHN GAY.* 



1688. Died, 1732.) 



G.\t's Pastorals are said to have taken with 
the public, not as satires on those of Ambrose 
Philips, which they were meant to be, but as 
natural and just imitations of real life and of 
rural manners. It speaks little, however, for the 
sagacity of the poet's town readers, if they en- 
joyed those caricatures in earnest, or imagined 
any truth of English manners in Cuddy and 
Cloddipole contending with Amabaean verses for 
the prize or song, or in Bowzybeus rehearsing the 

[* Guy is now bfst known as the author of The Beggars' 
Opera, which, in .spite of its passed political temlency. still 
keeis. by its mu.'ic chiefly, its hold upon the sla,'e; and iis 
the author of Ulack Eyed Susan, which when sun-,', as it 
often is, with feeling, brings to remembrance or acquiiint- 
ance a once familiar name. The multitude kudw nothing 
of Trivia; to a Londoner eyen, it is a dead-letter; and few 
of the many have read or even heard of The thepherrs 
AVeek. The stagi^ and the convivial club have e.ssentially 
Bi^sisted in preserving his fame. The works of Gay are on 
our shelves, but not in our pockets — in our remembrance, 
but not in our memories. 

His Fables are as good as a series of such pieces will in 
all possibility ever be. No one hag envied him their pro- 
duction ; but many would like to have the fame of having 



laws of nature. If the allusion to Philips was 
overlooked, they could only be re^shed as traves- 
ties of Virgil, for Bowzybeus himself would not 
be laughable unless we recollected Silenus.f 

Gay's Trivia seems to have been built upon 
the hint of Swift's Description of a City Showev.J 
It exhibits a picture of the familiar customs of 
the metropolis that will continue to become more 
amusing as the customs grow obsolete. As a 
fabulist he has been sometimes hypercritically 



written The Shejiherd's Week, Black-Eyed Susan, and the 
ballad that bej;iu8 : 

" 'Twas when the seas were roaring." 

Had he given his time to satire he had excelled, for his 
Hues on HIackmore are in the extreme of bittcriieas.J 

[t That in these pastorals Gay has hit, undesignedly 
perhap.*, the true spirit of pa.'toral poetry, was the opinion 
ofGold-miih: "lu fact," he adds, "he more resembles 
Theocritus ih.an any other English pastoral writer what- 
soever." Yet he will not defend, he says, the antiiiuatej 



.s.] 
ickr 



)wledges, in the prefatory Advertisement, 
iveral hints of it to Dr. Swift.] 



400 



JOHN GAY. 



blamed for presenting us with allegorical imper- 
goiiations. The mere naked apologue of -^sop 
is too simple to interest the human mind, when 
its fancy and understanding are past the state of 
childhood or barbarism. La Fontaine dresses 
the stories which he took from ^sop and others 
with such profusion of wit and naivete, that his 
manner conceals the insipidity of the matter. 



« La snure vnut mieux que le poisson." Gay, 
though not equal to La Fontaine, is at least 
free from his occasional prolixity ; and in one 
instance, (the Court of Death,) ventures into al- 
legory with considerable power. Without being 
an absolute simpleton, like La Fontaine, he pos- 
sessed a 6o?i/)o»)(cofcharacter which forms an agree- 
able trait of resemblance between the fabulists. 



MONDAY; OR, THE SQUABBLE. 
LoBBiN Clout, CtroDT, Cioddipole. 
L. Clout. Thy younglings, Cuddy, are but 
just awake, 
No thrustles shrill the bramble bush forsake, 
No chirping lark the welkin sheen invokes, 
No damsel yet the swelling udder strokes ; 
O'er yonder hill does scant the dawn appear: 
Then why does Cuddy leave his cot so rear? 
Cuddy. Ah, Lobbin Clout ! I ween my plight 
is guest. 
For he that loves, a stranger is to rest ; 
If swains belie not, thou hast proved the smart. 
And Blouzelinda's mistress of thy heart. 
This rising rear betokeneth well thy mind. 
Those arms are folded for thy Blouzelind. 
And well, I trow, our piteous plights agree ; 
Thee Blouzelinda smites, Buxoma me. [half, 

L. Clout. Ah Blouzelind ! I love thee more by 
Than docs their fawns, or cows, the new-fallen 

calf: 
Woe worth the tongue! may blisters sore it gall. 
That names Buxoma Blouzelind withal ] 

Cuddy. Hold, witless Lobbin Clout, I thee advise. 
Lest blisters sore on thy own tongue arise. 
Lo, yonder, Cioddipole, the blithesome swain. 
The wisest lout of all the neighbouring plain ! 
From Cioddipole we learn to read the skies, 
'J'o know when hail will fall or winds arise. 
He taught us erst the heifer's tail to view, 
When stuck aloft, that showers would straight 

ensue : 
He first that useful secret did explain. 
That pricking corns foretold the gathering rain. 
When swallows fleet soar high, and sport in air, 
He told us that the welkin would be clear. 
Let Clodtlipole then hear us twain rehearse. 
And praise his sweetheart in alternate verse. 
I'll wager this same oaken stall' with thee, 
That Cioddipole shall give the prize to me. 
X. Clout. See this tobacco-pouch, that's lined 
with hair. 
Made of the skin of sleekest fallow-deer. 
This pouch that's tied with tape of reddest hue, 
I'll wager that the prize shall be my due. [slouch! 
Cuddy. Begin thy carols then, thou vaunting 
Be thine the oaken staff, or mine the pouch. 

L. i brut. My Blouzelinda is the blithest lass. 
Than primrose sweeter, or the clover-grass. 
Fair is the king-cup that in meadow blows. 
Fair is the daisy that beside her grows ; 
Fair is the giliitlower, of gardens sweet, 
Fair is the marygold, for pottage meet: 



But Blouzelind's than gilliflower more fair. 
Than daisy, marygold, or king-cup rare. 

Cuddy. My brown Buxoma is the featcst maid 
That e'er at wake delightsome gambol play'd. 
Clean as young lambkins or the goose's down. 
And like the goldfinch in her Sunday gown. 
The witless lamb may sport upon the plain, 
The frisking kid delight the gaping swain. 
The wanton calf may skip with many a bound. 
And my cur Tray play deftest feats around ; 
But neither lamb, nor kid, nor calf, nor Tray, 
Dance like Buxoma on the first of May. [near; 
L. Cloul. Sweet is my toil when Blouzelind is 
Of her bereft 'tis winter all the year. 
With her no sultry summer's heat I know ; 
In winter, when she's nigh, with love I glow. 
Come, Blouzelinda, ease thy swain's desire, 
My summer's shadow, and my winter's fire! 

Cuddy. As with Buxoma once I work'd at hay, 
Even noontide labour seem'd an holiday ; 
And holidays, if haply she were gone, 
Like worky-days, I wish'd would soon be done. 
Eftsoons, sweetheart kind ! my love repay, 
And all the year shall then be holiday. 

L. Clout. As Blouzelinda, in a gamesome mood, 
Behind a haycock loudly laughing stood, 
I slyly ran, and snatch'd a hasty kiss; 
She wiped her lips, nor took it much amiss. 
Believe me. Cuddy, while I'm bold to say 
Her breath was sweeter than the ripen'd hay. 
Cuddy. As my Buxoma, in a morning fair, 
With gentle finger stroked her milky care, 
I quaintly stole a kiss : at first, 'tis true, 
She frown'd, yet after granted one or two. 
Lobbin, I swear, believe who will my vows. 
Her breath by far exccll'd the breathing cows. 
L. Clout. Leek to the Welch, to Dutchmen 
butter's dear. 
Of Irish swains potatoe is the cheer ; 
Oats for their feasts the Scottish shepherds grind; 
Sweet turnips are the food of Blouzelind. 
While she loves turnips, butter I'll despise. 
Nor leeks, nor oatmeal, nor potatoe, prize. 

Cuddy. In good roast-beef my landlord sticka 
his knife. 
The capon fat delights his dainty wife, 
Pudding our parson eats, the squire loves hare. 
But white-pot thick is my Buxoma's fare. 
While she loves white-pot. capon ne'er shall bo, 
Nor hare, nor beef, nor pudding, food for nie. 

L. Clout. As once I play'd at blindman's l>ufT, 
About my eyes the towel thick was wrii})t. [it hajit, 
I miss'd the swains, and seized on Blouzelind. 
True speaks that ancient proverb, " Love is blind." 



JOHN GAY. 



401 



Cuddy. As at hot cockles once I laid me down, 
And felt the weighty hand of many a clown; 
Buxoma gave a gentle tap, and I 
Quick rose, and read soft mischief in her eye. 

L. ClouJ. On two near elms the slacken'dcord 
I hung, 
Now high, now low, my Blouzelinda swung; 
With the rude wind her rumpled garment rose. 
And show'd her taper leg, and scarlet hose. 

Cuddy. Across the fallen oak the plank I laid, 
And myself poised against the tottering maid : 
High leap'd the plank; adown Buxoma fell; 
I spied — but faithful sweethearts never tell. 

L. Clout. This riddle, Cuddy, if thou canst 
explain. 
This wily riddle puzzles every swain : 
" What flower is that which bears the virgin's 

name. 
The richest metal joined with the samel" 

Cuddy. Answer, thou carle, and judge this 
riddle right, 
I'll frankly own thee for a cunning wight: 
" What flower is that which royal honour craves. 
Adjoin the virgin, and 'tis strown on graves!" 

Cloddipole. Forbear, contending louts, give o'er 
your strains ! 
An oaken staflf each merits for his pains. 
But see the sunbeams bright to labour warn, 
And gild the thatch of goodman Hodge's barn. 
Your herds for want of water stand a-dry, 
They're weary of your songs — and so am I. 



THURSDAY; OR, THE SPELL. 



HoBNELiA, seated in a dreary vale, 
In pensive mood rehearsed her piteous tale ; • 
Her piteous tale the winds in sighs bemoan, 
And pining Echo answers groan for groan. 

I rue the day, a rueful day I trow, 
The woeful day, a day indeed of woe! 
When Lubberkin to town his cattle drove, 
A maiden fine bedight he hapt to love ; 
The maiden fine bedight his love retains. 
And for the village he forsakes the plains. 
Return, my Lubberkin, these ditties hear, 
Spells will I try, and spells shall ease my care. 

"With my sharp heel I three times mark the 
ground. 
And turn me thrice around, around, around." 

When first the year I heard the cuckow sing. 
And call with welcome note the budding spring, 
I straightway set a-running with such haste, 
Deborah that won the smock scarce ran so fast ; 
Till spent for lack of breath, quite weary grown, 
Upon a rising bank I sat adown. 
Then doflf'd my shoe, and by my troth I swear, 
Therein I spied this yellow frizzled hair, 
As like to Lubberkin's in curl and hue 
As if upon his comely pate it grew. 

"With my sharp heel I three times mark the 
ground, 
And turn me thrice around, around, around." 



At eve last midsummer no sleep I sought. 
But to the field a bag of hemp-seed brought: 
I scatter'd round the seed on every side. 
And three times in a trembling accent cried, 
" This hemp-seed with my virgin hand I sow, 
Who shall my true-love be, the crop shall mow.' 
I straight look'd back, and, if my eyes speak truth, 
With his keen scythe behind me came the youth. 

" With my sharp heel I three times mark the 
ground, 
And turn me thrice around, around, around." 

Last Valentine, the day when birds of kind 
Their paramours with mutual chirpings find ; 
I early rose, just at the break of day, 
Before the sun had chased the stars away ; 
A-field I went, amid the morning dew, 
To milk my kine (for so should huswives do;) 
Thee first I spied : and the first swain we see, 
In spite of fortune shall our true love be. 
See, Lubberkin, each bird his partner take ; 
And canst thou then thy sweetheart dear forsake 1 

" With my sharp heel I three times mark the 
ground. 
And turn me thrice around, around, around." 

Last May-day fair I search'd to find a snail, 
That might my secret lover's name reveal ; 
Upon a gooseberry bush a snail I found, 
(For always snails near sweetest fruit abound ;) 
I seized the vermine, whom I quickly sped. 
And on the earth the milk-white embers spread. 
Slow crawl'd the snail, and, if aright can spell, 
In the soft ashes mark'd a curious L; 
Oh, may this wond'rous omen lucky prove ! 
For L is found in Lubberkin and Love. 

" With my sharp heel I three times mark the 
ground. 
And turn me thrice around, around, around." 

Two hazel nuts I threw into the flame, 
And to each nut I gave a sweetheart's name ; 
This with the loudest bounce me sore amazed. 
That in a flame of brightest colour blazed. 
As blazed the nut, so may thy passion grow ; 
For 'twas thy nut that did so brightly glow. 

" With my sharp heel I three times mark the 
ground, 
And turn me thrice around, around, around." 

As peascods once I pluck'd, I chanced to see, 
One that was closely fill'd with three times three. 
Which when I cropp'd I safely home convey'd. 
And o'er the door the spell in secret laid ; 
My wheel I turn'd and sung a ballad new, 
While from the spindle I the fleeces drew ; [in 
The latch moved up, when, who should first come 
But, in his proper person — Lubberkin. 
I broke my yarn, surprised the sight to see; 
Sure sign that he would break his word with me. 
Eftsoons I join'd it with my wonted sleight; 
So may again his love with mhie unite ! 

" With my sharp heel I three times mark the 
ground. 
And turn me thrice around, around, around." 

This lady-fly I take from oflfthe grass, 

Whose spotted back might scarlet red surpass, 

"Fly, lady-bird, north, south, or east, or west, 

Fly where the man is found that I love best " 

2l2 



402 



JOHN GAY. 



He leaves my hand ; see, to the west he's flown, 
To call my true-love from the faithless town, 

" With my sharp heel I three times mark the 
ground. 
And turn me thrice around, around, around." 

I pare this pippin round and round again. 
My shepherd's name to flourish on the plain, 
I fling th' unbroken paring o'er my head, 
Upon the grass a perfect L is read ; 
Yet on my heart a fairer /- is seen, 
Than what the paring makes upon the green. 

" With my sharp heel I three times mark the 
ground. 
And turn me thrice around, around, around." 

This pippin shall another trial make. 
See from the core two kernels brown I take ; 
This on my cheek for Lubberkin is worn ; 
And Boobyclod on t' other side is borne. 
But Boobyclod soon drops upon the ground, 
A certain token that his love's unsound ; 
While Lubberkin sticks firmly to the last: 
Oh were his lips to mine but join'd so fast ! 

" With my sharp heel I three times mark the 
ground, 
And turn me thrice around, around, around." 

As Lubberkin once slept beneath a tree, 
I twitch'd his dangling garter from his knee. 
He wist not when the hemjien string I drew ; 
Now mine I quickly doll' of inkle blue. 
Together fast 1 tie the garters twain ; 
And while I knit the knot repeat this strain : 
•' Three times a true-love's knot I tie secure. 
Firm be the knot, firm may his love endure !" 

" With my sharp heel I three times mark the 
ground, 
And turn me thrice around, around, around." 

As I was wont, I trudged last market-day, 
To town, with new-laid eggs preserved in hay. 
I made my market long beibre 'twas night. 
My purse grew heavy, and my basket light. 
Straight to the 'pothecary's shop I went. 
And in love powder all my money spent. 
Behap what will, next Sunday after prayers, 
When to the ale-house Lubberkin repairs, 
These golden flies into bis mug I'll throw, 
And soon the swain with fervent love shall glow. 

" With my sharp heel I three times mark the 
ground, 
Anr turn Tne thrice around, around, around." 

But hold — our Lightfoot barks, and cocks his 
ears. 
O'er yonder stile see Lubberkin appears. 
He comes! becomes! Hobi.elia's not bewray'd, 
Nor shall she crown'd with willow die a maid. 
He vows, he swears, he'll give me a green gown : 
U dear ! I fall adown, adown, adown ! 



SATCKDAY; OR THE FLIGHTS. 

BOWZYBEUS. 

SuBLiMER strains, rustic Muse ! prepare; 
Forget awhile the barn and dairy's care; 
Thy homely voice to loftier numbers raise. 
The drunkard's flights require sonorous lays ; 



With Bowzybcus' songs exalt thy verse, 
While rocks and woods the various notes rehearse. 

'Twas in the season when the reapers' toil 
Of the ripe harvest 'gan to rid the soil; 
Wide through the field was seen a goodly rout, 
Clean damsels bound the gather'd sheaves about; 
The lads with sharpen'd hook and sweating brow, 
Cut down the labours of the winter plough. 
To the near hedge young Susan steps aside, 
She feign'd her coat or garter was untied ; 
Whate'er she did, she stoop'd adown unseen. 
And merry reapers what they list will ween. 
Soon she rose up, and cried with voice so shrill, 
That echo answer'd from the distant hill : 
The youths and damsels ran to Susan's aid. 
Who thought some adder had the lass dismay'd. 

When fast asleep they Bowzybeus spied. 
His hat and oaken stafllay close beside; 
That Bowzybeus who could sweetly sing. 
Or with the resin'd bow torment the string; 
That Bowzybeus, who, with fingers' speed, 
Could call soft warblings from the breathing reed^ 
That Bowzybeus, who, with jocund tongue, 
Ballads and roundelays and catches sung; 
They loudly laugh to sep the damsel's fright, 
And in disport surround the drunken wight. 

Ah, Bowzybee, why didst thou stay so long] 
The mugs were large, the drink was wond'rous 

strong ! 
Thou shouKlst have left the fair before 'twas night; 
But thou sat'st toping till the morning light. 

Cicely, brisk maid, stops forth before the rout, 
And kiss'd with smacking lip the snoring lout: 
(For custom says, " Whoe'er this venture proves, 
For such a kiss demands a pair of gloves.") 
By her example, Dorcas bolder grows. 
And plays a tickling straw within his nose. 
He rubs his nostril, and in wonted joke 
The sneering swains with stammering speech be- 
spoke : 
" To you my lads, Fll sing my carol o'er. 
As for the maids — I've something else in store." 

No sooner 'gan he raise his tuneful song. 
But lads and lasses round about him throng. 
Not ballad-singer placed above the crowd, 
Sings with a note so shrilling sweet, and loud ; 
Nor parish clerk, who calls the psalm so clear 
Like Bowzybeus, soothes the attentive ear. 

Of nature's laws his carols first begun. 
Why the grave owl can never face the sun. 
For owls, as swai))s observe, detest the light, 
And only sing and seek their prey by night. 
How turnips hide their swelling licads below; 
And how the closing coleworts upward grow ; 
How will-a-wisp misleads night-faring clowns 
O'er hills, and sinking bogs, and pathh?ss downs. 
Of stars he told, that shoot with shining tra.l, 
And of the glow-worm's light that gilds his tail. 
He sung where woodcocks in the sunnner feed, 
And in what climates they renew their breed — 
(Some think to northern coasts their flight they 

tend. 
Or to the moon in midnight hours ascend ;) 
Where swallows in the winter's season keep. 
And how the drowsy bat and dormouse sleep , 



JOHN GAY. 



40b 



How nature does the puppy's eyeliJ close, 
Till the blight sun has nine times set and rose; 
(For huntsmen by their long experience find, 
That puppies still nine rolling suns are blind.) 

Now he goes on, and sings of fairs and shows. 
For still new fairs before his eyes arose. 
How pedlars' stalls with glittering toys are laid, 
The various fairings of the country-maid. 
Long silken lares hang upon the twine. 
And rows of pins and amber i)rai-elets shine ; 
How the tight lass, knives, combs, and scissors 

spies. 
And looks on thimbles with desiring eyes. 
Of lotteries next with tuneful note he told. 
Where silver spoons are won, and rings of gold. 
The lads and lasses trudge the street along, 
And all the fair is crowded in h s song. 
The mountebank now treads tlie stage, and sells 
His pills, his balsams, and h s a:jfue-spells ; 
Now o'er and o'er the nimble tuini)ler springs, 
And on the rope the venturous maiden swings; 
Jack Pudding, in his party-colour'd jacket, 
Tosses the glove, and jokes at every packet. 
Of raree-shows he sung, and Punch's feats, 
Of pockets piik'd in crowds, and var ous cheats. 

Then sad he sung, 'the Children in the Wood:" 
(Ah, barbarous uncle, stain'd with infant blood !) 
How blackberries they pluck'd in deserts wild. 
And fearless at the glittering faulchion smiled ; 
Their little corpse the robin red-breasts found. 
And strew'd with pious bill the leaves around. 
(Ah! gentle birds! if this verse lasts so long, 
5four names shall live for ever in my song.) 

For '■ Buxom Joan" he sung the doubtful strife, 
How the sly tailor made the maid a wife. 

'J'o louder strains he raised his voice to tell 
What woeful wars in "Chevy-chace" befel, 
When " Percy drove the deer with hound and 

horn. 
Wars to be wept by children yet unborn !" 
Ah, Witherington, more years thy life had 

crown'd, 
If thou hadst never heard the horn or hound ! 
Yet shall the squire, who fougbton bloody stumps, 
By future bards be wail'd in doleful dumps. 

" All in the land of Essex" next he chants, 
How to sleek marcs stanh quakersturn gallants: 
How the grave brother stood on bank so green — 
Happy for him if mares had never been ! 

'i'hen he was seized with a religious qualm, 
And on a sudden sung the hundredth psalm. 

He sung of '• Talfey Welsh," and "Sawney 
Scot," 
" Iiil!y-bullero," and the "Irish Trot." 
V\ hy should I teli of '• Bateman," or of " Shore," 
Or '• Wantiey's Dragon"slain by valiant Moore; 
"The Bower of Kosamond," or "Robin Hood," 
And how the "grass now grows where Troy 
town stood !" 

His carols ceased : the listening maids and 
swains 
Seem slid to hear some soft imperfect strains. 
Sudden he rose: and, as he reels along. 
Swears kisses sweet should well reward his 
song. 



The damsels laughing fly : the giddy clown 
Again upon a wheat-sheaf drops adown; 
The power that guards thedrunk his sleep attends. 
Till, ruddy, like his face, the sini descends. 



THE BIRTH OF THE SQUIUE. 

IN IMITATION OP THE " POLUO" OP VIRQIL. 

Ye sylvan Muses, loftier strains recite: 
Not all in shades and humble cots delight. 
Hark! the bells ring; along the distant grounds 
The driving gales convey the swelling sounds : 
Th' attentive swain, forgetful of his work, 
With gaping wonder, leans upon his fork. 
What sudden news alarms the waking mornl 
To the glad S(|uire a hopeful heir is born. 
Mourn, mourn, ye stags, and all ye beasts of 

chase; 
This hour destruction brings on all your race: 
See, the pleased tenants duteous offerings bear. 
Turkeys and geese, and grocer's sweetest ware; 
With the new health the ponderous tankaid 

flows, 
.\nd old October reddens every nose. 
Beagles and spaniels round his cradle stand. 
Kiss his moist lip, and gently lick his hand. 
He joys to hear the shrill horn's echoing sounds, 
And learns to lisp the names of all the hounds. 
With frothy ale to make his cup o'erflow, 
Barley shall in paternal acres grow; 
The bee shall sip the fragrant dew from flowers, 
To give metheglin for his morning- hours; 
For him the clustering hop shall climb the poles, 
And his own orchard sparkle in his bowls. 

His sire's exploits he now with wonder hears, 
The monstrous tales indulge his greedy ears; 
How, when youth strung his nerves and warm'd 

his veins. 
He rode, the mighty Ninirod of the plains. 
He leads the staring infiint through the hall, 
Points out the horny spoils that grace the wall; 
Tells how the stag through three whole countiei. 

fled, 
What rivers swam, where bay'd, and where he 

bled. 
Now he the wonders of the fox repeats. 
Describes the desperate chase, and all his cheats, 
How in one day, beneath his furious s[)eed. 
He tired seven coursers of the fleetest breed ; 
How high the pale he leap'd, how wide the 

d.tch. 
When the hound tore the haunches of the 

witch! 
These stories, which descend from son to son. 
The forward boy shall one day make his own. 

Ah, too fond mother, think the time draws nigh. 
That calls the darling from thy tender eye; 
How shall his spirit brook the rigid rules. 
And the long tyranny of grammar-schools 1 
Let younger brothers o'er dull authors plod, 
Ijash'd into Latin by the tinglini; rod : 
No, let him never feel that smart dis-^race : 
Why should he wiser prove than all his race 



104 



JOHN GAY. 



When ripening youth with down o'ershades his 

chin, 
And every female eye incites to sin ; 
The milk-maid (thoughtless of her future 

shame.) 
With smacking lip shall raise his guilty flame ; 
The dairy, barn, the hay-loft, and the grove. 
Shall oft be conscious of their stolen love. 
But think, Priscilla, on that dreadful time, 
When pangs and watery qualms shall own thy 

crime. 
How wilt thou tremble when thy nipple's prest, 
To see the white drops bathe thy swelling 

breast ! 
J\ine moons shall publicly divulge thy shame, 
And the young squire forestall a father's name. 
When twice twelve times the reaper's sweep- 
ing hand 
With levell'd harvests has bestrown the land ; 
On famed St. Hubert's feast, his winding horn 
Shall cheer the joyful hound, and wake the 

morn :' 
This memorable day his eager speed 
Shall urge with bloody heel the rising steed. 
check the foamy bit, nor tempt thy fate, 
Think on the murders of a five-bar gate ! 
Yet, prodigal of life, the leap he tries. 
Low in the dust his grovelling honour lies ; 
Headlong he falls, and on the rugged stone 
Distorts his neck, and cracks the collar-bone. 
O venturous youth, thy thirst of game allay: 
Mayst thou survive the perils of this day! 
He shall survive ; and in late years be sent 
To snore away debates in parliament. 

The time shall come when his more solid 
sense 
With nod important shall the laws dispense ; 
A justice with grave justices shall sit ; 
He praise their wisdom, they admire his wit. 
No greyhound shall attend the tenant's pace. 
No rusty gun the farmer's chimney grace ; 
Salmons shall leave their covers void of fear, 
Nor dread the thievish nat or triple spear ; 
Poachers shall tremble at his awful name. 
Whom vengeance now o'ertakes for murder'd 
game. 
Assist me, Bacchus, and ye drunken powers. 
To sing his friendships and his midnight hours ! 
Why dost thou glory in thy strength of beer. 
Firm cork'd and mellow'd till the twentieth 

year: 
Brew'd, or when Phoebus warms the fleecy sign, 
Or when his languid rays in Scorpio shine ? 
Think on the mischiefs which from hence have 

sprung ! 
It arms with curses dire the wrathful tongue ; 
Foul scandal to the lying lip affords. 
And prompts the memory with injurious words. 
O where is wisdom when by this o'erpovver'd ? 
The state is censured, and the maid deflower'd ! 
And wilt thou still, O Squire, brew ale so 

strong] 
Hear then the dictates of prophetic song. 
Methinks I see him in his hall appear, 
Wb«re the long table floats in clammy beer, 



'Midst mugs and glasses shatter'd o'er the floor, 
Dead drunk, his servile crew supinely snore ; 
Triumphant, o'er the prostrate brutes he stands, 
The mighty bumper trembles in his hands ; 
Boldly he drinks, and like his glorious sires, 
In copious gulps of potent ale expires. 



SWEET WILLIAM'S FAREWELL TO BLACK-EYED 

SUSAN. 

All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd. 

The streamers waving in the wind, 
When black-eyed Susan came aboard. 
Oh I where shall I my true-love find? 
Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true. 
If my sweet William sails among the crew. 

William, who high upon the yard 

Rock'd with the billow to and fro. 
Soon as her well-known voice he heard, 
He sigh'd and cast his eyes below : 
The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, 
And (quick as lightning) on the deck he stands. 

So the sweet lark, high poised in air, 

Shuts close his pinions to his breast, 
(If chance his mate's shrill call he hear,) 
And drops at once into her nest. 
The noblest captain in the British fleet 
Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet. 

Susan, Susan, lovely dear, 

My vows shall ever true remain; 
Let me kiss off" that falling tear; 
We only part to meet again. 
Change, as ye list, ye winds! my heart shall be 
The faithful compass that still points to thee. 

Believe not what the landmen say, 

Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind; 
They'll tell thee, sailors, when away, 
In every port a mistress find: 
Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, 
For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. 

If to fair India's coast we sail. 

Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright. 
Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, 
Thy skin is ivory so white. 
Thus every beauteous object that I view 
Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. 

Though battle call me from thy arms, 

Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; 
Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms, 
William shall to his dear return. 
Love turns aside the balls that round me fly. 
Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye. 

The boatswain gave the dreadful word. 

The sails their swelling bosom spread ; 
No longer must she stay aboard : 

They kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head. 
Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land : 
Adieu ! she cries ; and waved her hlv hand. 



JOHN GAY. 



405 



THE COURT OF DKATII. 



Death, on a solemn night of state, 

In all his pomp of terror sate : 

Th' attendants of his gloomy reign, 

Diseases dire, a ghastly train ! 

Crowd the vast court. With hollow, tone, 

A voice thus thunder'd from the throne; 

"This night our minister we name. 

Let every servant speak his claim ; 

Merit shall bear this ebon wand." 

All, at the word, stretch'd forth their hand. 

Fever, with burning heat possess'd. 
Advanced, and for the wand address'd. 

" I to the weekly bills appeal. 
Let those express my fervent zeal; 
On every slight occasion near. 
With violence I persevere." 

Next Gout appears with limping pace. 
Pleads how he shifts from place to place ; 
From head to foot how swift he flies. 
And every joint and sinew plies; 
Still working when he seems suppress'd, 
A most tenacious, stubborn guest. 

A haggard spectre from the crew 
Crawls forth, and thus asserts his due : 
"'Tis I who taint the sweetest joy. 
And in the shape of love destroy : 
My shanks, sunk eyes, and noseless face, 
Prove my pretension to the place." 

Stone urged his over-growing force; 
And, next. Consumption's meagre corse, 
With feeble voice that scarce was heard. 
Broke with short coughs, his suit preferr'd : 
" Let none object my lingering way, 
I gain, like Fabius, by delay ; 
Fatigue and weaken every foe 
By long attack, secure though slow." 

Plague represents his rapid power, 
Who thinn'd a nation in an hour. 

All spoke their claim, and hoped the wand. 
Now expectation hush'd the band; 
When thus the monarch from the throne : 

" Merit was ever modest known. 
What, no physician speak his right ! 
None here ! but fees their toils requite ! 
Let then Intemperance take the wand. 
Who fills with gold their zealous hand. 
You, Fever, Gout and all the rest, 
(Whom wary men as foes detest,) 
Forego your claim ; no more pretend ; 
Intemperance is esteem'd a friend ; 



He shares their mirth, their social joys, 
And as a courted guest destroys. 
The charge on him must justly fill, 
Who finds employment for you all. 



FROM THE "WHAT-D'YE-CALL-IT." 

'TwAS when the seas were roaring 

With hollow blasts of wind, 
A damsel lay deploring. 

All on a rock reclineil. 
Wide o'er the foaming billows 

She cast a wistful look ; 
Her head was crown'd with willows, 

That trembled o'er the brook. 

Twelve months are gone and over, 

And nine long tedious days: 
Why didst thou, venturous lover. 

Why didst thou trust the seas 1 
Cease, cease, thou cruel ocean, 

And let my lover rest: 
Ah ! what's thy troubled motion 

To that within my breast ] 
The merchant, robbed of pleasure, 

Sees tempests in despair ; 
But what's the loss of treasure 

To losing of my dearl 
Should you some coast be laid on 

Where gold and diamonds grow, 
You'd find a richer maiden, 

But none that loves you so. 

How can they say that nature 

Has nothing made in vain; 
Why then beneath the water 

Should hideous rocks remain ] 
No eyes the rocks discover 

That lurk beneath the deep. 
To wreck the wandering lover. 

And leave the maid to weep. 

Ail melancholy lying. 

Thus wail'd she for her dear; 
Repay d each blast with sighing. 

Each billow with a tear; 
When o'er the white wave stooping, 

His floating corpse she spied ; 
Then like a lily drooping. 

She bow'd her head and died.* 



[* AVhat (Ml be prettier than Gay's ballaj, or rnthei 
Swlfl'g, Arbi hiiiifs. I'( pu's, ai.dG.iys, in the " Wbiitdye- 
cflll-it," — "'Tw^us wh-n tlie seas were roarinir." I have 
been well Informid that they all tontribuleJ.— CowPi;u to 
Unwin, Aug. 4, ITSa.J 



BARTON BOOTH. 

[Born, 1681. Died,. 1733.] 

An excellent man and an eminent actor. 



SONG. 
Sweet are the charms of her I love, 

More fragrant than the damask, rose, 
Soft as the down of turtle dove, 

Gentle as air when Zephyr hlows; 
Refreshing as descending rains 
To sun-burnt climes, and thirsty plains. 

True as the needle to the pole. 

Or as the dial to the sun ; 
Constant as gliding waters roll, 

Whose swelling tides obey the moon ; 
From every other charmer free. 
My life and love shall follow thee. 

The lamb the flowery thyme devours, 
The dam the tender kid pursues; 

Sweet Philomel, in shady bovvers 
Of verdant spring her notes renew; 

All follow what they most admire, 

As I pursue my soul's desire. 

Nature must change her beauteous face. 
And vary as the seasons rise ; 



As winter to the spring gives place, 

Summer th' approach of autumn flits: 
No change on love the seasons bring, 
Love only knows perpetual spring. 

Devouring time, with stealing pace. 
Makes lofty oaks and cedars bow; 

And marble towers, and gates of brass, 
In his rude march he levels low : 

But time, destroy!; g far and wide, 

Love from the soul can ne'er divide. 

Death only, with his cruel dart, 
The gentle godhead can remove ; 

And drive him from the bleeding heart 
To mingle with the bless'd above, 

Where, known to all his kindred train, 

He finds a lasting rest from pain. 

Love, and his sister fair, the Soul, 

Twin-born, from heaven together came 

Love will the universe control, 

When dying seasons lose their name ; 

Divine abodes shall own his pow'r, 

When time and death shall be no more. 



MATTHEW GREEN. 



[Bo 



1696. Died, 1737.] 



Matthew Green was educated among the 
Dissenters; but left them in disgust at their pre- 
cision, probably without reverting to the mother 
church. All that we are told of him, is, that he 
had a post at the Custom House, which he dis- 
charged with great fidelity, and died at a lodging 
in Nag's-head court, Gracechurth-street, aged 
forty-one.* His strong ppwers of mind had re- 
ceived little advantage from education, and were 
occasionally subject to depression from hypo- 
:hondria ; but his conversation is said to have 
abounded in wit and shrewdness. One day his 
friend Sylvanus Bevan complained to hfm that 
while he was bathing in the river he had been 
saluted by a waterman with the cry of •' Quaker 
Quirl," and wondered how he should have been 



known to be a Quaker without his clothes. Green 
replied, " By your swimming against the stream." 
His poem, "The Spleen," was never published 
during his lifetime. Glover, his warm friend, pre- 
sented it to the world after his death; and it is 
much to be regretted, did not prefix any account 
of its interesting author. It was originally a 
very short copy of verses, and was gradually and 
piecemeal increased. Pope speedily noticed its 
merit, Melmoth praised its strong originality in 
Fitzosborne's Letters, and Gray duly commended 
it in his correspondence with Walpole, when it 
appeared in Dodsley's collection. In that walk 
of poetry, where Fancy aspires no further than 
to go hand in hand with common sense, its mciit 
is certainly unrivalled.! 



FROM "THE SPLEEN." 

Contentment, parent of delight. 
So much a stranger to our sight, 
Say, goddess, in what happy place 
Mortals behold thy blooming face ; 



[* He « a."! a rlerk in the Custom IInui=e, on. it is thoiiglit, 
a Mnatl .sn'ary: but the writer of thl.s note ha,s hin.ted 
over offici;il tjooks in vain fir a ro ice of iiis appoiutment, 
aiid of obituuries for the lime of his dualh.] 
406 



Thy gracious auspices impart, 

And for thy temple choose my heart. 

7'hey whom thou deignest to inspire. 

Thy science learn, to bound desire; 

By happy alchemy of mind 

They turn to pleasure all they find ; 

[+ There i.s a prcfiifion of wit everywhere in Grrea; 
reading would have formed hi.« judgment and h;irnioiii ed 
his ver,-e. for even his wm d note.« o.teu break out into 
strains of real poetry and mubic. — Gray.] 



MATTHEW GREEN. 



40'< 



They both disdain in outward mien 
The grave and solemn garb of Spleen, 
And meretricious arts of dress, 
To feign a joy, and hide distress ; 
Unmoved vvlien the rude tempest blows, 
Without an opiate they repose; 
And, cover'd by your shield, defy 
The whizzing shafts that round them fly. 
Nor meddling with the gods' affiiirs, 
Concern themselves with distant cares ; 
But place their bliss in mental rest. 
And feast upon the good possess'd. 

Forced by soft violence of pray'r. 
The blithesome goddess soothes my care, 
I feel the deity inspire, 
And thus she models my desire. 
Two hundred pounds half-yearly paid. 
Annuity securely made, 
A farm some twenty miles from town. 
Small, tight, salubrious, and my own; 
Two maids that never saw the town, 
A serving-man not quite a clown, 
A boy to help to tread the mow, 
And drive, while t'other holds the plough; 
A chief of temper form'd to please. 
Fit to converse and keep the keys ; 
And better to preserve the peace, 
Commission'd by the name of niece; 
With understandings of a size 
To think their master very wise. 
May Heaven (its all I wish for) send 
One genial room to treat a friend. 
Where decent cupboard, little plate, 
Display benevolence, not state. 
And may my humble dwelling stand 
Upon some chosen spot of land : 
A pond before full to the brim. 
Where cows may cool, and geese may swim; 
Behind, a green, like velvet neat. 
Soft to the eye, and to the feet ; 
Where od'rous plants in evening fair 
Breathe all around aml)rosial air; 
From Eurus, foe to kitchen ground. 
Fenced by a slope with bushes crown'd. 
Fit dwelling for the feather'd throng, 
Who pay their quit-rents with a song; 
With op'ning views of hill and dale, 
Which sense and fancy too regale. 
Where the half cirque, which vision bounds. 
Like amphitheatre surrounds: 
And woods impervious to the breeze. 
Thick phalanx of embodied trees. 
From hills through plains in dusk arra}' 
Extended far, repel the day. 
Here stillness, height, and solemn shade 
Invite, and contemplation aid : 
Here Nymphs from hollow oaks relate 
The da'k decrees and will of fate. 
And dreams beneath the spreading beech 
Inspire, and docile fancy teach ; 
While soft as breezy breath of wind, 
Impulses rustle through tlie mind : 
Here Dryads, scorning Phtebus' ray, 
While Pan melodious pipes away, 



In measured motions frisk about. 

Till old Silenus puts them out. 

There see the clover, pea, and bean. 

Vie in variety of green; 

Fresh pastures speckled o'er with sheep. 

Brown fields their fallow sabbaths keep. 

Plump Ceres golden tresses wear. 

And poppy top-knots deck her hair, 

And silver streams through meadows stray, 

And Naiads on the margin play, 

And lesser Nymphs on side of hills 

From plaything urns pour down the rills. 

Thus shelter'd, free from care and strife, 
May I enjoy a calm through life ; 
See faction, safe in low degree. 
As men at land see storms at sea, 
And laugh at miserable elves. 
Not kind, so much as to themselves. 
Cursed with such souls of base alloy, 
As can possess, but not enjoy ; 
Debarr'd the pleasure to impart 
By avarice, sphincter of the heart ; 
Who wealth, hard earn'd by guilty cares, 
Bequeath untouch'd to thankless heirs. 
May I, with look ungloom'd by guile. 
And wearing virtue's liv'ry-smile, 
Prone the distressed to relieve, 
And little trespasses forgive. 
With income not in fortune's power. 
And skill to make a busy hour. 
With trips to town life to amuse. 
To purchase books, and hear the news. 
To see old friends, brush off the clown, 
And quicken taste at coming down, 
Unhurt by sickness' blasting rage. 
And slowly mellowing in age. 
When Fate extends its gathering gripe, 
Fall off like fruit grown fully ripe. 
Quit a worn being without pain. 
Perhaps to blossom soon again. 

But now more serious see me grow. 
And what I think, my Memmius, know. 

Th' enthusiast's hope, and raptures wild. 
Have never yet my reason foil'd. 
His springy soul dilates like air. 
When free from weight of ambient care. 
And, hush'd in meditation deep, 
Slides into dreams, as when asleep ; 
Then, fond of new discoveries grown. 
Proves a Columbus of her own, 
Disdains the narrow bounds of place. 
And through the wilds of endless space. 
Borne up on metaphysic wings, 
Chases light forms and shadowy things. 
And, in the vague excursion caught. 
Brings home some rare exotic thought 
The melancholy man such dreams. 
As i)rightest evidence, esteems ; 
Fain would he see some distant scene 
Suggested by his restless Spleen, 
And Fancy's telescope applies 
With tinctured glass to cheat his eyes. 



108 



GEORGE GRANVILLE, LORD LANDSDOWNE. 



Such thoughts, as love the gloom of night, 

I close examine by the light; 

For who, though bribed by gain to lie, 

Dare sunbeam-written truths deny. 

And execute plnin common sense 

On faith's mere hearsay evidence ? 

That superstition mayn't create. 
And club its ills with those of fate, 
I many a notion take to task. 
Made dreadful by its visor-mask. 
Thus scruple, spasm of the mind, 
Is cured, and certainty I find ; 
Since optic reason shows me plain, 
I dreaded spectres of the brain ; 
And legendary fears are gone. 
Though in tenacious childhood sown. 
Thus in opinions I commence 
Freeholder in the proper sense, 
And neither suit nor service do, 
Nor homage to pretenders show, 
Who boast themselves by spurious roll 
Lords of the manor of the soul; 
Preferring sense from chin that's bare. 
To nonsense throned in whisker'd hair. 

To thee. Creator uncreate, 

O Entium Ens! divinely great! 

Hold, Muse, nor melting pinions try, 

Nor near the blazing glory fly, 

Nor straining break thy feeble bow, 

Unfeather'd arrows far to throw ; 

Through fields unknown nor madly stray 

Where no ideas mark the way. 

With tender eyes, and colours faint. 

And trembling hands, forbear to paint. 

Who, features veil'd by light, can hit? 

Where can, what has no outline, fill 

My soul, the vain attempt forego. 

Thyself, the fitter subject, know. 

He wisely shuns the bold extreme. 

Who soon lays by th' unequal theme, 

Nor runs, with wisdom's sirens caught. 

On quicksands swallowing shipwreck'd thought: 

But conscious of his distance, gives 

Mute praise, and humble negatives. 

In One, no object of our sight. 

Immutable and infinite. 

Who can't be cruel or unjust. 

Calm and resign'd, I fix my trust ; 



To him my past and present state 

I owe, and must my future fate. 

A stranger into life I'm come. 

Dying may be our going home. 

Transported here by angry Fate, 

The convicts of a prior state: 

Hence I no anxious thoughts bestow 

On matters I can never know. 

Through life's foul way, like vagrant, pass'd, 

He'll grant a settlement at last ; 

And with sweet ease the wearied crown 

By leave to lay his being down. 

If doom'd to dance th' eternal round 

Of life, no sooner lost but found, 

And dissolution soon to come. 

Like sponge, wipes out life's present sum, 

But can't our state of pow'r bereave 

An endless series to receive ; 

Then, if hard dealt with here by fate, 

We balance in another state. 

And consciousness must go along, 

And sign th' acquittance for the wrong 

He for his creatures niust decree 

More happiness than misery, 

Or be supposed to create. 

Curious to try, what 'tis to hate : 

And do an act, which rage infers, 

'Cause lameness halts, or blindness errs. 

Thus, thus I steer my bark, and sail 
On even keel with gentle gale ; 
At helm I make my reason sit. 
My crew of passions all submit. 
If dark and blust'ring prove some nights. 
Philosophy puts forth her lights ; 
Experience holds the cautious glass, 
To shun the breakers, as I pass. 
And frequent throws the wary lead, 
To see what dangers may be hid : 
And once in seven years I'm seen 
At Bath or Tunbridge, to careen. 
Though pleased to see the dolphins play, 
I mind my compass and my way. 
With store sufficient for relief. 
And wisely still prepared to reef. 
Nor wanting the dispersive bowl 
Of cloudy weather in the soul, 
I make (may heaven propitious send 
Such wind and weather to the end) 
Neither becalm'd, nor overblown. 
Life's voyage to the world unknown. 



GEORGE GRANVILLE, LORD LANSDOWNE.* 



[Born. 1667. Died, 1735.] 



Love is by fancy led about 

From hope to fear, from joy to doubt ; 

Whom we now an angel call. 
Divinely graced in every feature. 
Straight's a dcform'd, a perjured creature; 

Love and hate are fancy all. 



'Tis but as fancy shall present 
Objects of grief, or of content. 

That the lover's blest or dies ; 
Visions of mighty pain or pleasure. 
Imagined want, imagined treasure. 

All in powerful fancy lies. 



[* A noble imitiitor, in iw aiistocn.tic souse, of Waller; 
and tetter known as Uranville the puiiti: than UranvUle 
the poet. J 



GEORGE LILLO. 



[Born, 1C93. Died, 17i3.] 



George Lillo was the son of a Dutch jeweller, 
who married an English woman, and settled in 
London. Our poet was born near Moorfields, 
was bred to his father's business, and followed it 
for many years. The story of his dying in dis- 
tress was a fiction of Hammond, the poet; for he 
bequeathed a considerable property to his ne- 
phew, whom he made his heir. It has been said 
that this bequest was in consequence of his find- 
ing the young man disposed to lend him a sum [ 
of money at a time when he thought proper to 
feign pecuniary distress, in order that he might 
discover the sincerity of those calling themselves 
his friends. Thomas Davies, his biographer and 
editor, professes to have got this anecdote from a 
surviving partner of Lillo. It bears, however, 
an intrinsic air of improbability. It is not usual 
for sensible tradesmen to aflect being on the verge 
of bankruptcy, and Lillo's character was that of 
an uncommonly sensible man. Fielding, his in- 
timate friend, ascribes to him a manly simplicity 
of miVid, that is extremely unlike such a stra- 
tagem. 

Lillo is the tragic poet of middling and familiar 
life. Instead of heroes from romance and his- 
tory, he gives the merchant and his apprentice ; 
and the Macbeth of his " F(dnl Curiosity" is a 
private gentleman, who has been reduced by his 
poverty to dispose of his copy of Seneca for a 
morsel of bread. The mind will be apt, after 
reading his works, to suggest to itself the ques- 
tion, how far the graver drama would gain or 
lose by a more general adoption of this plebeian 
principle. The cares, it may be said, that are 
most lamiliar to our existence, and the distresses 
of those nearest to ourselves in situation, ought 
to lay the strongest hold upon our sympath.es, 
and the general mass of society ought to furnish 
a more express image of man than any detached 
or elevated portion of the species. 

Lillo is certainly a master of potent effect in 
the exhibition of human suffering. His repre- 
sentation of actual or intended murder seems to 
assume a deeper terror from the familiar circum- 
stances of life with which it is invested. Such 
indeed is said to have been the effect of a scene 
in his " Arden of FevershiUn," that the audience 
rose up with one accord and interrupted it. The 
anecdote, whether true or false, must recall to the 
mind of every one who has perused that piece, 
the harrowing sympathy which it is calculated to 
excite. But notwithstanding thi; power of Lillo's 
works, we entirely miss in them that romantic 
p'traction which invites to repealed perusal of 
^■2 



them. They give us life in a close and dreadful 
semblance of reality, but not arrayed in the magic 
illusion of poetry. His strength lies in concep- 
tion of situations, not in beauty of dialogue, or in 
the eloquence of the passions. Yet the effect of 
his plain and homely subjects was so strikingly 
superior to that of the vapid and heroic produc- 
tions of the day, as to induce some of his con- 
temporary admirers to pronounce that he had 
reached the acmfe of dramatic excellence, and 
struck into the best and most genuine path of 
tragedy. George Barnwell, it was observed, drew 
more tears than the rants of Alexander. This 
might be true, but it did not bring the compari- 
son of humble and heroic subjects to a fair test ; 
for the tragedy of Alexander is bad, not from its 
subject, but from the incapacity of the poet who 
composed it. It docs not prove that heroes drawn 
from history or romance are not at least as su.s- 
ceptible of high and poetical effect as a wicked 
apprentice, or a distressed gentleman pawning 
his movables. It is one question whether Lillo 
has given to his subjects from private life the de- 
gree of beauty of which they are susceptible. He 
is a master of terrific, but not of tender impres- 
sions. We feel a harshness and gloom in his 
genius even while we are compelled to admire its 
force and originality. 

The peculiar choice of his subjects was happy 
and commendable as far as it regarded himself, 
for his talents nevef succeeded so well when he 
ventured out of them. But it is another ques- 
tion, whether the famiUar cast of those subjects 
was fitted to constitute a more genuine, or only a 
subordinate, walk in tragedy. Undoubtedly the 
genuine delineation of the human heart will please 
us, from whatever station or circumstances of 
life it is derived. In the simple pathos of tragedy 
probably very little difference will be felt from the 
choice of characters being pitched above or below 
the line of mediocrity in station. But something 
more than pathos is required in tragedy ; and the 
very pain that attends our sympathy requires 
agreeable and romantic associations of the fancy 
to be blended with its poignancy. Whatever at- 
taches ideas of importance, publicity, and eleva- 
tion to the object of pity, forms a brightening and 
alluring medium to the imagination. Athens 
herself, with, all her simplicity and democracy, 
delighted on the stage to 

" let gorgeous Tragedy 
In sceptred pull tome sweeping by." 

Even situations far depressed beneath thr 
familiar -mediocrity of life are more picturesque 
2K iOi 



410 



GEORGE LILLO. 



and poetical than its onlinary level. It is cer- 
tainly on the virtues of the niiddling rank of life 
that the strength and comforts of society chiefly 
depend, in the same manner as we look for the 
harvest, not on clifTs and precipices, but on the 
easy slope and the uniform plain. But the painter 
docs not in general fix on level countries for the 



subjects of his noblest landscapes. There is an 
analogy, I conceive, to this in the moral painting 
of tragedy. Di^j)arities of station give it bold- 
ness of outline. The commanding situations of 
life are its mountain scenery — the region where 
its storm and sunshine may be portrayed in their 
strongest contrast and colouring. 



FROM "THE FATAL CURIOSITY." 

ACT II. SCKNE I. 

Pf^)-sons— Maria, Charlotte, and Yodnq Wilmot. 

Enter Cuablotte, thoughlful ; and soon after Maria, from 
the other side. 

M(ir. Madam, a stranger in a foreign habit 
Desires to see you. 

Char. In a foreign habit 

'Tis strange, and unexpected — But admit him. 

[Exit Maiua. 
Who can this stanger bel I know no foreigner. 

Enter YoUNG WttMOT. 

Nor any man like this. 

Y. Wilm. Ten thousand joys ! 

[Going to emhrace her. 
Char. You are rude, sir — Pray forbear, and let 
me know 
What business brought you here, or leave the 
place. 
¥. Wilin. She knows me not, or will not seem 
to know me. [Aside. 

Perfidious maid ! Am I forgot or scorn'd ■? 

Char. Strange questions from a man I never 

knew ! 
Y. Wilni. With what aversion and contempt 
she views me! 
VTy fears are true ; some other has her heart : 
—She's lost — My fatal absence has undone me. 

[Aside. 

! Could thy Wilmothave forgot thee, Charlotte? 

Char. Ha ! Wilmot ! say ! what do your words 

import? 

O gentle stranger ! ease my swelling heart 

rhat else will burst ! Canst thou inform me 

aught? — 
What dost thou know of Wilmot? 

r. Wilm. This I know. 
When all the winds of heaven soem'd to conspire 
Against the stormy main, and dreadful peals 
Of rattling thunder deafen'd every ear. 
And drown'd ih' affrighten'd mariners' loud cries. 
While livid lightning spread itssulph'rous ilames 
Through all the dark horizon, and disclosed 
The raging seas ilicensed to his destruction ; 
When the good ship in which he was embark'd. 
Unable longer to support the tempest. 
Broke, and o'erwhelin'd by the impetuous surge, 
Sunk to the oozy bottom of the deep. 
And left him struggling with the warring waves; 
In that dread moment, in the jaws of death, 
W heu hi£ strength lail'd and every hope forsook 
him, 



And his last breath press'd t'wards his trembling 

lips. 
The neighbouring rocks, that echoed to his moan, 
Return'd no sound articulate, but Charlotte! 

Chin: The fatal tempest whose description strikes 
The hearer with astonishment is ceased ; 
And Wilmot is at rest. The fiercer storm 
Of swelling passions that o'erwhelms the soul. 
And rages worse than the mad foaming seas 
In which he perish'd, ne'er shall vex him more, 
r. Hirn. Thou seem'st to think he's dead: 
enjoy that thought ; 
Persuade yourself that what you wish is true. 
And trium|)h in your falsehood — Yes, he's dead; 
You were his fate. The cruel winds and waves. 
That cast him j)ale and breathless on the shore. 
Spared him for greater woes — to know his Char- 
lotte, 
Forgetting all her vows to him and heaven. 
Had cast him from her thoughts — Then, then he 

died ; 
But never must have rest. Even now hewanders, 
A sad, repining, discontented ghost. 
The unsubstantial shadow of himself. 
And pours his plaii.tive groans in thy deaf ears, 
And stalks, unseen before thee. 

Chiir. 'Tis enough 

Detested falsehood now has done its worst. 
And ait thou dead? — And wouldst thou die, my 

Wilmot! 
For one thou thought'st unjust? — Thou soul of 

truth! 
What must be done ? — which way shall I express 
Unutterable woe ? Or how convince 
Thy dear departed spirit of the love, 
Th' eternal love, and never-failing faith 
Of thy much injured, lost, despairing Charlotte ? 
Y. Wilm. Be still my flutt'ring heart ; hope 
not too soon ; [A.side. 

Perhaps I drean), and this is all illusion. 

Char. If, as some teach, the mind intuitive. 
Free from the narrow bounds and slavish tics 
Of sordid earth that circumscribe its power 
While it remains below, roving at large. 
Can trace us to our most conceal'd retreat. 
See all we act, and read our very thoughts; 
To thee, O Wilmot ! kneeling, I appeal, 
If e'er I swerved in action, word or thought, 
From the severest constancy and truth. 
Or ever wish'd to taste a joy on earth 
That centred not in thee, since last we parted ; 
May we ne'er meet again, but thy loud wrongs 
So close the ear of mercy to my cries, 
That I may never see those bright abodes 



GEORGE LILLO. 



411 



Where truth and virtue only have admission, 
And thou inhabit'st now. 

F. IVilm. Assist me, Heaven! 
Preserve my reason, memory, and sense ! 
O moderate my fierce tumultuous joys. 
Or their excess will drive n>e to distraction. 

Charlotte ! Charlotte! lovely, virtuous maid ! 
Can thy firm mind, in sp te of time and absence, 
Remain unshaken, and support its truth; 

And yet thy frailer memory retain 

No image, no idea of thy lover 1 

Why dost thou gaze so wildly 1 Look on me; 

Turn thy dear eyes this way; observe me well. 

Have scorching climates, time, and this strange 

habit. 
So changed and so disguised thy faithful Wilmot, 
That nothing in my voice, my face, or mien, 
Remains to tell my Charlotte I am he 1 

\_Aflir viewing him snme time, she npprnar.hes 

lo/'cjiing iiiid yiies liiiii her ham! ; and then 

turning toivarils l(im,nnl.s upon hix b'ignm.] 

Why dost thou weep ] Why dost thou tremble 

thus] 
Why doth thy panting heart and cautious touch 
Speak thee but half convinced 1 Whence are 

tby fears ] 
Why art thou silent? Canst thou doubt me still? 
Char. No, Wilmot! no; I'm blind with too 

much light: 
O'ercome with wonder and oppress'd with joy ; 
Thestruggling passions barr'd the doors of speech. 
But speech enlarged, afibrds me no relief. 
This vast profusion of extreme delight. 
Rising at once, and bursting from despair. 
Defies the aid of words, and mocks description : 
Uut for one sorrow, one sad scene of anguish. 
That checks the swelling torrent of my joys, 

1 could not bear the transport. 

1'. H'ini. Let nie know it: 
(»ive me my portion of thy sorrow, Charlotte ! 
Let me partake thy grief, or bear it for thee. 

Char. Alas! my Wilinot! these sad tears are 
thine ; 
They flow for thy misfortunes. I am pierced 
With all the agonies of strong compassion, 
With all the bitter anguish you must feel, 
When you shall hear your parents — 

1''. Wd/n. Are no more. 

Char. You apprehend me wrong. 

Y. Wibii. Perhaps I do : 
Perhaps you mean to say, the greedy grave 
Was satisfied with one, and one is left 
To bless my longing eyes — But which, my Char- 
lotte ? 
— 'And yet forbear to speak, 'till I have thought — 

Char. Nay, hear me, Wilinot ! 

Y. Wilm. I perforce must hear thee : 
For I might think 'till death, and not determine, 
Of two so dear which I could bear to lose. 

Chiir. Afflict yourself no more with ground- 
less fears: 
Your parents both are living. Their distress. 
The poverty to which they are reduced. 
In spite of my weak aid, was what I mourn'd , 
And that in helpless ago, to them whose youth 



Was crown 'd with full prosperity, I fear, 
Is worse, much worse, than death. 

Y. Wilin. My joy's complete. 
My parents living, and possess'd of thee ! — 
From this blest hour, the happiest of my life, 
I'll date my rest. My anxious hopes and fears. 
My weary travels, and my dangers past, 
Are now rewarded all. Now I rejoice 
In my success, and count my riches gain. 
For know, my soul's best treasure! I have wealth 
Enough to glut ev'n avarice itself: 
No more shall cruel want, or proud contempt. 
Oppress the sinking spirits, or insult 
The hoary heads of those who gave me being. 

Char. 'Tis now, O riches, I conceive your 
worth : 
You are not base, nor can you be superfluous, 
But when misplaced in base and sordid hands. 
Fly, fly, my Wilmot! leave thy happy Charlotte! 
Thy filial piety, the sighs and tears 
Of thy lamenting parents call thee hence. 

Y. Wiim. I have a friend, the partner of my 
voyage. 
Who, in the storm last night, was shipwreck'd 
with me. 

Char. Shipwreck'd last night! — ye immor- 
tal pow'rs ! 
What have you sufTer'd — How was you pre- 
served ! 

F. Wilm. Let that, and all my other strange 
escapes 
And perilous adventures, be the theme 
Of many a happy winter night to come. 
My present purpose was t' intreat my angel, 
To know this friend, this other better Wilinot; 
And come with him this evening to my father's: 
I'll send him to thee. 

Char. I consent with pleasure. 

F. Wihn. Heavens, what anight ! — How shall 
I bear my joy ! 
My parents, yours, my friends, all will be mine. 
And mine, like water, air, or the free splendid 
The undivided portion of you all. [sun, 

If such the early hopes, the vernal bloom. 
The distant prospect of my future bliss. 
Then what the ruddy autumn ? what the fruit? 
The full possession of thy heavenly charms. 
The tedious, dark, and stormy winter o'er. 
The hind, that all its pinching hardships bore. 
With transport sees the weeks appointed bring 
The cheerful, promised, gay, delightful spring: 
The painted meadows, the harmonious wovtds, 
The gentle zephyrs, and unbridled floods. 
With all their charms, his ravish'd thoughts 

employ. 
But the rich harvest must complete his joy. 

[Exeunt. 



^gcENE — A street in Penryn. 
Enter Randal. 
Rand. Poor, poor and friendless; whither shall 
I wander. 
And to what point direct my views and hopes? 
I A menial servant ? No. What! shall I live. 



412 



GEORGE LILLO. 



Here in this land of freedom, live distinguish'd, 
And mark'd the willing slave of some proud 

subject, 
And swell his useless train for broken fragments — 
The cold remains of his superfluous board ? 
I would aspire to something more and better — 
Turn thy eyes then to the prolific ocean, 
Whose spacious bosom opens to thy view : 
There deathless honour, and unenvied wealth 
Have often crown'd the brave adventurer's toils. 
This is the native uncontested right, 
The fair inheritance, of ev'ry Briton 
Thai dares put in his claim — My choice is made: 
A long farewell to Cornwall, and to England! 
If I return — But stay, what stranger's this. 
Who, as he views me, seems to mend his pace ] 

Enter Young Wilmot. 

Y. Wilm. Randal ! the dear companion of my 
youth ! 
Sure lavish fortune means to give me all 
I could desire, or ask for, this blest day. 
And leave me nothing to expect hereafter, [earth. 

Rand. Your pardon, sir; I know but one on 
Could [)roperly salute me by the title- 
You're pleased to give me, and I would not think 
That you are he — That you are Wilmot — 

Y. Wdm. Why? [ment 

Rand. Because I could not hear the disappoint- 
Should I be deceived. 

y. IVdni. I'm pleased to hear it : 
Thy friendly fears better express thy thoughts 
Than words could do. 

Hand. O, Wilmot! O, my master! 
Are you return'd 1 

Y. Wdni. I have not yet embraced 
My parents — I shall see you at my father's. 

Rand. No, I'm discharged from thence — 0, sir, 
such ruin — 

F. Wdm. I've heard it all, and hasten to re- 
lieve 'em : 
Sure Heaven hath blest me to that very end : 
I've wealth enough ; nor shalt thou want a part. 

Rand. I have a part already — I am blest 
In your success and share in all your joys. 

Y. Wdm. I doubt it not — But tell me, dost 
thou think, 
My parents, not suspecting my return. 
That I may visit them, and not be known 1 

Rand. 'Tis hard for me to judge. You are 
already 
Grown so familiar to me, that I wonder 
I knew you not at first: yet it may be ; 
For you're much alter'd, and they think you dead. 

Y. Wilm. This is certain: Charlotte beheld 
me long, 
\nd heard my loud reproaches and complaints 
Without rememb'ring she had ever seen me. 
My mind at ease grows wanton : I would fain 
Refine on happiness. Why may I Jiot 
Indulge my curiosity, and try 
If it be possible by seeing first 
My parents as a stranger, to improve 
Their pleasure by surprise! 

Rand. It may, indeed, 



Enhance your own, to see from what despair 
Your timely coining, and unhoped success, 
Have given you power to raise them. 

Y. Wilm. I remember. 
E'er since we learn'd together you excell'd 
In writing fairly, and could imitate 
Whatever hand you saw with great exactness: 
Of this I'm not so absolute a master. 
I therefore beg you'll write, in Charlotte's name 
And character, a letter to my father; 
And recommend me, as a friend of hers, 
To his acquaintance. 

Rand. Sir, if you desire it 

And yet — 

Y. IVilm. Nay, no objections — 'Twill save time, 
Most precious with me now. For the deception, 
If doing what my Charlotte will approve, 
'Cause done for me and with a good intent. 
Deserves the name, I'll answer it myself. 
If this succeeds, I purpose to defer 
Discov'ring who I am till Charlotte comes. 
And thou, and all who love me. Ev'ry friend 
Who witnesses my happiness to-night. 
Will, by partaking, multiply my joys. 

Rand. You grow luxurious in your mental 
pleasures ; 
Could I deny you aught, I would not write 
This letter. 'I'o say true, I ever thought 
Your boundless curiosity a weakness. 

Y. Wilm. What canst thou blame in this] 

Rand. Your pardon, sir ; 
I only speak in general : I'm ready 
T' obey your orders. 

F. Wdm. I am much thy debtor. 
But I shall find a time to quit thy kindness. 
O Randal! but imagine to thyself 
The floods of transport, the sincere delight 
That all my friends will feel, when I disclose 
To my astonish'd parents my return; 
And then confess, that I have well contrived 
By giving others joy t' exalt my own. 
As pain, and anguish, in a gen'rous mind. 
While kept conceal'd and to ourselves confined. 
Want half their force ; so pleasure, when it flows 
In torrents round us, more ecstatic grows. 

[Exeuiii. 

Scene — A Room in Old Wilmot's House. 
Old Wilmot and /lis Wife Agnes. 
0. Wilm. Here, take this Seneca, this haughty 
pedant. 
Who governing the master of mankind, 
And awing power imperial, prates of — patience; 
And praises poverty — possess'd of millions • 
— Sell him, and buy us bread. The scantiest meal 
The vdest cojjy of his book e'er purchased, 
Will give us more relief in this distres'!. 
Than all his boasted precepts. — Nay, no tears; 
Keep them to move compassion when you beg. 
Jl^n. My heart may break, but never stoop to 

that. 
O. Wdm. Nor would I live to see it. — But 
despatch. [Exit. A<;ne3. 

Where must I charge this length of misery, 



GEORGE LILLO. 



4U 



That gathers force each moment as it rolls, 
And must at last o'erwhelm me; but on hope, 
Vain, flattering, .delusive, groundless hope; 
A senseless expectation of relief 
That has for years deceived me? — Had I thought 
As I do now, as wise men ever think. 
When first this hell of povertj' o'ertook me, 
'I'hat power to die implies a right to do it. 
And should be used when life becomes a pain. 

What plagues had I prevented. True, my wife 

Is still a slave to prejudice and fear 

I would not leave my better part, the dear 

[ire.p... 
Faithful companion of my happier days. 
To bear the weight of age and want alone. 
I'll try once more 

Enter Agnes, and after her Young Wilmot. 

0. IVihn. Return'd, my life, so soon T 

Jgn. The unexpected coming of this stranger 
Prevents my going yet. 

Y. Wilm. You're, I presume. 
The gentleman to whom this is directed. 

[Gives a letter. 
What wild neglect, the token of despair, 
What indigence, what misery appears 
In each disorder'd, or disfurnish'd room 
Of this once gorgeous house ! What discontent, 
What anguish and confusion fill the faces 
Of its dejected owners ! [Aside.] 

O. Wilm. Sir, such welcome 
As this poor house affords, you may command. 

Our ever friendly neighbour Once we hoped 

T' have call'd fair Charlotte by a dearer name 

But we have done with hope — I pray excuse 
This incoherence — we had once a son. [Wteps. 
Jlgn. That you are come from that dear virtuous 
Revives in Us the mem'ry of a loss, [maid, 

Which though long since, we have notlearn'dto 
bear, 
y. VVdm. [Aside.] The joy to see them, and the 
bitter pain 
It is to see them thus, touches my soul 
With tenderness and grief, that will o'erflow. 
My bosom heaves and swells, as it would burst; 
My bowels move, and my heart melts within me. 

They know me not, and yet, I fear, I shall 

Defeat my purpose and betray myself. 

0. Wdm. The lady calls you here her valued 
friend ; 
Enough, though nothing more should be implied. 
To recommend you to our best esteem, 

— A worthless acquisition ! May she find 

Some means that better may express her kindness! 
But she, perhaps, hath purposed to enrich 
You with herself, and end her fruitless sorrow 
For one whom death alone can justify 
For leaving her so long. If it be so, 
May you repair his loss, and be to Charlotte 
A second, happier Wilmot. Partial nature, 
Who only favours youth, as feeble age 
Were not her offspring, or below her care. 
Has seal'd our doom : no second hope shall spring 
From my dead loins, and Agnes' sterile womb, 
To dry our tears, and dissipate despair. 



^Efrt. The last and most abandon'd of our kind, 
By heaven and earth neglected or despised, 
The loathsome grave, that robb'd us of our son. 
And all our joys in him, must be ofir refuge. 
Y. Wilm. Let ghosts unpardon'd, or devoted 
fiends. 
Fear without hope, and wail in such sad strains; 
But grace defend the living from despair. 
The darkest hours precede the rising sun ; 
And mercy may appear when least expected. 
O. Wilm. This I have heard a thousand times 
repeated, 
And have, believing, been as oft deceived. 

Y. Wdm. Behold in me an instance of its truth. 
At sea twice shipwreck'd, and as oft the prey 
Of lawless pirates ; by the Arabs thrice 
Surprised, and robb'd on shore ; and once reduced 
To worse than these, the sum of all distress 
That the most wretched feel on this side hell, 
Ev'n slavery itself: yet here I stand. 
Except one trouble that will quickly end, 
The happiest of mankind. 

O. Wilm. A rare example 
Of fortune's caprice ; apter to surprise 
Or entertain, than comfort, or instruct. 
If you would reason from events, be just, 
And count, when you escaped, how many perish'd ; 
And draw your infrence thence. 

Jtgn. Alas ! who knows 
But wo were render'd childless by some storm, 
In which you, though preserved, might bear a part. 

Y. Wdm. How has my curiosity hetray'd me 
Into superfluous pain ! I faint with fondness; 
And shall, if I stay longer, rush upon 'em, 
Proclaim myself their son, kiss and embrace 'em 
Till their souls, transported with the excess 
Of pleasure and surprise, quit their frail mansions, 
And leave 'em breathless in my longing arms. 
By circumstances then, and slow degrees. 
They must be let into a happiness 
Too great for them to bear at once, and live: 
That Charlotte will perform : I need not feign . 
To ask an hour for rest. [Aside:] Sir, I entreat 
The favour to retire where, for a while, 
I may repose myself. You will excuse 
This freedom, and the trouble that I give you : 
'Tis long since I have slept, and nature calls. 
0. Wdm. I pray, no more : believe we're only 
troubled 
That you should think any excuse were needful. 
Y. Wilm. The weight of this is some incum- 
brance to me ; 

[Takes a casTcet out of his bosom, and 
gives it to his mother.] 

And its contents of value : if you please 

To take the charge of it 'till I awake, 

I shall not rest the worse. If I should sleep 

Till I am ask'd for, as perhaps I may, 

I beg thai you would wake me. 

.^gn. Doubt it not: 
Distracted afe I am with various woes, 
I shall remember that. [Ex': 

Y. Wilm. Merciless grief! 
What ravage has it made ! how has it changed 
Her lovely form and mind ! I feel her anguish, 
2k2 



414 



GEORGE LILLO. 



And tlread I know not what from her despair. 

My father too O grant 'em patience, heaven ! 

A little longer, a few short hours more, 
And all their cares, and mine, shall end for ever. 

[Aside. 
How near is misery and joy allied ! 
JNor eye nor thought can their extremes divide: 
A moment's space is long, and lightning slow, 
To fate descen<ling to reverse our woe. 
Or blast our hopes, and all our joys o'erthrow. 

[£xeunt. 



The Scene continued. Enter Aones alone, with the casket in 
her hand. 

A^n. Who should this stranger he ? And then 
this casket — 
He says it is of value, and yet trusts it, 
As if a trifle, to a stranger's hand — 
His confidence amazes me — Perhaps 
It is not what he says — I'm strongly tempted 
To open it, and see — No, let it rest. 
Why should my curiosity excite me 
To search and pry into th' affairs of others. 
Who have t' employ my thoughts, so many cares 
And sorrows of my own ? — With how much ease 
'J'he spring gives way! Surprising! most pro- 
digious! 
My eyes are dazzled, and my ravish'd heart 
Leaps at the glorious sight. How bright 's the 

lustre, 
How immense the worth of these fair jewels! 
Ay, such a treasure would expel for ever 
Base poverty, and all its abject train ; 
The mean devices we're reduced to use 
To kee|) out famine, and preserve our lives 
From day to day; the cold neglect of friends; 
The galling scorn, or more provoking pity 

Of an insulting world Possess'd of these, 

Plenty, content, and power, might take their turn, 
And lofty pride bare its aspiring head 
At our approach, and once more bend before us. 
— A pleasing dream ! 'Tis past; and now I wake 
More wretched by the happiness I've lost ; 
For sure it was a happiness to think, 
'Jhough but a moment, such a treasure mine. 
Nay, it was more than thought — I saw and 
touch'd 

Tlie bright temptation, and I see it yet 

'Tis here — 'tis mine — I have it in possession 

Must I resign it ? Must I give it back ] 

Am I in love with misery and want ? 

To rol) myself, and court so vast a loss? 

Retain it then But how? there is a way 

Why sinks my heart 1 Why docs my blood run 

cold? 
Why am I thrill'd with horror? 'Tis not choice, 
But dire necessity suggests the thought. 

Enter OlJ) WiLMOT. 

0. Wllm. The mind contented, with how little 
pains 
The wand'ring senses yield to soft repose. 
And die to gain new life! He's fallen asleep 
Already Happy man ! What dost thou think. 



My Agnes, of our unexpected guest! 
He seems to me a youth of great humanity : 
Just ere he closed his eyes, that swam in tears, 
He wrung my hand, and press'd it to his lips; 
And with a look, that pierced me to the soul, 
Begg'd me to comfort thee : and — Dost thou hear 
jne ? — 

What art thou gazing on ? Fie, 'tis not well 

This casket was deliver'd to you closed : 

Why have you open'd it ? Should this be known, 

How mean must we appear! 

Agn. And who shall know it ? 

O. IVilm. There is a kind of pride, a decent 
dignity 
Due to ourselves ; which, spite of our misfortunes, 
May be maintain'd and cherish'd to the last. 
To live without reproach, and without leave 
'J'o quit the world, shows sovereign contempt. 
And noble scorn of its relentless malice, [sense! 

Agn. Shows sovereign madness, and a scorn of 
Pursue no further this detested theme: 
I will not (lie, — I will not leave the world 
For all that you can urge, until compell'd. [sun 

O. Wilvi. To chase a shadow, when the setting 
Is darting his last rays, were just as wise 
As your anxiety for fleeting life, 
Now the last means for its support are failing; 
Were famine not as mortal as the sword, 
This warmth might be excused — But take thy 
Die how you will, you shall not die alone, [choice : 

Jg». Nor live, I hope. 

O. IVihn. There is no fear of that. 

Agii. Then we'll live both. 

O. IV.hi. Strange folly ! where's the means? 

Agn. 'I'he m ans are there; those jewels 

0. Wilm. Ha! Take heed: 

Perhaps thou dost but try me; yet take heed 

There's nought so monstrous but the mind of man 
In some conditions may be brought t' approve; 
Theft, sacrilege, treason, and parricide. 
When flatt'ring opportunity enticed. 
And desperation drove, have been committed 
By those whooncewould starttohcarlhem named. 

./l(/)i. And add to these detested suicide. 
Which, by a crime much less, we may avoid. 

0. VVilnt.TW inhospitablemurderofourguest! — 
How couldsttliou (brm a thought so very tempting. 
So advantageous, so secure, and easy; 
And yet so cruel, and so full of horror? 

jlgn. 'Tis less impiety, less against nature. 
To take another's life, than en I our own. 

O, Wiliii. It is no matter, whether this or that 
Be, in itself, the less or greater crime : 
Howe'er we may de -eive ourselves or others, 
We act from inclination, not by rule, 

Or none could act amiss And that all err, 

None but the conscious hypocrite denies. 

! what is man, bis excellence and strength. 

When in an hour of trial and desertion. 
Reason, his noblest power, may be suborn'd 
To plead the cause of vile assassination ! 

Jg)i. You're too severe: reason may justly plead 
For her own preservation. 

0. Wi ni. Rest contented : 
Whate'er resistance I may seem to make, 



THOMAS TICKELL. 



415 



I am betrayed within ; my will's .«educeJ, 
And my whole soul infected. The desire 
Of lil'e returns, and brings with it a train 
'Of appetites, that rage to be supplied. 
Whoever stands to parley with temptation, 
Does it to be o'ercome. 

A^j,n. Then nuught remains, 
But the swift execution of a deed 
Tliat is not to be thought on, or dolay'd. 
We must despatch him sleeping: should he wake, 
'Twere madness to attempt it. 

O. Wdni. True ; his strength 
Single is more, much niore than ours united; 
So may his life, perhaps, as far exceed 
Ours in duration, should he 'scape this snare. 
Gen'rous. unhappy man ! O what could move thee 
To put thy life and fortune in the hands 
Of wretches mad with anguish 1 



A„ 



By what mea 



By stabbing, suffocation, or by strangling, 
Shall we elfect his death! 

O. Wihn. Why, what a fiend ! 

How cruel, how remorseless and impatient 
Have pride and poverty made thee ! 

Jiiin. Barbarous man ! 
Whose wasteful riots ruin'd our estate, 
Ami drove our son, ere the first down had spread 
His rosy cheeks, spite of my sad presages, 
Earnest intreaties, agonies and tears, 
'J'o seek his bread 'mongst strangers, and to perish 

In some remote, inhospitalile land 

The loveliest youth, in person and in mind. 
That ever crown'd a groaning mother's pains! 
Where was thy pity, where thy patience then] 
'J'liou cruel husband ! thou unnat'ral tiither! 
I'hou most remorseless, most ungrateful man, 



To waste my fortune, rob me of my son ; 
To drive me to despair, and then reproach me 
For being what tliou'st made me. 

O. Wiliv. Dry thy tears : 
I ought not to reproach thee. I confess 
That thou hast suffer'd much : so have we both. 
But chide no more: I'm wrought up to thy pur- 
The poor, ill-f ited, unsuspecting victim, [pose. 
Ere he reclined him on the fatal couch. 
From which he's ne'er to rise, took off the sash. 
And costly dagger that thou saw'st him wear; 
And thus, unthinking, furnish'd us with arms 
Against himself. Which shall I use ? 

J^^n. The sash. 
If you make use of that, I can assist. 

0, Wdm. No. 
'Tis a dreadful olfice, and I'll spare 

Thy trembling hands the guilt steal to the 

door, 
And bring me word; if he be still asleep. 

[Exit AoNEa 
Or I'm deceived, or he pronounced himself 
The happiest of mankind. Deluded wretch! 
Thy thouglits are perishing, thy youthful joys, 
Touch'd by the icy hand of grisly death. 

Are witb'ring in their bloom But, thought 

extinguish'd. 
He'll never know the loss, nor feel the bitter 

Pangs of disappointment Then I was wrong 

In counting him a wretch: To die well pleased, 

Is all the happiest of mankind can hope lor. 

To be a wretch, is to survive the loss 

Of every joy, and even hope itself. 

As I have done — ■ — Why do I mourn him thcnl 

For, by the anguish of my tortured soul, 

He's to be envied, if compared with me. 



THOMAS TICKELL. 



[Born, 1686. Died, 1740.] 



TuOMAS TiCKELL, the son of the Rev. Richard 
Tickcll, was born at Bridekirk, in Cuniberland, 
studied at Oxford, and obtained a fellowship, which 
he vacated by marrying about his fortieth year. 
Though he sung the praises of pea< e when the 
I'ories were negotiating with Fran<e, he seems, 
from the rest of his writings, and his close con- 
nexion with Addison, to have deserved the epithet 
of Whiggissimus, which Swift bestowed on liim. 



His friendship with Addison lasted for life; ho 
accompanied him to Ireland in the suite of Lord 
Sunderland, became his secretary when Addison 
was made Secretary of State, was left the charge 
of publishing his works, and prefixed to them his 
excellent elegy. He was alterward secretary to 
the lords justices of Ireland, a place which ho 
held till his death. 



TO THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON THE DEATH OF 

MR. ADL)15UN.* 
If, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stay'd. 
And left her debt to Addison unpaid, 
Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan. 
And judge, O judge, my bosom by your own. 



What mourner ever felt poetic fires ! 
Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires; 
Grief unaffected suits but ill with art. 
Or flowing numbers with a bleed. ng heart. 

Can I forget the dismal night that gave 
My soul's best part for ever to the grave .' 



[* Tills E!ogy by Mr. Ti- kell is om- of the tiiiest in our m"ch novelty in tliis ti ttvike us, ard .10 nvicli intere^it to 

Innjruiige. Tliere is to little new th t can be s: i 1 1 pen nffect. — Oci.nsMiTH. Of tlii.'* JClffiy, whi' li i> i.idinctly p'o 

tln' doaih of a friend, nfter the coinp iiiiits of 1 1' i I ai d tlie ferrcd by J Iimpoii to the livcidi.s of Milton, t^teio li u-; n-id 

Lutiu Italians in this way, that oue is Burprited to b«e to | with uuuharitab.e truth, that it is only " prooe iii ihyme." ) 



416 



THOMAS TICKELL. 



How silent did his old companions tread, 
By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead. 
Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, 
Through rows of warriors, and through walks 

of kings ! 
What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire; 
The pealing organ, and the pausing choir; 
Tlie duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid: 
And the last words, that dust to dust convey'd ! 
While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend, 
Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend. 
Oh, gone for ever! take this long adieu; 
And sleep in peace, next thy loved Montague. 
To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine, 
A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine ; 
Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan, 
And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone. 
If e'er from me thy loved memorial part, 
May shame afflict this alienated heart ; 
Of thee forgetful, if I form a song, 
My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue ; 
My grief be doubled from thy image free. 
And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee ! 

Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone. 
Sad luxury ! to vulgar minds unknown, 
Along the walls where speaking marbles show 
What worthies form the hallow'd n)ould below; 
Proud names, who once the reins of empire held; 
In arms who triumph'd ; or in arts excell'd ; 
Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood; 
Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood ; 
Just men, by whom impartial laws were given; 
And saints, who taught and led the way to 

heaven ; 
Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, 
Since their foundation came a nobler guest; 
Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss convey'd 
A fairer spirit or more welcome shade. 

In what new region, to the just assign'd, 
What new employments please th' unbodied 

mind ] 
A winged Virtue, through th' ethereal sky. 
From world to world unwearied does he flyl 
Or curious trace the long laborious maze 
Of heaven's decrees, where wondering angels 

gaze 1 
Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell 
How Michael battled, and the dragon fell ; 
Or, mix'd with milder cherubim, to glow 
In hymns of love, not ill essay 'd below ] 
Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind, 
A task well suited to thy gentle mind? 
Oh ! if sometimes thy spotless form descend, 
To me thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend ! 
When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms. 
When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms, 
In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart, 
And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart; 
Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before. 
Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more. 

That awful form, which, so the heavens decree, 
Must still be loved and still deplored by me ; 



In nightly visions seldom fails to rise. 

Or, roused by fancy, meets my waking eyes. 

If business calls, or crowded courts invite, 

Th' unblemish'd statesman seems to strike my 

sight; 
If in the stage I seek to soothe my care, 
I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there ; 
If pensive to the rural shades I rove. 
His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove; 
'Twas there of just and good he reason'd strong, 
Clear'd some great truth, or raised some serious 

song: 
There patient show'd us the wise course to steer, 
A candid censor, and a friend severe; 
There taught us how to live; and (oh! too high 
The price for knowledge,) taught us how to die. 

Thou hill, whose brow the antique structures 
grace, 
Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race. 
Why, once so loved, whene'er thy bower appears, 
O'er my dim eye-balls glance the sudden tears'? 
How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and 

fair. 
Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air! 
How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees. 
Thy noontide shadow, and thy evening breeze! 
His image thy forsaken bowers restore; 
Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more; 
No more the summer in thy glooms allay'd. 
Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shaile. 

From other ills, however fortune frown'd, 
Some refuge in the Muse's art I found; 
Reluctant now I touch the trembling string. 
Bereft of him who taught me how to sing ; 
And these sad accents, murmur'd o'er his urn. 
Betray that absence they attempt to mourn. 
O ! must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds. 
And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds,) 
The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong. 
And weep a second in th' unfinish'd song ! 

These works divine, which on his death-bed 
laid. 
To thee, O Craggs ! th' expiring sage convey'd. 
Great, but ill-omen'd, monument of fame. 
Nor he survived to give, nor thou to claim. 
Swift after him thy social spirit flies. 
And close to his, how soon ! thy coffin lies. 
Blest pair! whose union future bards shall tell 
In future tongues : each other's boast! farewell! 
Farewell ! whom, join'd in fame, in friendship 

tried. 
No chance could sever, nor the grave divide. 



COLIX AND LUCY. 



Of Leinster, famed for maidens fair, 
Bright Lucy was the grace; 

Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid stream 
Reflect so sweet a face : 



JAMES HAMMOND. 



417 



Till luckless love, and pining care, 

Impair'd her rosy hue, 
Her coral lips, and damask'd cheeks. 

And eyes of glossy blue. 

Oh, have you seen a lily pale. 

When beating rains descend 1 
So droop'd the slow-consuming maid, 

Her life now near its end. 
By Lucy warn'd, of flattering swains 

Take heed, ye easy fair: 
Of vengeance due to broken vows, 

Ye perjured swains, beware. 

Three times, all in the dead of night, 

A bell was heard to ring ; 
And shrieking at her window thrice. 

The raven flapp'd his wing. 
Too well the love-lorn maiden knew 

The solemn boding sound; 
And thus, in dying words, bespoke 

The virgins weeping round : 

" I hear a voice you cannot hear. 

Which says, I must not stay; 
I see a hand you cannot see, 

Which beckons me away. 
By a false heart, and broken vows. 

In early youth I die : 
Was I to blame, because his bride 

Was thrice as rich as I ! 

" Ah, Colin ! give not her thy vows, 

Vows due to me alone : 
Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss. 

Nor think him all thy own. 
To-morrow, in the church to wed. 

Impatient, both prepare ! 



But know, fond maid ; and know, false man, 
That Lucy will be there ! 

« Then bear my corse, my comrades, bear. 

This bridegroom blithe to meet, 
He in his wedding-trim so gay, 

I in my winding-sheet." 
She spoke ; she died ; her corse was borne, 

The bridegroom blithe to meet. 
He in his wedding-trim so gay. 

She in her winding-sheet. 

Then what were perjured Colin 's thoughts 1 

How were these nuptials kept 1 
The bridesmen flock 'd round Lucy dead, 

And all the village wept. 
Confusion, shame, remorse, despair. 

At once his bosom swell : 
The damps of death bedew'd his brow, 

He shook, he groan'd, he fell. 

From the vain bride, ah, bride no more ! 

The varying crimson fled. 
When, stretch'd before her rival's corse. 

She saw her husband dead. 
Then to his Lucy's new-made grave, 

Convey'd by trembling swains, 
One mould with her, beneath one sod. 

For ever he remains. 

Oft at his grave the constant hind 

And plighted maid are seen ; 
With garlands gay, and true-love knots. 

They deck the sacred green ; 
But, swain forsworn, whoe'er thou art. 

This hallow'd spot forbear; 
Remember Colin's dreadful fate, 

And fear to meet him there.* 



JAMES HAMMOND. 



fBorn, 1710. Died, m2.f] 



ELEGY Xm. 

He imagines himself married to Delia, and that, content 
with each other, they are retired into the country. 

Let others boast their heaps of shining gold, 
And view their fields, with waving plenty crown'd, 
Whom neighbouring foes in constant terror hold. 
And trumpets break their slumbers, never sound: 

[*Tlirough all Tickell's works there is a strain of ballad- 
thinking, if I ma\- so expre.is it ; and iu this professed 
liall:nl lie seem^ to h ive surpassert himself. It is. perhaps, 
tlu' b.'-st in our lan-uage in this way. — GtOLDSMITh. 

I alway.<< thought Tickell's ballad the prettiest in the 
world. — Grvy In Wilpol'.] 

[t The best criticism on Hammond has been anticipated 
by CViwley, that "he served up the cold-meats of tbe an- 
cients, new-heated and new set-furth." 

'■ t^ure Hammond has no right," says Shenstone, " to the 



While calmly poor I trifle life away. 
Enjoy sweet leisure by my cheerful fire, 
No wanton hope my quiet shall betray, 
But, cheaply bless'd, I'll scorn each vain desire 

With timely care I'll sow my little field. 
And plant my orchard with its master's hand. 
Nor blush to spread the hay, the hook to wield. 
Or range my sheaves along the sunny land. 



least inventive merit. I do not think that there is a single 
thought in his Elegies of auy eminence, th.tt is not literally 
translated. I am astonished he could content biniscl'f 
with being so little an original." " 1 question," he adds 
in another p'ace, '■ whether they had taken without the 
interest of his genteel acquaint auce^ or indeed it the author 
had not died preoedcntly." AVhat has been Sidd of Kirke 
White, that consumption and Southey have been the sal- 
vation of his verse, is more true when sajd of Hammond, 
of disease and Lord Chesterfield.] 



418 



JOHN OLDMIXON. 



If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam, 
I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb, 
Under my arm I'll bring the wanderer home, 
And not a little chide its thoughtless dam. 

What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain, 
And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast! 
Or, luU'd to slumber by the beating rain, 
Secure and happy, sink at last to rest ! 

Or, if the sun in flaming Leo ride. 

By shady rivers indolently stray, 

And with my Delia, walking side by side, 

Hear how they murmur as they glide away ! 

What joy to wind along the cool retreat. 
To stop and gaze on Delia as I go ! 
To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet. 
And teach my lovely scholar all I know ! 

Thus pleased at heart, and not with fancy's dream, 
In silent happiness I rest unknown ; 
Content with what I am, not what I seem, 
I live for Delia and myself alone. 

* * * * 

Hers be the care of all my little train. 
While I with tender indolence am blest, 
The favourite subject of her gentle reign, 
By love alone distinguish'd from the rest. 

For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plough. 

In gloomy forests tend my lonely flock ; 

For her, a goatherd, climb the mountain's brow, 

And sleep extended on the naked rock : 



Ah, what avails to press the stately bed, 
And far from her 'midst tasteless grandeur weep, 
By marble fountains lay the pensive head, 
And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep! 

Delia alone can please, and never tire, 
Exceed the paint of thought in true delight ; 
With her, enjoyment wakens new desire, 
And equal rapture glows through every night : 

Beauty and worth in her alike contend. 
To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind ; 
In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend, 
I taste the joys of sense and reason join'd. 

On her I'll gaze, when others' loves are o'er. 
And dying press her with my clay-cold hand — 
Thou weep'st already, as I were no more. 
Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand. 

Oh, when I die, my latest moments spare, 
Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill. 
Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair, 
Though I am dead, my soul shall love thee still: 

Oh, quit the room, oh, quit the deathful bed, 
Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart ; 
Oh, leave me, Delia, ere thou see me dead, 
These weeping friends will do thy mournful part; 

Let them extended on the decent bier. 
Convey the corse in melancholy state ; 
Through all the village spread the tender tear, 
While pitying maids our wondrous loves relate. 



JOHN OLDMIXON. 



[Born, 1673. Died, 1742.] 



RiDictJLED in the Taller under the name of 
Omikron, the unborn poet, and one of the heroes 
of the Dunciad, who mounts the side of a lighter 



in order to plunge with more efliect. His party 
virulence was rewarded with the place of col- 
lector of the customs at the port of Bridgevvater. 



SONG. 

FROM HIS tOEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS, IN IMITATION OP 
THE MANNER OF ANACREON. 

I LATELY vow'd, but 'twas in haste, 

.That I no more would court 
The joys that seem when they are past 
As dull as they are short. 

I oft to hate my mistress swear. 
But soon my weakness find ; 
I make my oaths when she's severe, 
But break them when she's kind, 



ON HIMSELF. 

FROM ANACREON. 

Underneath a myrtle shade, 
On a bank of roses laid. 
Let me drink, and let me play, 
Let me revel all the day. 



Love, descending from his state. 
On my festivals shall wait; 
Love among my slaves shall shine, 
And attend to fill me wine. 

Swift as chariot wheels we fly, 
To the minute we must die; 
Then we moulder in an urn, 
Then we shall to dust return. 

Then in vain you'll 'noint my tomb 
With your oils and your perfume ; 
Rather let them now be mine, 
Roses round my temples twine. 

You who love me now I live. 
Give me what you have to give ; 
Let Elysium be my care, 
When the gods shall send me there. 



WILLIAM SOMERVILE. 



[Born, 1692. Died, 1742.] 



William Somervile was born at EJston, in 
Warwickshire, of an ancient and illustrious 
family. He possessed an estate of £1500 a year,* 
was amiable and hospitable, and united elegant 
and refined pursuits with the active amusements 



which he has celebrated in his poom of the 
Chase ; but from deficiency in economy and 
temperance was driven, according to Shenstone 
account, to drink himself into pains of body L_ 
order to get rid of those of the mind. 



BACCHUS TRIUMPHANT. 

A TALE. 

" For shame," said Ebony, " for shame ! 
Tom Ruby, troth, you're much to blame, 
To drink at this confounded rate. 
To guzzle thus, early and late." 

Poor Tom, who just had took his whet. 
And at the door his uncle met, 
Surprised and thunder-struck, would fain 
Make his escape, but, oh ! in vain 
Each blush that glow'd with an ill grace, 
Lighted the flambeau.v in his face; 
No loop-hole left, no slight pretence, 
To palliate the foul oflence. 
" I own (said he) I'm very bad— . 
A sot — incorrigibly mad — 
But, sir — I thank you for your love, 
And by your lectures would improve: 
Yet, give me leave to say, the street 
For conference is not so meet. 
Here, in this room — nay, sir, come in — • 
E.xpose, chastise me for my sin ; 
Exert each trope, your utmost art. 
To touch this senseless, flinty heart. 
I'm conscious of my guilt, 'tis true. 
But yet I know my frailty too; 
A slight rebuke will never do, 
Urge home my faults — come in, I pray — 
Let not my soul be cast away." 

Wise Ebony, who deem'd it good 
T' encourage by all means he could 
These first appearances of grace, 
Follow'd up stairs, and took his place. 
7'he bottle and the crust appear'd. 
And wily Tom demurely sneer'd. 



[* SoDiervi'e's estate wa= part in Warwickshire ard part 
in Gloucestershire, lie niu t liae botju burn before lliUL', 
ir tliere i.* any truth in the ass ^rtions of soirj. for among 
Lis worlds is an epistle to Aikman the painter "«» /.is 
puiiitinyafidllevgllipcrrliu.liifthKaiilhir in the di'diiie 
of lie. currying him liach; b;/ Ike, assi-lauce rf nwilherpni-- 
iiait, t" his ijdullifid days,' wherein he saj .^ that he ii ttien 
passed his zenith, and 

All the poor ■ omfort thit I now can .=hare, 
is the soft bles.sing of an elbow-clialr — 

which if his biogray hers tell tlie truth mnst have been 
said of him^eif wl.en lliiri> eight, for Aikui: n was dead 
early in 1731. i?heueto;ie. mi>rcover. im| utos his fiibles 
to age: the foibles uf In'ty aie not the foibles of age. "The 



"My duty, sir !" — " Thank you, kind Tom." — 

"Again, an't please you " — "Thankyou:Come." 

"Sorrow is dry — I must once more — " 

"Nay, Tom, I told yqu at the door 

I would not drink — what ! before dinner 1 

Not one glass more, as I'm a sinner — 

Come, to the point in hand ; is't fit 

A man of your good sense and wit 

Those parts which Heaven bestow'd should 

drown, 
A butt to all the sots in town 1 
Why, tell me, Tom — what fort can stand 
(Though regular, and bravely mann'd) 
If night and day the fierce foe plies 
With never-ceasing batteries; 
Will there not be a breach at last 1'— 
" Uncle, 'tis true — forgive what's past." 
" But if nor interest, nor fame, 
Nor health, can your dull soul reclaim. 
Hast not a conscience, man 7 no thought 
Of an hereafter? dear are bought 
These sensual pleasures." — " I relent, 
Kind sir — but give your zeal a vent — " 
Then, pouting, hung his head ; yet still 
Took care his uncle's glass to fill, 
Which as his hurried spirits sunk. 
Unwittingly, good man ! he drunk. 
Each pint, alas ! drew on the ne.\t. 
Old Ebony stuck to his te.xt, 
Grown warm, like any angel spoke. 
Till intervening hiccups broke 
The well strung argument. Poor Tom 
Was now too forward to reel home ; 
That preaching still, this still repenting. 
Both equally to drink consenting. 



Chase," the monument to his name, was first published in 
t: e Miiy of 17:-5. His portrait is at [,o; d Somcrville's, and 
enj;raveil lefi;re tlie Memoirs of ihe Somerville's— a very 
extraordinary perfoim mci' ; a porf.o i of the debt dne by 
the publie t.) Sir AValter Scott, lie was, we are told by 
Laly Luxl oroufrh, "of a very fair ccmp'exion." and lie 
di!, cribes him.-e.f in oae of his ih^ming effusions to 
Kamsay, as 

A squire well-born and six foot high. 

"Whatever," siys Shenstone, "the ivorld mJL'ht e term in 
poor i-omerville, I really find upon critical ii:([uiry, that I 
loved tim for nothing so much as liis lloici-nanc: iiibili- 
pili-fication of money." A hiippiness of expre^siou usee* 
more than once by its author.] 

419 



420 



RICHARD WEST. 



Till both, brimful, could swill no more, 
And fell dead drunk upon the floor, 

Bacchus, the jolly god, who sate 
Wide-straddling o'er his tun in state. 
Close bv the window side, from whence 
He heard this weighty conference ; 
Joy kindling in his ruddy cheeks, 
Thus the indulgent godhead speaks: 
"Frail mortals, know, reason in vain 
Rebels, and would disturb my reign. 
See there the sophister o'erthrown, 
With stronger arguments knock'd down 
Than e'er in wrangling schools were known ? 
The wine that sparkles in this glass 
Smoothes every brow, gilds every face : 



As vapours when the sun appears, 

Far hence anxieties and fears: 

Grave ermine smiles, lawn sleeves grow gay, 

Each haughty monarch owns my sway, 

And cardinals and popes obey : 

Even Cato drank his glass, 'twas I 

Taught the brave patriot how to die 

For injured Rome and liberty ; 

'Twas I who with immortal lays 

Inspired the bard that sung his praise. 

Let dull unsociable fools 

Loll in their cells, and live by rules ; 

My votaries, in gay delight 

And mirth, shall revel all the night; 

Act well their parts on life's dull stage, 

And make each moment worth an age." 



RICHARD WEST. 

CBorn, 1716. Died, 1742. 

Richard West, the lamented friend of Gray, who died in his twenty-sixth year. 



AD Aincos* 
Yes, happy youths, on Camus's sedgy side, 
i''ou feci each joy that friendship can divide; 
Each realm of science and of art explore. 
And with the ancient blend the modern lore. 
Studious alone to learn whate'er may tend 
To raise the genius, or the heart to mend ; 
Now pleased along the cloister'd walk you rove, 
And trace the verdant mazes of the grove, 
Where social oft, and oft alone, ye chuse 
To catch the zephyr, and to court the muse. 
Meantime at me (while all devoid of art 
These lines gave back the image of my heart) 
At if,e the power that comes or soon or late, 
Oi aims, or seems to aim, the dart of fate ; 
From you remote, methinks, alone I stand, 
Like some sad exile in a desert land ; 
Around no friends their lenient care to join 
In mutual warmth, and mix their hearts with mine. 
Or real pains, or those which fancy raise. 
For ever blot the sunshine of my days ; 
To sickness still, and still to grief a prey, 
Health turns from me her rosy face away. 

Just heaven ! what sin ere life begins to bloom, 
Devotes my head untimely to the tomb? 
Did e'er this hand against a brother's life 
Drug the dire bowl, or point the murderous knife? 
Did e'er this tongue the slanderer's tale proclaim. 
Or madly violate my Maker's name ? 



* An imitation of Elegy V. 3d book of Tibul!u=.— This 
poem was written by tlii? interesting youth at the age of 
twenty. [West's poems are very few in number, and those 
few are chietiy exercises in Latin. Tliere is a fiiie vein of 
Vnder feeling throughout this poem, and though the 



Did e'er this heart betray a friend or foe, 

Or know a thought but all the world might know T 

As yet just started from the lists of time. 

My growing years have scarcely told their prime; 

Useless, as yet, through life I've idly run, 

No pleasures tasted, and few duties done. 

Ah, who, ere autumn's mellowing suns appear, 

Would pluck the promise of the vernal year; 

Or, ere the grapes their purple hue betray. 

Tear the crude cluster from the morning spray 1 

Stern Power of Fate, whose ebon sceptre rules 

The Stygian deserts and Cimmerian pools. 

Forbear, nor rashly smite my youthful heart, 

A victim yet unworthy of thy dart: 

Ah, stay till age shall blast my withering face, 

Shake in my head, and falter in my pace ; 

Then aim the shaft, then meditate the blow, 

And to the dead my willing shade shall go. 

How weak is man to Reason's judging eye! 
Born in this moment, in the next we die ; 
Part mortal clay, and part ethereal fire, 
Too proud to creep, too humble to aspire. 
In vain our plans of happiness we raise. 
Pain is our lot, and patience is our praise ; 
Wealth, lineage, honours, conquest, or a throne, 
Are what the wi.se would fear to call their own 
Health is at best a vain precarious thing, 
And fair-faced youth is ever on the wing; 
*Tis like the stream beside whose watery bed, 
Some blooming plant exalts his flowery head ; 



thoughts are from Tit'Ullus and Pope, yet they are hoi^ 
rowed in no common way ; with tliat kind of liberality 
whic h gives a return for what it steals. M'e may add here 
what is not at all generally known, that Tom Hearne's 
Reply to Time is one of young AVest's felicitous effusions.] 



Nursed by the wave the spreading branches rise, 
Shade all the ground and flourish to the skies; 
The waves the while beneath in secret flow, 
And undermine the hollow bank below ; 
Wide and more wide the waters urge their way, 
Bare all the roots, and on their fibres prey. 
Too late the plant bewails his foolish pride. 
And sinks, untimely, in the whelming tide. 

But why repine 1 Does life deserve my sigh; 
Few will lament my loss whene'er I die. 
For those the wretches I despise or hate, 
I neither envy nor regard their fate. 
For me, whene'er all-conquering Death shall 

spread 
His wings around my unrepining head, 



I care not: though this face be seen no more. 
The world will pass as cheerful as before; 
Bright as before the day-star will appear, 
The fields as verdant, and the skies as clear ; 
Nor storms nor comets will my doom declare, 
Nor signs on earth nor portents in the air ; 
Unknown and silent will depart my breath, 
Nor Nature e'er take notice of my death. 
Yet some there are (ere spent my vital days) 
Within whose breasts my tomb I wish to raise. 
Loved in my life, lamented in my end, 
Their praise would crown me as their precepts 

mend : 
To them may these fond lines my name endear, 
Not from the Poet but the Friend sincere. 



JAMES EYRE WEEKES. 



FROM POEMS PBJNTED AT CORK, 17 



THE FIVE TRAITORS. 

A SONG. 

There's not a sense but still betrays, 
Like bosom-snakes, their master; 

Where'er my various fancy strays, 
It still brings some disaster; 

For all my diflerent senses move 

To the same centre — fatal love ! 

My rebel eyes betray my heart. 

And ruin me by gazing. 
Like burning glasses flames impart, 

And set me all a blazing : 
These treachrous twins, which should protect, 
Like fatal stars my peace have wreck'd. 

My simple ears mj' soul betray. 

By listening to the syren ; 
They who should guard th' important way. 

With sounds my heart environ ; 
Bribed, they admit such potent foes 
As rob me of my sweet repose. 

My smell, too, plays a traitor's part. 
Her fragrant breath admitting ; 



Her perfumed sighs sharp stings impart, 

My simple soul outwitting: 
Poor I am led thus by the nose. 
And find the nettle in the rose. 

My taste the dangerous nectar sips, — 
Such nectar gods ne'er tasted ; 

And sucks ambrosia from her lips ;. 
With ruin thus I'm feasted ; 

My palate, which should be my cook. 

Destroys me with the poison'd hook. 

My touch — oh, there contagion lies ! 

Whene'er I touch I tremble ; 
Through all my frame the enchantment flies, 

An aspen I resemble ; 
My lips deluding me with bliss, 
Betray their master with a kiss. 

Whate'er I see, or hear, or smell. 

Or ta.ste, or touch, delighted, 
By all together, like a spell, 

Am I to love invited : 
And other things their ruin shun. 
But I am by myself undone. 



RICHARD SAVAGE. 



[Born, 1696-7. Died, 1743.] 



Son of the unnatural Anne Countess of Macclesfield, by Earl Rivers, was bom in 1696-7, and died 
in a jail at Bristol, 1743. 



THE B-iSTARD.* 

DJSCRIBED, WITH ALL DUB RETERE^•CE, TO jrRS. BRETT, 0^•CE 

COUNTESS OF M.^CCLESFIELD. 

In gayer hours,! when high my fancy ran. 

The Muse exulting, thus her lay bejjan. 

" Blest be the Bastard's birth ! through wondrous 

ways, 
He shines eccentriB like a comet's blaze! 
No sickly fruit of faint compliance he ! 
He ! stamp'd in nature's mint of ecstacy ! 
He lives to build, not boast a generous race: 
No tenth transmitter of a foolish face : 
His daring hope no sire's example bounds ; 
His first-born lights no prejudice confounds. 
He, kindling from within, requires no flame; 
He glories in a Bastard's glowing name. 

" Born to himself, by no possession led, 
In freedom foster'd, and by fortune fed ; 
Nor guides, nor rules, his sovereign choice control. 
His body independent as his soul;. 
Loosed to the world's wide range — enjoin'd no 

aim, 
Prescribed no duty, and assign'd no name, 
Nature's unbounded son, he stands alone. 
His heart unbiass'd, and his mind his own. 

" O mother, yet no mother ! 't's to you 
My thanks for such distinguish'd claims are due; 
You unenslaved to Nature's narrow laws, 
Warm championess for freedom's sacred cause, 
From all the dry devoirs of lilood and line, 
From ties maternal, moral and divine, 
Discharged my grasping soul; push'd me from 

shore, 
And launch'd me into life without an oar. 

" What had I lost, if conjugally kind. 
By nature hating, yet by vows confined. 
Untaught the matrimonial bounds to slight, 
And coldly conscious of a husband's rii;ht. 
You had faint-drawn me with a form alone, 
A lawful lump of life by Ibrce your own ! 
Then, while your backward will retrench'd desire, 
And unconcurring spirits lent no fire, 
I Had been born your dull, domestic heir, 
Load of your life, and motive of your care; 
Perhaps been poorly rich, and meanly great, 
The slave of pomp, a cypher in the state ; 



I* .\lmost all things wri'ten from the heart, as this 
cert inly was, have fonie merit. The poet heie def( riles 
sorrows and mi'fortunes wliich were by i o mean? iniagi- 
nM-y : and thus t!i( ro luns a truth of thinking thnugh 
tbi-i poem, wi.hout vhi^h it would be of little value, as 
422 



Lordly neglectful of a worth unknown, 
And slumbering in a seat by chance my own. 

"Far nobler blessings wait the bastard's lot; 
Conceived in rapture, and with fire begot! 
Strong as necessity, he starts away, 
Climbs against wrongs, and brightens into 
day." 

Thus unprophetic, lately misinspired, 
I sung: gay fluttering hope my fancy fired: 
Inly secure, through conscious scorn of ill, 
Nor taught by wisdom how to balance will, 
Rashly deceived, I saw no pits to shun. 
But thought to purpose and to act were one ; 
Heedless what painted cares pervert his way, 
Whom caution arms not, and whom woes 

betray ; 
But now exposed, and shrinking from distress, 
I fly to shelter while the tempests press; 
M'y Muse to grief resigns the varying tone, 
The raptures languish, and the numbers groan. 

O Memory ! thou soul of joy and pain ! 
Thou actor of our passions o'er again ! 
Why didst thou aggravate the wretch's woel 
Why add continuous smart to every blow? 
Few are my joys ; alas ! how soon forgot ! 
On that kind quarter thou invad'st me not; 
While sharp and numberless my sorrows fall, 
Yet thou repeat'st and multiply'st them all. 

Is chance a guilt ? that my disastrous heart, 
For mischief never meant, must ever smart 1 
Can self-defence be sin 1 — 'Ah, plead no more ! 
What though no purposed malice stain'ti. thee 

o'erl 
Had Heaven befi-iended thy unhappy side. 
Thou hadst not been provoked — or thou hadst 
died. 

Far be the guilt of homeshed blood from all 
On whom, unsought, embroiling dangers fall ! 
Still the pale dead rrvives, and lives to me. 
To me I through Pity's eye condemn'd to see. 
Remembrance vails his rage, but swells his 

fate ; 
Grieved I forgive, and am grown cool too late. 
Young, and unthoughtful then ; who knows, one 

day, 
What ripening virtues might have made their 
way 7 



Savage is, in other respects, tut an indifferent poet. — 

GuLI»MlTH.] 

[t The re; der will easily perceive the.se verses were begun, 
when my heart wa.s ^aser than it hj.s b en oi late; and 
finished in hours of the deepest melancholy. — Sav.^ge.j 



ALEXANDER POPE. 



423 



He might have lived till folly died in shame, 

Till kindling wisdom felt a thirst for fame. 

He might perhaps his country's friend have 

proved ; 
Both happy, generous, candid, and beloved, 
He might have saved some worth, now doom'd to 

fall; 
And I, perchance, in him, have murder'd all. 

Oh fate of late repentance! always vain: 
Thy remedies but lull undying pain. 
Where shall my hope find rest] — No mother's 

care 
Shielded my infant innocence with prayer : 
No father's guardian hand my youth main- 

tain'd, 
Call'd forth my virtues, or from vice restrain'd. 
Is it not time to snatch some powerful arm, 
First to advance, then screen from future harm] 



Am I return'd from death to live in pain ] 
Or would imperial Pity save in vain ] 
Distrust it not — What blame can mercy find, 
Which gives at once a life, and rears a mind ] 

Mother, miscalld, farewell — of soul severe, 
This sad reflection yet may force one tear: 
All I was wretched by to you I ow'd, 
Alone from strangers every comfort flow'd ! 

Lost to the life you gave, your son no more, 
And now adopted, who was doom'd before ; 
New-born, I may a nobler mother claim. 
But dare not whisper her immortal name; 
Supremely lovely, and serenely great! 
Majestic mother of a kneeling state ! 
Queen of a people's heart, who ne'er before 
Agreed — yet now with one consent adore ! 
One contest yet remains in this desire, 
Who most shall give applause, where all admire 



ALEXANDER POPE. 



[Born, 1688. Died, 17M.1 



The faults of Pope's private character have 
been industriously exposed by his latest editor 
and biographer,* a gentleman whose talents and 
virtuous indignation were worthy of a better em- 
ployment. In the moral portrait of Pope which 
he has drawn, all the agreeable traits of tender 
and faithful attachment in his nature have been 
thrown into the shade, while his defprinities are 
brought out in the strongest, and sometimes ex- 
aggerated colours. 

The story of his publishing a character of the 
Duchess of Marlborough, after having received a 
bribe to suppress it, rests on the sole authority of 
Horace Walpole: but Dr. J. Warton, in relating 
it, adds a circumstance which contradicts the 
statement itself. The duchess's imputed cha- 
racter appeared in 1746, two years after Pope's 
death ; Pope, therefore, could not have himself 
published it; and it is exceedingly improbable 
that the bribe ever existed. | Pope was a steady 
and fond friend. We shall 15S- told, perhaps, of 
his treachery to Bolingbroke, in publisliing. the 
Patriot King. An explanation of this business 
was given by the late Earl of Marchmont to a 
gentleman still living, (1820,) the Honourable 
George Rose, v^'hich is worth attending to. The 
Earl of Marchmont's account of it, first pub- 
lished by Mr. A. Chalmers, in the Biograpliical 
Dictionary, is the following. 

" The essay on the Patriot King was under- 
taken at the pressing instance of Lord Cornbury, 
very warmly supported by the earnest entreaties 
of Lord Marchmont, with which Lord Boling- 



[* The Rev. W. L. Bowles : but Jlr. William Roscoe is bis 
latest editor and lie grapber.] 

[t Thi.t the briWe was pidii, and the character in print, 
the pub ir;itioi! ef tl;e Marthmont I'apt-rs sinte this was 
written ha,^ proved beyond all question.] 



broke at length complied. When it was written 
it was shown to the two lords and one other con- 
fidential friend, who were so much pleased with 
it that they did not cease their importunities to 
have it published, till his lordship, after much 
hesitation, consented to print it, with a positive 
determination, however, against a publication at 
that time ; assigning as his reason, that the 
work was not finished in such a way as he wished 
it to be before it went into the world. Conform- 
ably to that determination some copies of the 
essay were printed, which were distributed to 
Lord Cornbury, Lord Marchmont, Sir \V. Wynd- 
ham, Mr. Lyttleton, Mr. Pope, and Lord Chester- 
field. Mr. Pope put his copy into the hands of 
Mr. Allen, of Prior Park, near Bath, slating to 
him the injunction of Lord Bolingbroke; but that 
gentleman was so captivated with it as to press 
Mr. Pope to allow him to print a small im- 
pression at his own expense, using such caution 
as should effectually prevent a single copy get- 
ting into the possession of any one till the con- 
sent of the author should be obtained. Undeu a 
solemn engagement to that efl'ect, Mr. Pope very 
reluctantly consented : the edition was ■ then 
printed, packed up, and deposited in a separate 
warehouse, of which Mr. Pope had the key. On 
the circumstance being made known to Lord Bo- 
lingbroke, who was then a guest in his own house 
at Battersea with Lord Marchmont, to whom he 
had lent it for two or three years, his lordship 
was in great indignation, to appease which. Lord 
Marchmont sent Mr. Grevenkop, (a German gen- 
tleman who had travelled with him, and was 
afterward in the household of Lord Chesterfield, 
when lord lieutenant of Ireland,) to bring out 
the whole edition, of which a bonfire was in- 
stantly made on the terrace of Battersea.'' 



424 



ALEXANDER POPE. 



THE DYING CURISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 
Vital spark of heavenly flame, 
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame; 
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying — 
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying ! 

Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, 

And let me languish into life ! 

Hark ! they whisper ; angels say. 

Sister spirit, come away!* 

What is this absorbs me quite'? 

Steals my senses, shuts my sight, 
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath 1 
Tell me, my soul, can this be death 1 

The world recedes ; it disappears ! 
Heaven opens on my eyes ! my ears 

With sounds seraphic ring: 
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly: 
Grave I where is thy victory T 

O Death! where is thy sting 1 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK.f 

AN HEEOI-COMICAL POEM. 
CANTO I. 

What dire offence from amorous causes springs, 
What mighty contests rise from trivial things, 
I sing — this verse to Caryl,J Muse ! is due : 
This ev'n Belinda may vouchsafe to view : 
Slight is the subject, but not so the praise, 
If she inspire, and he approve my lays. 

Say what strange motive, goddess! could compel 
A well-bred lord t' assault a gentle belle? 
O say what stranger cause, yet unexplored. 
Could make a gentle belle reject a lordl 
In tasks so bold can little men engage ! 
And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty rage? 

Sol through white curtains shot a timorous ray, 
Aiid oped those eyes that must eclipse the day : 
Now lapdogs give themselves the rousing shake. 
And sleepless lovers, just at twelve awake: 
Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knock'd the 

ground. 
And the press'd watch return'd a silver sound. 
Belinda still her downy pillow prest, 
Her guardian sylph prolong'd the balmy rest: 
'Twas he had summon'd to her silent bed 
The morning dream that hover'd o'er her head. 
A youth more glittering than a birth-night beau 
(That even in slumber caused her cheek to glow) 
Seem'd to her ear his winning lips to lay, 
And thus in whisper said, or seem'd to &uy : 

Fairest of mortals, thou distinguish'd care 
Of thousand bright inhabitants of a.r! 
If e'er one vision touch thy infant thought. 
Of all the nurse and all the priest have taught; 

[* See Flatman's verses, ante p. 3ol.] 

[t This seems to be Mr. Pope's most finished production, 
and is. perh-.ips, the mo.st perfect in our language. It 
exhibits Rtxonjrer powers of imagina'.ion, more harmony 
of numbers, and a greater knowledge of the world, than 
any other of this poet's works: and it is probable, if our 
countrymen were called upon to show a specimen of their 



Of airy elves by mooi light shadows seen, 

The silver token, and the circled green, 

Of virgins visited by angel-powers, 

With golden crowns and wreaths of heavenly 

flowers ; 
Hear and believe ! thy own importance know. 
Nor bound thy narrow views to things below ; 
Some secret truths, from learned pride conceal'd, 
To maids alone and children are revcal'd : 
What though no credit doubting wits may give, 
The fair and innocent shall still believe. 
Know then, unnumber'd spirits round thee fly. 
The light militia of the lower sky: 
These, though unseen, are ever on the wing, 
Hang o'er the box, and hover round the ring. 
Think what an equipage thou hast in air. 
And view with scorn two pages and a chair. 
As now your own, our beings were of old, 
And once inclosed in woman's beauteous mould 
Thence, by a soft transition, we repair 
From earthly vehicles to these of air. 
Think not when woman's transient breath is fled, 
That all her vanities at once are dead. 
Succeeding vanities she still regards. 
And though she plays no more, o'erlooks the 

cards. 
Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive, 
And love of ombre, after death survive, 
For when the fair in all their pride expire, 
To their first elements their souls retire : 
The sprites of fiery termagants in flame 
Mount up, and take a salamander's name ; 
Soft yielding minds to water glide away, 
And sip, with nymphs, their elemental tea. 
The graver prude sinks downward to a gnome. 
In search of mischief still on earth to roam. 
The light coquettes in sylphs aloft repair. 
And sport and flutter in the fields of air. 

Know farther yet; whoever fair and chaste 
Rejects mankind, is by some sylph embraced : 
For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease 
Assume what sexes and what shape they please. 
What guards the purity of melting maids. 
In courtly balls, and midnight masquerades, 
Safe from the treacherous friends, the daring 

spark. 
The glance by day, the whisper in the dark, 
W hen kind occasion prompts their warm desires. 
When music softens, and when dancing fires'! 
'Tis but their sylph, the wise celestials know, 
Though honour is the word with men l)elow. 

Some nymphs there are, too conscious of their 
face. 
For life predestined to the gnomes' embrace. 
These swell their prospects, and exalt their pride. 
When offers are disdain'd, and love denied : 
Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain, 
While peers, and dukes, and all their sweeping 
train, 



genius to foreigners, this would be the work fixed upon.— - 

UOLDSMITH.] 

[X Secretary to Queen >Iary, wife of James II. ; and au- 
thor of Sir Siilomon Singlf, a Comedy, and ol several 
translations in Dryden's MiscdUmiis. He firr.t i ugjjesled 
the subject of this poem to the author.] 



ALEXANDER POPE. 



426 



And garters, stars, and coronets appear, 
And in soft sounds, ' your Grace' salutes their ear. 
'Tis these that early taint the female soul. 
Instruct the eyes of young coquettes to roll, 
Teach infant cheeks a bidden blush to know, 
And little hearts to flutter at a beau. 

Oft, when the world imagine women stray, 
The sylphs through mystic mazes guide their way, 
Through all the giddy circle they pursue, 
And old impertinence expel by new. 
What tender maid but must a victim fall 
To one man's treat, but for another's balll 
When Florio speaks, what virgin could withstand, 
If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand 1 
With varying vanities, from every part. 
They shift the moving toy-shop of their heart ; 
Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword- 
knots strive. 
Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive. 
This erring mortals levity may call ; 
Oh, blind to truth ! the sylphs contrive it all. 

Of these am I, who thy protection claim, 
A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name. 
Late, as I ranged the crystal wilds of air, 
In the clear mirror of thy ruling star 
I saw, alas! some dread event impend. 
Ere to the main this morning sun descend ; 
But heaven reveals not what, or how, or where : 
Warn'd by the sylph, oh pious maid, beware ! 
This to disclose is all thy guardian can ; 
Beware of all, but most beware of man ! 

He said ; when Shock, who thought she slept 
too long, 
Leap'd up, and waked his mistress with his 

tongue. 
'Twas then, Belinda, if report say true, 
Thy eyes first open'd on a billet-doux ; 
Wounds, charms, and ardours, were no sooner 

read. 
But all the vision vanish'd from thy head. 

And now, unveil'd, the toilet stands display'd. 
Each silver vase in mystic order laid. 
First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores, 
With head uncover'd, the cosmetic powers. 
A heavenly image in the glass appears. 
To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears ; 
Th' inferior priestess, at her altar side. 
Trembling, begins the sacred rites of pride. 
Unnumber'd treasures ope at once, and here 
'J'lje various otierings of the world appear ; 
From each she nicely culls with curious toil, 
And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil. 
This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, 
And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. 
The tortoise here and elephant unite, 
Transform'd to combs, the speckled and the 

white. 
Here files of pins extend their shining rows, 
Pufls, powders, patches. Bibles, billet-doux. 
]\ow awful beauty puts on all its arms; 
The fair each moment rises in her charms, 
Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace. 
And calls forth all the wonders of her face : 
Sees by degrees a purer blush arise. 
And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. 
54 



The busy sylphs surround their darling care; 
These set the head, and those divide the hair; 
Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown: 
And Betty's praised for labours not her own. 



Not with more glories in th' etherial plain, 
The sun rises first o'er the purpled main. 
Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams 
Launch'd on the bosom of the silver Thames. 
Fair nymphs and wcU-dress'd youths around her 

shone, 
But every eye was fix'd on her alone. 
On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, 
Which Jews might kiss, and Infidels adore. 
Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose. 
Quick as her eyes, and as unfix'd as those : 
Favours to none, to all she smiles extends; 
Oft she rejects, but never once offends. 
Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, 
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. 
Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride. 
Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide : 
If to her share some female errors fall. 
Look on her face, and you'll forget them all. 

This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, 
Nourish'd two locks, which graceful hung behind 
In equal curls, and well conspired to deck 
With shining ringlets the smooth ivory neck. 
Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains, 
And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. 
With hairy springes we the birds betray; 
Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey; 
Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare, 
And beauty draws us with a single hair. 
Th' adventurous Baron* the bright locks ad 

mired ; 
He saw, he wish'd, and to the prize aspired. 
Resolved to win, he meditates the way. 
By force to ravish, or by fraud betray; 
For when success a lover's toil attends. 
Few ask, if fraud or force attain'd his ends. 

For this, ere Phcebus rose, he had implored 
Propitious heaven, and every power adored ; 
But chiefly Love — to Love an altar built. 
Of twelve vast French romances neatly gilt. 
There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves, 
And all the trophies of his former loves. 
With tender billet-doux he lights the pyre. 
And breathes three amorous sighs to raise the fire. 
Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes 
Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize : 
The powers gave ear, and granted half his prayer; 
The rest, the winds dispersed in empty air. 

But now secure the painted vessel glides. 
The sunbeams trembling on the floating tides : 
While melting music steals upon the sky. 
And soften'd sounds along the waters die ; 
Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play. 
Belinda smiled, and all the world was gay ; 
All but the sylph — with careful thoughts opprest. 
Th' impending woe sat heavy on his breast. 

[* Lord Petre.] 
2l2 



126 



ALEXANDER POPE. 



He summons straight his denizens of ait ; 
The lucid squadrons round the sails repair; 
Soft o'er vhe shroud aerial whispers breathe, 
That seem'd but zephyrs to the train beneath. 
Some to the sun their insect wings unfold, 
Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold ; 
Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight, 
Their fluid bodies half dissolved in light. 
Loose to the wind their airy garments flew, 
Thin glittering textures of the filmy dew, 
Dipp'd in the richest tinctures of the skies. 
Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes, 
While every beam new transient colours flings. 
Colours that change whene'er they wave their 

wings. 
Amid the circle, on the gilded mast, 
Superior by the head was Ariel placed: 
His purple pinions opening to the sun. 
He raised his azure wand, and thus begun: 

Ye sylphs and sylphids, to your grief give ear; 
Fays, fairies, genii, elves, and daemons, hear ! 
Ye know the spheres, and various tasks assign'd 
By laws eternal to th' aerial kind. 
Some in the fields of purest selher play. 
And bask and whiten in the blaze of day ; 
Some guide the course of wandering orbs on high, 
Or roll the planets through the boundless sky; 
Some, less refined, beneath the moon's pale light 
Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night, 
Or suck the mists in grosser air below. 
Or dip their pinions in the painted bow, 
Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main, 
Or o'er the glebe distil the kindly rain. 
Others on earth o'er human race preside. 
Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide: 
Of these the chief the care of nations own. 
And guard with arms divine the British throne. 

Our humbler province is to tend the fair. 
Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care ; 
To save the powder from too rude a gale, 
Nor let th' imprison'd essences exhale ; 
To draw fresh colours from the vernal flowers ; 
To steal from rainbows, ere they drop in showers, 
A brighter wash ; to curl their waving hairs, 
Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs ; 
Nay oft, in dreams, invention we bestow. 
To change a flounce, or add a furbelow, 

This day, black omens threat the brightest fair 
That e'er deserved a watchful spirit's care ; 
Some dire disaster, or by force, or slight ; 
But what, or where, the fates have wrapp'd in 

night. 
Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law, 
Or some frail china-jar receive a flaw; 
Or stain her honour, or her new brocade ; 
Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade ; 
Oi lose her heart, or necklace at a ball ; 
Or whether heaven has doom'd that Shock must 

fall. 
Haste then, ye spirits ! to your charge repair: 
The fluttering fan be Zephyretta's care ; 
The drops to thee, Urilliante, we consign; 
And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine: 
Eo thou, Grispissa, tend her favourite Lock; 
Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock. 



To fifty chosen sylphs, of special note. 
We trust th' important charge, the petticoat: 
Oft have we known that seven-fold fence to fail. 
Though stiflf with hoops, and arm'd with ribs of 

whale. 
Form a strong line about the silver bound. 
And guard the wide circumference around. 

Whatever spirit, careless of his charge, 
His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large 
Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his sins 
Be stopp'd in vials, or transfix'd with pins ; 
Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie, 
Or wedged whole ages in a bodkin's eye : 
Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain. 
While clogg'd he beats his silken wings in vain ; 
Or alum styptics, with contracting power, 
Shrink his thin essence like a shrivell'd flower: 
Or, as Ixion fix'd, the wretch shall feel 
The giddy motion of the whirling mill. 
In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow, 
And tremble at the sea that froths below ! 

He spoke; the spirits from the sails descend: 
Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend ; 
Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair; 
Some hang upon the pendents of her ear; 
With beating hearts the dire event they wait. 
Anxious and trembling for the birth of fate. 



CANTO in. 
Close by those meads, for ever crown'd with 
flowers, 
Where Thames with pride surveys his rising 

towers. 
There stands a structure of majestic frame. 
Which from the neighbouring Hampton takes its 

name. 
Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom 
Of foreign tyrants, and of nymphs at home; 
Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey, 
Dost sometimes counsel take — and sometimes tea. 

Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort, 
To taste awhile the pleasures of a court; 
In various talk th' instructive hours they past. 
Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last; 
One speaks the glory of the -British queen, 
And one describes a charming Indian screen ; 
A third interprets motion^ looks, and eyes; 
At every word a reputation dies. 
Snuif, or the fan, supply each pause of chat. 
With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that. 

Meanwhile, declining from the noon of day. 
The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray ; 
The hungry judges soon the sentence sign. 
And wretches hang, that jurymen may dine; 
The merchant from th' Exchange returns m 

peace, 
And the long labours of the toilet cease. 
Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites. 
Burns to encounter two adventurous knights. 
At Ombre singly to decide their doom ; 
And swells her breast with conquests yet to 

come. 
Straight the three bands prepare in arms to join, 
Each band the number of the sacred nine, 



ALEXANDER POPE. 



427 



Soon as she spreads her hand, th' aerial guard 
Descend, and sit on each important card: 
First Ariel perch'd upon a Matadore, 
Then each according to the rank they bore : 
For sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race, 
Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place. 

Behold, four Kings in majesty revered, 
With hoary whiskers and a forky beard ; 
And four fair Queens, whose hands sustain a 

flower, 
Th' expressive emblem of their softer power; 
Four Knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band ; 
Caps on their heads, and halberds in their hand ; 
And party-colour'd troops, a shining train, 
Drawn forth to combat on the velvet plain. 

The skilful nymph reviews her force with care : 
Let Spades be trumps! she said, and trumps 
they were. 
Now move to war her sable Matadores, 
In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors. 
Spadillio first, unconquerable Lord! 
Led off two captive trumps, and swept the board. 
As many more MMuillio forced to yield. 
And march'd a victor from the verdant field. 
Him Basto follow'd, but his fate more hard 
Gain'd but one trump, and one plebeian card. 
With his broad sabre next, a chief in years, 
The hoary Majesty of Spades appears. 
Puts forth one manly leg, to sight reveal'd. 
The rest, his many-colour'd robe conceal'd. 
The rebel Knave, who dares his prince engage. 
Proves the just victim of his royal rage. 
Ev'n mighty Pam, that Kings and Queens o'er- 

threw. 
And mow'd down armies in the fights of Loo, 
Sad chance of war ! now destitute of aid. 
Fall's undistinguish'd by the victor Spade ! 

Thus far both armies to Belinda yield ; 
Now to the Baron fate inclines the field. 
His warlike Amazon her host invades, 
Th' imperial consort of the crown of Spades. 
The Clubs' black tyrant first her victim died, 
Spite of his haughty mien, and barbarous pride: 
What boots the regal circle on his head. 
His giant limbs in state unwieldy spread; 
That long behind he trails his pompous robe. 
And, of all monarchs, on.ly grasps the globe 1 
The Baron now his Diamonds pours apace; 
Th' embroider'd King who shows but half his 

face. 
And his refulgent Queen with powers combined. 
Of broken troops an easy conquest fiml. 
Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts, in wild disorder seen, 
W'itli throngs promiscuous strow the level green. 
Thus when dispersed a routed army runs. 
Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons, 
With like confusion different nations fly, 
Of various habit, and of various dye; 
The pierced battalions disunited fall, 
la heaps on heaps; one fate o'erwlielms them all. 

The Knave of Diamonds tries his wily arts, 
\nd wins (oh shameful chiime!) the Queen, of 

Hearts. 
At this, the lilood the virgin's face forsook, 
A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look ; 



She sees, and trembles at th' approaching ill, 

Just in the jaws of ruin, and codille. 

And now (as oft in some distemper'd state) 

On one nice trick depends the general fate. 

An Ace of Hearts steps forth: the King unseen 

Lurk'd in her hand, and mourn'd his captive 

Queen : 
He springs to vengeance with an eager pace. 
And falls like thunder on the prostrate Ace. 
The nymph exulting fills with shouts the sky; 
The walls, the woods, and long canals reply. 
thoughtless mortals! ever blind to fate, 
Too soon dejected, and too soon elate. 
Sudden these honours shall be snatch'd away, 
And cursed for ever this victorious day. 

For lo ! the board with cups and spoons is 

crown'd. 
The berries crackle, and the mill turns round : 
On shining altars of Japan they raise 
The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze: 
From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide. 
While China's earth receives the smoking tide: 
At once they gratify their scent and taste. 
And frequent cups prolong the rich rej)ast. 
Straight hover round the fair her airy band; 
Some, as she sipp'd, the fuming liquor fann'd ; 
Some o'er her lap their careful plumes dlsplay'd 
Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade. 
Coffee (which makes the politician wise. 
And see through all things with his half-shut 

eyes) 
Sent up in vapours to the Baron's brain 
New stratagems, the radiant Lock to gain. 
Ah cease, rash youth I desist ere 'tis too late. 
Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's fate! 
Changed to a bird, and sent to flit in air. 
She dearly pays for Nisus' injured hair!^ 

But when to mischief mortals bend their will, 
How soon they find fit instruments of ill ! 
Just then Clarissa drew with tempting grace 
A two-edged weapon from her shining case • 
So ladies, in romance, assist their knight. 
Present the spear, and arm him for the fight. 
He takes the gift with reverence, and extends 
The little engine on his fingers' ends ; 
This just behind Belinda's neck he spread. 
As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head. 
Swift to the Lock a thousand sprites repair, 
A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the hair ; 
And thrice they twitch'd the diamond in her ear ; 
Thrice she look'd back, and thrice the foe drew 

near. 
Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought 
The close recesses of the virgin's thought ; 
As on the nosegay in her breast reclined, 
He watch'd the ideas rising in her mind. 
Sudden he view'd, in spite of all her art. 
An earthly lover lurking at her heart. 
Amazed, confused, he found his power expired, 
Resign'd to fate, and with a sigh retired. 

The Peer now spreads the ghttenng forfei 
w.dp, 
T' inclose the Lock ; now joins it, to divide. 
Ev'n then, before the fatal engine closed, 
A wretched sylph too fondly interposed; 



428 



ALEXANDER POPE, 



Fate urged the shears, and cut the sylph in twain, 
(But airy substance soon unites again ;) 
The meeting points Ihe sacred hair dissever 
From the fair head, for ever, and for ever ! 

Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes, 
And screams of horror rend th' atfrighted skies. 
Not louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast, 
When husbands, or when lap-dogs, breathe their 

last ! 
Or when rich china vessels, fallen from high. 
In glittering dust and painted fragments lie ! 

Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine 
(The victor cried), the glorious prize is mine! 
While fish in streams, or birds delight in air, 
Or in a coach-and-six the British fair, 
As long as Atalantis* shall be read. 
Or the small pillow grace a lady's bed, 
While visits shall be paid on solemn days. 
When numerous wax-lights in bright order blaze, 
While nymphs take treats, or assignations give, 
So long my honour, name, and praise, shall live! 
What time would spare, from steel receives its 

date. 
And monuments, like men, submit to fate! 
Steel could the labour of the gods destroy. 
And strike to dust tlie imperial powers of Troy : 
Steel could the works of mortal pride confound, 
And hew triumphal arches to the ground. 
What wonder then, fair nymph ! thy hairs should 

feel 
The conc^uering force of unresisted steel 1 



CANTO IV. 

BoT anxious cares the pensive nymph oppress'd, 
And secret passions labourM in her breast. 
Not youthful kings in battle seized alive, 
Not scornful virgins who their charms survive, 
Not ardent lovers robb'd of all their bliss, 
Not ancient ladies when refused a kiss, 
Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die. 
Not (Cynthia when her mantua's pinn'd awry. 
E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair, 
As thou, sad virgin ! for thy ravish'd hair. 

For, that sad moment, when the sylphs with- 
drew. 
And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew, 
Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite. 
As ever sullied the fair face of light, 
Down to the central earth, his proper scene, 
Repair'd to search the gloomy cave of Spleen. 

Swift on his sooty pinions flits the gnome, 
And in a vapour reach'd the dismal dome. 
No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows. 
The dreaded east is all the wind that blows. 
Here in a grotto, shelter'd close from air. 
And screen'd in shades from day's detested glare, 
She sighs for ever on her pensive bed, 
Pain at her side, and Megrim at her head. 

Two handmaids wait the throne; alike in place, 
But dirtering far in figure and in face. 
Here stood Ill-nature like an ancient maid, 
Her wrinkled form in black and white array'd ; 

l * A book fall of oourt and party scandal, written by 
Mrs Mauley,] 



With store of prayers, for mornings, nights, and 

noons. 
Her hand is fiU'd ; her bosom with lampoons. 
There AflTectation, with a sickly mien. 
Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen. 
Practised to lisp, and hang the head aside, 
Faints into airs, an<l languishes with pride; 
On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe, 
Wrapp'd in a gown, for sickness, and for show. 
The fair ones feel such maladies as these, 
When each new night-dress gives a new disease. 

A constant vapour o'er the palace flies; 
Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise; 
Dreadful, as hermits' dreams in haunted shades. 
Or bright, as visions of expiring maids. 
Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling spires, 
Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires: 
Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes. 
And crystal domes, and angels in machines. 

Unnumber'd throngs on every side are seen. 
Of bodies changed to various forms by Spleen. 
Here living tea-pots stand, one arm held out. 
One bent; the handle this, and that the spout: 
A pipkin there, like Homer's tripod, walks ; 
Here sighs a jar, and there a goose-pie talks; 
Men prove with child, as powerful fancy works, 
And maids, turn'd bottles, call aloud for corks. 

Safe pass'd the gnome through this fantastic 
band, 
A branch of healing spleen-wort in his hand. 
Then thus address'd the power: — Hail, wayward 

queen! 
Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen : 
Parent of vapours, and of female wit, 
Who give the hysteric or poetic fit. 
On various tempers act by varyjus wavs. 
Make some take physic, others scribble plays; 
Who cause the proud their visits to delay. 
And send the godly in a pet to pray. 
A nymph there is, that all thy power disdains. 
And thousands more in equal mirth maintains. 
But oh ! if e'er thy gnome could spoil a grace 
Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face, 
Like citron-waters matrons' cheeks inflame. 
Or change complexions at a losing game ; 
If e'er with airy horns I planted heads. 
Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds, 
Or caused suspicion where no soul was rude. 
Or discomposed the head-dress of a prude. 
Or e'er to costive lap-dog gave disease. 
Which not the tears of brightest eyes could ease: 
Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin ; 
That single act gives half the world the spleen. 

The goddess with a discontented air 
Seems to reject him, though she grants his prayer. 
A wonderous bag with both her hands she binds. 
Like that where once Ulysses held the winds ; 
'J'here she co'.lects the force of female lungs. 
Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of tongues. 
A vial next she fills with fainting fears, 
Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears. 
The gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away, 
Spreads his black wings and slowly mounts today. 

Sunk in 'I'halestris' arms the nymph he foi nd, 
Her eyes dejected, and her hair unbound. 



ALEXANDER POPE. 



429 



Full o'er their heads the swelling bag he rent, 

And all the furies issued at the vent. 

Belinda burns with more than mortal ire, 

And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire. 

O wretched maid ! she spread her hands and 

cried, 
(While Hampton's echoes, wretched maid! replied) 
Was it for this you took such constant care 
The bodkin, comb, and essence, to prepare 1 
For this your locks in paper durance bound. 
For this with torturing irons wreathed around 1 
For this with fillets strain'd your tender head, 
And bravely bore the double loads of lead 1 
Gods ! shall the ravisher display your hair, 
While the fops envy, and the ladies stare] 
Honour forbid ! at whose unrivall'd shrine 
Ease, pleasure, virtue, all our sex resign. 
Methinks already I your tears survey. 
Already hear the horrid things they say, 
Already see you a degraded toast. 
And all your honour in a whisper lost! 
How shall I then your helpless fame defend 1 
'Twill then be infamy to seem your friend ! 
And shall this prize, th' inestimable prize. 
Exposed through crystal to the gazing eyes. 
And heighten'd by the diamond's circling rays, 
On that rapacious hand for ever blaze] 
Sooner shall grass in Hyde Park circus grow. 
And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow ! 
Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall. 
Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, perish all ! 

She said ; then raging to Sir Plume repairs, 
And bids her beau demand the precious hairs : 
(Sir Plume, of amber snuff-box justly vain. 
And the nice conduct of a clouded cane) 
With earnest eyes and round unthinking face. 
He first the snuff-box open'd, then the case. 
And thus broke out — <'My Lord, why, what the 

devil ] 
Z — ds ! damn the Lock ! 'fore Gad, you must be 

civil ! 
Plague on't! 'tis past a jest — nay prithee, pox ! 
Give her the hair" — he spoke, and rapp'd his box. 

It grieves me much (replied the peer again) 
Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain ; 
But by this Lock, this sacred Lock, I swear, 
(Which never more shall join its parted hair; 
Which never more its honour shall renew, 
Clipp'd from the lovely head where late it grew) 
That while my nostrils draw the vital air, 
This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear. 
He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph spread 
The long-contended honours of her head. 

But Umbriel, hateful gnome! forbears not so; 
He breaks the vial whence the sorrows flow. 
Then, see ! the nymph in beauteous grief appears. 
Her eyes half-languishing, half-drown'd in tears; 
On her heaved bosom hung her drooping head. 
Which, with a sigh, she raised : and thus she said : 

For ever cursed be this detested day. 
Which snatch'd my best, my favourite curl away ! 
Happy ! ah, ten times happy had I been. 
If Hampton-court these eyes had never seen ! 
Yet am I not the first mistaken maid 
By love of courts to numerous ills betray'd. 



Oh, had I rather unadmired remain'd 
In some lone isle, or distant northern land ; 
Where the gilt chariot never marks the way, 
"Where none learn ombre, none e'er taste bohea! 
There kept my charms conceal'd from mortal eye ! 
Like roses that in deserts bloom and die. 
What moved my mind with youthful lords to roam! 
Oh, had I staid, and said my prayers at home ! 
'Twas this, the morning omens seem'd to tell. 
Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell; 
The tottering china shook without a wind. 
Nay, Poll sat Mute, and Shock was most unkind ! 
A sylph, too, warn'd me of the threats of fate. 
In mystic visions, now believed too late ! 
See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs ! 
My hand shall rend what even thy rapine spares: 
These, in two sable ringlets taught to break. 
Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck ; 
The sister lock now sits uncouth, alone. 
And in its fellow's fate foresees its own ; 
Uncurl'd it hangs, the fatal shears demands, 
And tempts, once more, thy sacrilegious hands. 
Oh, hadst thou, cruel! been content to seize 
Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these ! 



CANTO V. 

She said : the pitying audience melt in tears » 
But fate and Jove had stopp'd the Baron's ears. 
In vain Thalestris with reproach assails. 
For who can move when fair Belinda fails ] 
Not half so fix'd the Trojan could remain. 
While Anna begg'd and Uido raged in vain. 
Then grave Clarissa graceful waved her fan ; 
Silence ensued, and thus the nymph began. 

Say, why are beauties praised and honour'c 
most. 
The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toastl 
Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford. 
Why angel's call'd and angel-like adored ] 
Why round our coaches crowd the white-gloved 

beaux ! 
Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows ] 
How vain are all these glories, all our pains, 
Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains ; 
That men may say when we the front-box grace, 
Behold the first in virtue as in face ! 
Oh ! if to dance all night and dress all day, 
Charm'd the small-pox, or chased old age away ; 
Who would not scorn what housewife's cares 

produce. 
Or who would learn one earthly thing to use] 
To patch, nay ogle, may become a saint ; 
Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint. 
But since, alas! frail beauty must decay; 
Curl'd or uncurl'd, since locks will turn to gray ; 
Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade. 
And she who scorns a man must die a maid; 
What then remains, but well our power to use. 
And keep good-humour still, whatever we lo>e ? 
And trust me, dear ! good-humour can prevail, 
\Vhen airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding 

fail. 
Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll ; 
Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul, 



430 



ALEXANDER POPE. 



So spoke the dame, but no applause ensued; 
Belinda frown'd, Thalestris call'd her prude. 
To arms, to arms ! the fierce virago cries, 
And swift as lightning to the combat flies. 
Ail side in parties, and begin th' attack; [crack: 
Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones 
Heroes' and heroines' shouts confusedly rise, 
And brass and trel)le voices strike the skies. 
No common weapon in their hands are found; 
Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound. 

So when bold Homer makes the gods engage, 
And heavenly breasts with human passions rage; 
'Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona Hermes arms; 
And all Olympus rings with loud alarms; 
Jove's thunder roars, heaven trembles all around, 
Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound: 
Earth shakes her nodding towers, the ground 

gives way 
And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day ! 

Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce's height 
Clapp'd his glad wings, and sat to view the fight : 
Propp'd on their bodkin spears, the sprites survey 
The growing combat, or assist the fray. 

While through the press enraged Thalestris flies, 
And scatters death around from both her eyes, 
A beau and witling perish'd in the throng, 
One died in metaphor, and one in song. 
" O cruel nymph ! a living death I bear," 
Cried Dappervvit, and sunk beside his chair. 
A mournful glance Sir Fopling upward cast, 
" Those eyes are made so killing"* — was his last. 
Thus on JVIeander's flowery margin lies 
Th' expiring swan, and as he sings he dies. 

W hen bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down, 
Chloe stepp'd in, and kill'd him with a frown; 
She smiled to see the doughty hero slain, 
But, at her smile, the beau revived again. 

Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air, 
Weighs the men's wits against the lady's hair. 
The doubtful beam long nods from side to side; 
At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside. 

See fierce Belinda on the Baron flies. 
With more than usual lightning in her eyes: 
Nor fear'd the chief the unequal fight to try, 
Who sought no more than on his foe to die. 
But tiiis bold lord, with manly strength endued, 
She with one finger and a thumb subdued : 
Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew, 
A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw ; 
Th(! gnomes direct, to every atom just, 
'I'he pungent grains of titillating dust. 
Sudden, with starting tears, each eye o'erflows. 
And the high dome re-echoes to his nose. 

Now meet thy fate, incensed Belinda cried, 
And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. 
(The same, his ancient personage to deck, 
Her great-great-grandsire wore about his neck, 
Li three seal-rings ; which after, melted down, 
Forin'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown : 



r* From a fonp iu the once favourite opera of Camilla, 
with which Vaubrugh opened his new house in the llay- 
marlint.J 



Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew, 
The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew; 
Then in a bodkin graced her mother's hairs, 
Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.) 

Boast not my fall, (he cried,) insulting foe! 
Thou by some other shalt be laid as low. 
Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind : 
All that I dread is leaving you behind! 
Rather than so, ah ! let me still survive. 
And burn in Cupid's flames — but burn alive. 

Restore the Lock, she cries, and all around» 
Restore the Lock ! the vaulted roofs rei)Ound. 
Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain 
Roar'd for the handkerchief that caused his pain 
But see how oft ambitious aims are cross'd, 
And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost! 
The Lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with pain. 
In every place is sought, but sought in vahi : 
With such a prize no mortal must be blest. 
So heaven decrees ! with heaven who can contest? 

Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere, 
Since all things lost on earth are treasured there. 
There heroes' wits are kept in ponderous vases, 
And beaux' in snufl-boxes and tweezer cases: 
There broken vows and death-bed alms are found. 
And lovers' hearts with ends of riband bound ; 
The courtier's promises, and sick man's prayers, 
The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, 
Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea, 
Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry. 

But trust the Muse — she saw it upward rise, 
Though mark'd by none but quick poetic eyes: 
(So Rome's great founder to the heavens with- 
To Proculus alone confess'd in view:) [drew, 
A sudden star it shot through liquid air, 
And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. 
Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright. 
The heaven bespangling with dishevell'd light. 
The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies, • 
And pleased pursue its progress through the skies. 

This the beau-monde shallfrom the JVlallsurvey, 
And hail with music its propitious ray. 
This the blest lover shall for Venus take. 
And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake. 
This Partridgef soon shall view in cloudless skies, 
When next he looks through Galileo's eyes; 
And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoom 
The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome. 

Then cease, bright nymph ! to mou-rn thy 
ravish'd hair. 
Which adds new glory to the shining sphere ! 
Not all the tresses that fair head can boast 
Shall draw such envy as the Lock you lost. 
For, after all the murders of }our eye. 
When, after millions slain, yourself shall die; 
When those fair suns shall set, as set they must, 
And all those tresses shall be laid in dust. 
This Lock the Muse shall consecrate to fame, 
And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name. 



[t The famous Almanack-maker, the Lily, Gadhury, anc* 
Murpliy of his day.] 



JONATHAN SWIFT.* 



[Born, 1667. Died, 1744.] 



BAUCIS AND PniLEMON.t 

5B THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO TEW-TEEES IS THE 
PARISH OP CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET. 1708. 

Imilated from the Eighth Book of Ovid. 

In ancient times, as story tells, 
The saints would often leave their cells, 
And stroll about, but hide their quality, 
To try good people's hospitality. 

It happen'd on a winter-night. 
As authors of the legend write. 
Two brother-hermits, saints by trade. 
Taking their tour in masquerade. 
Disguised in tatter'd habits, went 
I'o a small village down in Kent; 
Where, in the strollers' canting strain. 
They begg'd from door to door in vain; 
Tried every tone might pity win, 
But not a soul would let them in. 

Our wandering saints, in woeful state. 
Treated at this ungodly rate, 
Having through all the village past. 
To a small cottage came at last. 
Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man, 
Call'd ill the neighbourhood Philemon; 
Who kindly did these saints invite 
In his poor hut to pass the night; 
And then the hospitable sire 
Bid goody Baucis mend the fire; 
While he from out the chimney took 
A flitch of bacon off the hook, 
And freely from the fattest side 
Cut out large slices to be fried ; 
Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink, 
Fill'd a large jug up to the brink. 
And saw it fairly twice go round; 
Yet (what is wonderful!) they found 
'Twas still replenish'd to the top. 
As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop. 
The good old couple were amazed. 
And often on each other gazed ; 



[* Mr. Campbell's .silence upon Swift is less to be regret- 
tcil, as wese«m now, with the narratives .of Lord Orrery, 
Sheridan, Delany, Mr. Swift,, Dr. Johnson, Mr. Mitford, b'ir 
Waiter h'cott, and the collected tirciimstances of Monck 
Mason ar.d Dr. Barret, to know enough o^ Cailenus or the 
Dean, who gains on our dislike nither than our esteem liy 
additional acquaintani e. The life of this hateful fellow 
■was on& conliuuous growl of difcoiitent. His loves, if 
loves they were, a series' of shuttles, to be accounted for 
alone by a charitable supposition, that the malady which 
overthrew his hitellect, touched his heart, before he be- 
cama " The driveller and the show," of Johnson's verses ; 
" The solitary idiot" of Byron's LeltiTs. 

" His Muse," says Smollet, " was mere misanthropy," he 
might liave added. — and nastiness. lie is as obscene and 
oulspukeu as lord Kochester, and writes rather in the 



For both were frighten'd to the heart, 
And just began to cry, — What artl 
Then softly turn'd aside to view 
Whether the lights were burning blue. 
The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't. 
Told them their calling and their errand: 
Good folks, you need not be afraid, 
We are but saints, the hermits said ; 
No hurt shall come to you or yours : 
But for that pack of churlish boors, 
IS'ot fit to live on Christian ground. 
They and their houses shall be drown'd; 
Whilst you shall see your cottage rise. 
And grow a church before your eyes. 

They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft 
The roof began to mount aloft ; 
Aloft rose every beam and rafter ; 
The heavy wall climb'd slowly after. 

The chimney widen'd, and grew higher, 
Became a steeple with a spire. 

The kettle to the top was hoist. 
And there stood fasten'd to a joist, 
But with the upside down to show 
Its inclination for below: 
In vain : for a superior force. 
Applied at bottom, stops its course; 
Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell, 
'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. 

A wooden jack which had almost 
Lost by disuse the art to roast, 
A sudden alteration feels. 
Increased by new intestine wheels; 
And, what e.xalts the wonder more, 
The number made the motion slower: 
The flier, though 't had leaden feet, 
Turn'd round so quick, you scarce could see 't ' 
But, slacken'd by some secret power, 
Now hardly moves an inch an hour. 
The jack and chimney, near allied. 
Had never left each other's side : 



style of the stews than the pulpit. " Almost all his 
wijrks," s;iy>' .lelVroy, " are libels, generally upon indivi- 
duals, sonietinies u| on fee ts .and purtie.s, sometimes upon 
human nature." No one's writin.'S need castration more. 
This done, and the clergyman and his beaftiine s forarolten, 
how indignant and admirable is his satire, how pleasant 
and pointed his humour! lie lived to verify the prediction 
of Dryden, and was not a poet but a wit : a word whith in 
this signification merits revival. 

l''or some sensible remarks on Swift see Lord Mahon'a 
Hid. of Eng. vol. i. p. t8.] 

[ t Thi-; poem is very fine.— Goldsmith. 

At Ai'di-on's suggestion, in the short poem of Baucis 
and fhi!emon, Swilt struck out forty verses, added forty 
verges, ar.d altiTed the same number. — Sir Waller Scoti't 
Life of Sivift, p. iOO.] 

431 



132 



JONATHAN SWIFT. 



The chimney to a steeple grown, 
The jack would not be left alone ; 
But, up against the steeple rear'd, 
Became a clock, and still adhered ; 
And still its love to household cares, 
By a shrill voice at noon, declares, 
Warning the cookmaid not to hum 
That roast-meat which it cannot turn. 

The groaning-chair began to crawl, 
tike a huge snail, along the wall ; 
There stuck aloft in public view, 
And, with small change, a pulpit grew. 

The porringers, that in a row 
Hung high, and made a glittering show, 
To a less noble substance changed, 
Were now but leathern buckets ranged. 

The ballads, pasted on the wall, 
Of Joan of France, and English Moll, 
Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, 
The Little Children in the Wood, 
Now seem'd to look abundance better, 
Improved in picture, size, and letter; 
And, high in order placed, describe 
The heraldry of every tribe. 

A bedstead of the antique mode. 
Compact of timber many a load, 
Such as our ancestors did use. 
Was metamorphosed into pews ; 
Which still their ancient nature keep 
By lodging folks disposed to sleep. 

The cottage by such feats as these 
Grown to a church by just degrees. 
The hermits then desired their host 
To ask for what he fancied most. 
Philemon, having paused a while, 
Return'd them thanks in homely style: 
Then said. My house is grown so fine, 
Methinks I still would call it mine; 
I'm old, and fain would live at ease ; 
Make me the parson, if you please. 

He spoke, and presently he feels 
His grazier's coat fall down his heels: 
He sees, yet hardly can believe, 
About each arm a pudding-sleeve; 
His waistcoat to a cassock grew. 
And both assumed a sable hue ; 
But, being old, continued just 
As thread-bare, and as full of dust. 
His talk was now of tithes and dues; 
He smoked his pipe, and read the news ; 
Knew how to preach old sermons next, 
Vamp'd in the preface and the text ; 
At christenings well could act his part, 
And had the service all by heart; 
VVish'd women might have children fast, 
And thought whose sow had farrow'd last; 
Against dissenters would repine, 
And stood up firm for right divine ; 
Found his head fill'd with many a system : 
But classic authors: — he ne'er niiss'd 'em. 



Thus having furbish'd up a parson. 
Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on. 
Instead of homespun coife, were seen 
Good pinners edged with colberteen ; 
Her petticoat, transform'd apace. 
Became black satin flounced with lace. 
Plain Goody would no longer down ; 
'Twas Madam, in her grogram gown. 
Philemon was in great surprise, 
And hardly could believe his eyes, 
Amazed to see her look so prim ; 
And she admired as much at him. 

Thus happy in their change of life 
Were several years this man and wife ; 
When on a day, which proved their last, 
Discoursing o'er old stories past. 
They went by chance, amidst their talk. 
To the church-yard to take a walk; 
When Baucis hastily cried out. 
My dear, I st^e your forehead sprout 1 
Sprout! quoth the man: what's this you tell us 1 
I hope you don't believe me jealous ; 
But yet, methinks, I feel it true ; 
And really, yours is budding too — 
Nay, — now I cannot stir my foot ; 
It feels as if 'twere taking root. 

Description would but tire my Muse ; 
In short, they both were turn'd to yews. 

Old Goodman Dobson of the Green 
Remembers, he the trees has seen ; 
He'll talk of them from noon till niuht. 
And goes with folks to show the sight : 
On Sundays after evening prayer. 
He gathers all the parish there ; 
Points out the place of either yew ; 
Here Baucis, there Philemon grew: 
Till once a Parson of our town. 
To mend his barn, cut Baucis down ; 
At which, 'tis hard to be believed. 
How much the other tree was grieved. 
Grew scrubbled, died a-top, was stunted ; 
So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it. 



ON POETRY.* 

A RHAPSODY. 1703. 

All human race would fain be wits. 
And millions miss for one that hits. 
Young's Universal Passion, pride. 
Was never known to spread so wide. 
Say, Britain, could you ever boast 
Three poets in an age at most 1 
Our chilling climate hardly bears 
A sprig of bays in fifty years ; 

[* Here follows one of the beat versified poems in our 
language, and the mo?t mnsterly production of its author. 
The severity with which Walpole is here treated, was in 
consequence (f that minister's having refused tr> provide 
for Swift in England, when applied to fir that purpose, in 
the year 1725. if I remember right. The severity of a 
poet, however, gave Walpole very little uneasiness. A 
man whose fcliemes, like this minister's, seldom extended 
beyond the exigency of the year, but little regarded the 
contempt of posterity. — Ooldsmiih.] 



While every fool his claim alleges, 
As if it grew in comtnon hedges. 
What reason can there be assign'd 
For this perverseness in the mind ! 
Brutes find out where their talents lie: 
A bear will not attempt to fly ; 
A founder'd horse will oft debate 
Before he tries a five-barr'd gate; 
A dog by instinct turns aside, 
Who sees the ditch too deep and wide. 
But man we find the only creature. 
Who, led by Folly, combats Nature; 
Who, when she loudly cries, Forbear, 
With obstinacy fixes there ; 
And, where his genius least inclines, 
Absurdly bends his whole designs. 

Not' empire to the rising sun 
By valour, conduct, fortune won; 
Not highest wisdom in debates 
P'or framing laws to govern states ; 
Not skill in sciences profound. 
So large to grasp the circle round; 
Such heavenly influence require. 
As how to strike the Muse's lyre. 

Not beggar's brat on bulk begot; 
Not bastard of a pedlar Scot : 
Not boy brought up to cleaning shoes, . 
The spawn of Bridewell or the stews ; 
Not infants dropt, the spurious pledges 
Of gipsies littering under hedges ; 
Are so disqualified by fate 
To rise in church, or law, or state, 
As he whom Phoebus in his ire 
Hath blasted with poetic fire. 
What hope of custom in the fair. 
While not a soul demands your ware 1 
Where you have nothing to produce 
For private life, or public use 1 
Court, city, country, want you not; 
You cannot bribe, betray, or plot. 
For poets, law makes no provision; 
The wealthy have you in derision : 
Of state atiairs you cannot smaller; 
Are awkward when you try to flatter. 
Ybur portion, taking Britain round, 
Was just one annual hundred pound ; 
Now not so much as in remainder, 
Since Gibber brought in an attainder; 
For ever fix'd by right divine 
(A monarch's right) on Grub-street line. 

Poor starveling bard, how small thy gains! 
How unproportion'd to thy pains ! 
And here a simile comes pat in: 
Though chickens take a month to fatten, 
The guests in less than half an hour 
Will more than half a score devour. 
So, after toiling twenty days 
To earn a stock of pence and praise, 
Thy labours, grown the critic's prey, 
Are swallow'd o'er a di.sh of tea ; 
Gone to be never heard of more. 
Gone where the chickens went before. 

How shall a new attempter learn 
Of different spirits to discern, 
55 



And how distinguish which is which, 

The poet's vein, or scribbling itch 1 

Then hear an old experienced sinner, 

Instructing thus a young beginner. 

Consult yourself; and if you find 

A powerful impulse urge your mind. 

Impartial judge within your breast 

What subject you can manage best ; 

Whether your genius most inclines 

To satire, praise, or humorous lines, 

To elegies in mournful tone, 

Or prologues sent from hand unknown. 

Then, rising with Aurora's light, 

The Muse invoked, sit down to write ; 

Blot out, correct, insert, refine. 

Enlarge, diminish, interline; 

Be mindful, when invention fails, 

To scratch your head, and bite your nails 

Your poem finish'd, next your care 
Is needful to transcribe it fair. 
In modern wit all printed trash is 
Set oflf with numerous breaks and dashes. 

To statesmen would you give a wipe, 
You print it in Italic type. 
When letters are in vulgar shapes, 
'Tis ten to one the wit escapes : 
But, when in capitals exprest, 
The dullest reader smokes the jest: 
Or else perhaps he may invent 
A better than the poet meant ; 
As learn 'd commentators view- 
In Homer, more than Homer knew. 

Your poem in its modish dress. 
Correctly fitted for the press, 
Convey by penny-post to Lintot, 
But let no friend alive look into 't. 
If Lintot thinks 'twill quit the cost, 
You need not fear your labour lost: 
And how agreeably surprised 
Are you to see it advertised ! 
The hawker shows you one in print. 
As fresh as farthings from the mint: 
The product of your toil and sweating; 
A bastard of your own begetting. 

Be sure at Will's the following day. 
Lie snug, and hear what critics say; 
And, if you find the general vogue 
Pronounces you a stupid rogue, 
Damns all your thoughts as low and little, 
Sit still, and swallow down your spittle. 
Be silent as a politician, 
For talking may beget suspicion: 
Or praise the judgment of the town. 
And help yourself to run it down. 
Give up your Ibnd paternal pride. 
Nor argue on the weaker side : 
For poems read without a name 
We justly praise or justly blame ; 
And critics have no partial views. 
Except they know whom they abuse: 
And, since you ne'er provoke their spite, 
Depend upon 't their judgment's right. 
But if you blab, you are undone : 
Consider what a risk you run: 
2M 



434 JONATHAN SWIFT. 


You lose your credit all at once ; 


His humble senate this professes. 


The town will mark you for a dunce ; 


In all their speeches, votes, addresses. 


The vilest doggrel, Grub-street sends, 


But once you fix him in a tomb. 


Will pass for yours with foes and friends ; 


His virtues fade, his vices bloom : 


And you must bear the whole disgrace, 


And each perfection, wrong imputed, 


Till some fresh blockhead takes your place. 


Is fully at his death confuted. 


Your secret kept, your poem sunk, 


The loads of poems in his praise, 


And sent in quires to line a trunk, 


Ascending, make one funeral blaze: 


If still you be disposed to rhyme, 


As soon as you can hear his knell. 


Go tr} your hand a second time. 


This god on earth turns devil in hell: 


Again you fail : yet Safe's the word ; 


And lo ! his ministers of state, 


Take courage, and attempt a third. 


Transform'd to imps, his levee wait ; 


But first with care employ your thoughts 


Where, in the scenes of endless woe. 


Where critics mark'd your former faults; 


They ply their former arts below ; 


'J'he trivial turns, the borrow 'd wit, 


And, as they sail in Charon's boat, 


The similes that nothing fit; 


Contrive to bribe the judge's vote; 


The cant which every fool repeats, 


To Cerberus they give a sop, 


'J^own jests and coflee-house conceits ; 


His triple-barking mouth to stop: 


Descriptions tedious, flat, and dry, 


Or in the ivory gate of dreams 


And introduced the Lord knows why: 


Project excise and South-sea schemes; 


Or where we find your fury set 


Or hire their party pamphleteers 


Against the harmless alphabet ; 


To set Elysium by the ears. 


And A's and B's your malice vent. 


Then, poet, if you mean to thrive, 


While readers wonder whom you meant ; 


Employ your Muse on kings alive ; 


A public or a private robber, 


With prudence gathering up a cluster 


A statesman, or a South-sea jobber ; 


Of all the virtues you can muster, 


A prelate who no God believes ; 


Which, form'd into a garland sweet. 


A parliament, or den of thieves ; 


Lay humbly at your monarch's feet; 


A pick-purse at the bar or bench ; 


Who, as the odours reach his throne, 


A duchess, or a suburb wench: 


Will smile, and think them all his own ; 


Or oit, when epithets you link 


For law and gospel both determine 


In gaping lines to fill a chink ; 


All virtues lodge in royal ermine : 


Like stepping-stones to save a stride, 


(I mean the oracles of both. 


In streets where kennels are too wide; 


Who shall depose it upon oath.) 


Or like a heel-piece, to support 


Your garland in the following reign, 


A cripple with one foot too short ; 


Change but the names, will do again. 


Or like a bridge that joins a marsh 


But if you think this trade too base, 


To moorland of a dilierent parish. 


(Which seldom is the dunce's case,) 


So have I seen ill-coupled hounds 


Put on the critic's brow, and sit 


Drag different ways in miry grounds. 


At Will's the puny judge of wit. 


So geographers in Afric maps 


A nod, a shrug, a scornful smile. 


With savage pictures fill their gaps. 


With caution used, may serve a while. 


And o'er unhabitable downs 


Proceed no further in your part. 


Place elephants for want of towns. 


Before you learn the terms of art; 


But, though you miss your third essay 


For you can never be too far gone 


You need not throw your pen away. 


In all our modern critics' jargon : 


Lay now aside all thoughts of fame, 


Then talk with more authentic face 


To spring more profitable game. 


Of unities, in time and place ; 


From party-merit seek support; 


Get scraps of Horace from your friends. 


The vilest verse thrives best at court. 


And have them at your fingers' ends ; 


A pamphlet in Sir Bob's* defence 


Learn Aristotle's rules by rote. 


Will never fail to bring in pence: 


And at all hazards boldly quote; 


IVor be concern'd about the sale. 


Judicious Rymer oft' review, 


He pays his workriien on the nail. 


Wise Dennis, and profound Bossu; 


A prince, the moment he is crown'd, 


Read all the prefaces of Dryden, 


Inherits every virtue round, 


For these our critics much confide in 


As emblems of the sovereign power. 


(Though merely writ at first for filling, 


] .ike other baubles in The Tower : 


To raise the volume's price a shilling.)! 


Is generous, valiant, just, and wise, 


A forward critic often dupes us 


And so continues till he dies: 


With sham quotations y-m hupsous; 




And if we have not read Longinus, 
Will magisterially outshine us. 




[» Sir Robert Walpole, who employed the scurrility, not 
the tcenius of his age, to defeud his a'iministration, aid 






patronized, not the poets, but the rhymers, the Mitchells 


[t This is one of Swifts many flings at Dryden, that 


and Oldiuixons of his times.] 


thread and diss^race his writings.] 



JONATHAN SWIFT. 



435 



Then, lest with Greek he overrun ye, 
Procure the book for love or money, 
Translated from Boileau's translation, 
And quote quotation on quotation. 

At Will's you hear a poem read, 
Where Battus from the table-head, 
Reclining on his elbow-chair, 
Gives judgment with decisive air; 
To whom the tribe of circling wits 
As to an oracle submits. 
He gives directions to the town, 
To cry it up, or run it down ; 
Like courtiers, when they send a note, 
Instructing members how to vote. 
He sets the stamp of bad and good, 
Though not a word be understood. 
Your lesson learn'd, you'll be secure 
To get the name of connoisseur ; 
And, when your merits once are known. 
Procure disciples of your own. 
For poets (you can never want 'em) 
Spread through Augusta Trinobantum,* 
Computing by their pecks of coals, 
Amount to just nine thousand souls: 
These o'er their proper districts govern. 
Of wit and humour judges sovereign. 
In every street a city-bard 
Rules, like an alderman, his ward; 
His undisputed rights extend 
Through all the lane, from end to end; 
The neighbours round admire his shrewdness 
For songs of loyalty and lewdness ; 
Outdone by none in rhyming well. 
Although he never learn'd to spell. 

Two bordering wits contend for glory ; 
And one is Whig, and one is Tory : 
And this for epics claims the bays, 
And that for elegiac lays: 
Some famed for numbers soft and smooth. 
By lovers spoke in Punch's booth; 
And some as justly fame extols 
For lofty lines in Smithfield drolls. 
Bavins in Wapping gains renown. 
And Msevius reigns o'er Kentish-town : 
Tigellius, placed in Phcebus' car. 
From Ludgate shines to Temple-bar: 
Harmonious Gibber entertains 
The court with annual birth-day strains; 
Whence Gay was banish'd in disgrace; 
Where Pope will never show his face ; 
Where Young must torture his invention 
To flatter knaves, or lose his pension.! 

But these are not a thousandth part 
Of jobbers in the poet's art. 
Attending each his proper station, 
And all in due subordination. 
Through every alley to be found. 
In garrets high, or under ground ; 

[* The anrient name of Lontlon.J 

It Young disgraced hU talents, and lowered his reputa- 
tion, by the mean flattery with which he stuflfed his dedi- 
cations to great pen; and Swift, with his usual acuteness, 
has touched tliis foible of his character : 

Aud Young murt torture hig invention 
To flatter knaves, or lo.e his jieu.-ion. 

J. W. CitOKiiR, Suffolk Pupers, vol. i. p. 2S5.] 



And when they join their pericranies. 
Out skips a book of miscellanies. 
Hobbes clearly proves that every creature 
Lives in a state of war by nature. 
The greater for the smallest watch, 
But meddle seldom with their match. 
A whale of moderate size will draw 
A shoal of herrings down his maw ; 
A fox with geese his belly crams; 
A wolf destroys a thousand lambs: 
But search among the rhyming race. 
The brave are worried by the base. 
If on Parnassus' top you sit. 
You rarely bite, are always bit. 
Each poet of inferior size 
On you shall rail and criticise, 
And strive to tear you limb from limb ; 
While others do as much for him. 

The vermin only tease and pinch 
Their foes superior by an inch. 
So, naturalists observe, a flea 
Hath smaller fleas that on him prey; 
And these have smaller still to bite 'em, 
And so proceed ad tnfinilum. 
Thus every poet in his kind 
Is bit by him that comes behind: 
Who though too little to be seen. 
Can tease,and gall, and give the spleen, 
Call dunces fools and sons of whores. 
Lay Grub-street at each other's doors ; 
Extol the Greek and Roman masters. 
And curse our modern poetasters; 
Complain, as many an ancient bard did. 
How genius is no more rewarded ; 
How wrong a taste prevails among us; 
How much our ancestors outsung us; 
Can personate an awkward scorn 
For those who are not poets born ; 
And all their brother-dunces lash. 
Who crowd the press with hourly trash. 

O Grub-street! how do I bemoan thee. 
Whose graceless children scorn to own thee' 
Their filial piety forgot. 
Deny their country, like a Scot; 
Though, by their idiom and grimace. 
They soon betray their native place: 
Yet thou hast greater cause to be 
Ashamed of them, than they of thee, 
Degenerate from their ancient brood. 
Since first the court allow'd them food. 

Remains a difficulty still. 
To purchase fame by writing ill. 
From Flecknoe down to Howard's time. 
How few have reach'd the low sulilime! 
For when our high-born Howard died, 
Blackmore alone his place supplied: 
And, lest a chasm should intervene. 
When Death had finish'd Blackmore's reign. 
The leaden crown devolved to thee. 
Great poet of the Hollow Tree .J 



[J Lord Gvinipton was the author of (his ce'ebrated per 
formanic, of which he was aftarward fo m ui h asli amed as 
toliuyupa',1 thecopies. The mnliirnity of the Du hess of 
Marllioroi'gji t'lisroucertcd his purpute, bv rcpriutiuj; it. — 
Sm Walter Scott. 



]^ 

136 JONATHAN SWIFT. 


1 

But ah ! how unsecure thy throne! 


An heir for Britain to secure 


A thousand bards thy right disown : 


As long as sun and moon endure. 


They plot to turn, in factious zeal, 


The remnant of the royal blood 


Duncenia to a common weal ; 


Comes pouring on me like a flood : 


And with rebellious arms pretend 


Bright goddesses, in number five; 


An equal privilege to descend. 


Duke William, sweetest prince alive. 


In bulk there are not more degrees, 


Now sing the minisler of stale, 


From elephants to mites in cheese. 


Who shines alone without a mate. 


Than what a curious eye may trace 


Observe with what majestic port 


In creatures of the rhyming race. 


This Atlas stands to prop the court; 


From bad to worse, and worse, they fall'; 


Intent the public debts to pay, 


But who can reach the worst of alii 


Like prudent Fabius, by delay. 


For though, in nature, depth and height 


Thou great vicegerent of the king, 


Are equally held infinite ; 


Thy praises every Muse shall sing; 


In poetry, the height we know ; 


In all affairs thou sole director, 


'Tis only infinite below. 


Of wit and learning chief protector; 


For instance, when you rashly think 


Though small the time thou hast to spare. 


No rhymer can like Welsted sink, 


The church is thy peculiar care. 


His merits balanced, you shall find 


Of pious prelates what a stock 


The Laureate^ leaves him far behind. 


■ You choose, to rule the sable flock ! 


■ Concaneri, more aspiring bard, 


You raise the honour of your peerage, 


Soars downward deeper by a yard. 


Proud to attend you at the steerage. 


Smart Jemmy Moore with vigour drops; 


You dignify the noble race. 


The rest pursue as thick as hops. 


Content yourself with humbler place. 


With heads to points the gulf they enter. 


Now learning, valour, virtue, sense. 


Link'd perpendicular to the centre ; 


To titles give the sole pretence. 


And, as their heels elated rise, 


St. George beheld thee with delight 


Their heads attempt the nether skies. 


Vouchsafe to be an azure knight. 


Oh, what indignity and shame. 


When on thy breasts and sides Herculean 


To prostitute the Muse's name ! 


He fix'd the star and string cerulean. 


By flattering kings, whom Heaven design'd 


Say, poet, in what other nation 


The plagues and scourges of mankind ; 


Shone ever such a constellation! 


Bred up in ignorance and sloth, 


Attend, ye Popes, and Youngs, and Gays, 


And every vice that nurses both. 


And tune your harps, and strow your baysr 


Fair Britain, in thy monarch blest, 


Your panegyrics here provide ; 


Whose virtues bear the strictest test; 


You cannot err on flattery's side. 


Whom never faction could bespatter. 


Above the stars exalt your style. 


Nor minister nor poet flatter; 


You still are low ten thousand mile. 


What justice in rewarding merit ! 


On Lewis all his bards bestow'd 


What magnanimity of spirit ! 


Of incense many a thousand load; 


What lineaments divine we trace 


But Europe mortified his pride. 


Through all his figure, mien, and face ! 


And swore the fawning rascals lied. 


Though peace with olive bind his hands, 


Yet what the world refused to Lewis, 


Confess'd the conquering hero stands. 


Applied to George, exactly true is. 


Hydaspes, Indus, and the Ganges, 


Exactly true! invidious poet ! 


Dread from his hand impending changes. 


'Tis fifty thousand times below it. 


From him the Tartar and Chinese, 


Translate me now some lines, if you can. 


Short by the knees, entreat for peace. 


Fron) Virgil, Martial, Ovid, Lucan. 


The consort of his throne and bed, 


They could all power in heaven divide. 


A perfect goddess born and bred, 


And do no wrong on either side ; 


Appointed sovereign judge to sit 


They teach you how to split a hair, 


On learning, eloquence, and wit. 


Give George and Jove an equal share. 


Our eldest hope, divine lulus. 


Yet why should we be laced so strait 1 


(Late, very late, oh may he rule us !) 


I'll give my monarch better weight. 


What early manhood has he shown. 


And reason good; for many a year 


Before his downy beard was grown ! 


Jove never intermeddled here : 


Then think, what wonders will be done. 


Nor, though his priests be duly paid. 


By going on as he begun. 


Did ever we desire his aid : 




We now can better do without him, 
■ Since Woolston gave us arms to rout him. 


[* Colley Cibber— originally "That Fielding,"&c.; mean- 


in- the novelist.] 


Cctlera desiUerunlur. 



JAMES BRAMSTON. 



I HATE applied to many individuals for infor- 
mation respecting tiie personal history of this 
writer, but have not been able to o!)tain it, even 
from the quarters where it was most likely to be 
found. He was born, probably, about the year 
I TOO; was of Christ Church, Oxford, where he 



took his degree of A. M. ; and was finally vicar 
of Starting, in Sussex. Besides The Man of 
Taste, he wrote a political satire, entitled The 
Art of Politics, and The Crooked Sixpence, in 
imitation of Philips's Splendid Shilling. 



THE MAN OF TASTE. 

Whoe'er he be that to a taste aspires, 
Let him read this and be what he desires. 
In men and manners versed, from life I write. 
Not what was once, but what is now polite. 
Those who of courtly France have made the tour 
Can scarce our English awkwardness endure. 
But honest men who never were abroad. 
Like England only, and its taste applaud. 
Strife still subsists, which yields the better gout ; 
Books or the world, the many or the few. 

True taste to me is by this touchstone known. 
That's always best that's nearest to my own. 
To show that my pretensions are not vain. 
My father was a play'r in Drury-lane. 
Pears and pistachio-nuts my mother sold ; 
He a dramatic poet, she a scold. 
Her tragic Muse could countesses affright, 
His wit in boxes was my lord's delight. 
No mercenary priest e'er join'd their hands, 
Uncramp'd by wedlock's unpoetic bands. 
Laws my Pindaric parents matter'd not, 
So I was tragi-comically got. 
My infant tears a sort of measure kept, 
I squalled in distichs, and in triplets wept. 
No youth did I in education waste, 
Happy in an hereditary taste. 
Writing ne'er cramped the sinews of my thumb, 
Nor barbarous birch e'er brush'd my tender bum. 
My guts ne'er suffer'd from a college cook, 
My name ne'er enter'd in a buttery-book. 
Grammar in vain the sons of Priscian teach. 
Good parts are better than eight parts of speech: 
Since these declined, those undeclined they call, 
I thank my stars that I declined them all. 
To Greek or Latin tongues without pretence, 
I trust to mother wit and father sense. 
Nature's my guide, all sciences I scorn. 
Pains I abhor ; I was a poet '«nrn. 

Yet is my gout for criticism such, 
I've got some French, and know a little Dutch. 
Huge commentators grace my learned shelves, 
Notes upon books out-do the books themselves. 
Crili.s indeed are valuable men, 
But hyper-critics are as good again. 
Though Blackmore's works my soul with rapture 

fill, 
With notes by Bentley they'd be better still. 
The Boghouse-.Vliscellany's well designed 
To ease the botlv, and improve the mind. 



Swift's whims and jokes for my resentment call. 
For he displeases me that pleases all. 
Verse without rhyme I never could endure, 
Uncouth in numbers, and in sense obscure. 
To him as nature, when he ceased to see 
Milton's an universal blank to me. 
Confirm'd and settled by the nation's voice. 
Rhyme is the poet's pride, and people's choice. 
Always upheld by national support. 
Of market, university, and court; [son 

Thomson, write blank ! but know that for that rea- 
These lines shall live when thine are out of sea- 
Rhyme binds and beautifies the poet's lays, [son. 
As London ladies owe their shape to stays. 

Had Gibber's self The Careless Husband wrote, 
He for the laurel ne'er had had my vote; 
But for his epilogues and other plays. 
He thoroughly deserves the modern bays. 
It pleases me, that Pope unlaurell'd goes, 
W bile Gibber wears the bays for play-house prose . 
So Britain's monarch once uncover'd sat. 
While Bradshaw bullied in a broad-brimm'd hat. 

Long live old Curll! he ne'er to publish fears 
The speeches, verses, and last wills of peers. 
How oft has he a public spirit shown. 
And pleased our ears regardless of his own ? 
But to give merit due, though Curll's the fame. 
Are not his brother booksellers the same ] 
Can statutes keep the British press in awe. 
While that sells best that's most against the law? 

Lives of dead play'rs my leisure hours beguile. 
And sessions-papers tragedize my style. 
'Tis charming reading in Ophelia's life.* 
So oft a mother, and not once a wife • 
She could with just propriety behave, 
Alive with peers, with monarchs in her grave . 
Her lot how oft have envious harlots wept. 
By prebends buried, and by generals kept. 

T'improve in morals Mandevil I read. 
And Tyndal's scruples are my settled creed. 
I travell'd early, and I soon saw through 
Religion all, ere I was twenty-two. 
Shame, pain, or poverty shall I endure. 
When ropes or opium can my, ease procure ? 
When money's gone, and I no debts can pay, 
Self-murder is an honourable way. 
As Pasaran directs, I'd end my life, 
And kill myself, my daughter, and my wiie. 



[* Mr.s. O'dfiold the actru.ss. The sting of severity ls in 
its truth, and here satire is in its strengih.J 

■I a -J. 437 



438 



JAMES BRAMSTON. 



Burn but that Bible which the parson quotes, 
And men of spirit all shall cut their throats. 

But not to writings I confine my pen, 
I have a taste for buildings, music, men. 
Young travell'd coxcombs mighty knowledge boast, 
With superficial smattering at most. 
Not so my mind, unsatisfied with hints, [prints. 
Knows more than Budgell writes, or Roberts 
I know the town, all houses I have seen, 
From Hyde-Park corner down to Bednal-Green. 
Sure wretched Wren was taught by bungling 
To murder mortar, and disfigure stones ! [Jones, 
Who in Whitehall can symmetry discern? 
I reckon Covent-Garden church a barn. 
Nor hate I less thy vile cathedral, Paul 1 
The choir's too big, the cupola's too small: 

Substantial walls and heavy roofs I like, 
'Tis Vanbrugh's structures that my fancy strike : 
Such noble ruins every pile would make, 
I wish they'd tumble for the prospect's sake. 
To lofty Chelsea, or to Greenwich dome. 
Soldiers and sailors all are welcomed home. 
Her poor to palaces Britannia brings, 
St. James's hospital may serve for kings. 
Buildings so happily I understand. 
That for one house I'd mortgage all my land. 
Doric, Ionic, shall not there be found, 
But it shall cost me threescore thousand pound. 
From out my honest workmen I'll select 
A bricklayer, and proclaim him architect; 
First bid him build me a stupendous dome, 
Which having finish'd, we set out for Rome ; 
Take a week's view of Venice and the Brent ; 
Stare round, see nothing, and come home content. 
I'll have my villa too, a sweet abode, 
Its situation shall be London road : 
Pots o'er the door I'll place like cit's balconies, 
Which Bentley calls the gardens of Adonis. 

I'll have my gardens in the fashion too. 
For what is beautiful that is not newl 
Fair four-legg'd temples, theatres that vie 
M'ith all the angles of a Christmas-pie. 
Does it not merit the beholder's praise, 
What's high to sink, and what is low to raise? 
Slopes shall ascend where once a green-house 

stood. 
And in my horse-pond I will plant a wood. 
Let misers dread the hoarded gold to waste, 
Expense and alteration shows a taste. 

In curious paintings I'm exceeding nice, 
And know their several beauties by their price. 
Auctions and sales I constantly attend. 
But choose my pictures by a skilful friend, 
Originals and copies much the same. 
The picture's value is the painter's name. 

My taste in sculpture from my choice is seen, 
I buy no statues that are not obscene, 
in spite of Addison and ancient Rome, 
Sir Cloudesley SHovel's is my favourite tomb. 
How oft have I with admiration stood. 
To view some city-magistrate in wood ! 
I gaze with pleasure on a lord-mayor's head, 
Cast with propriety in gilded lead. 
Oh could I view, through London as I pass, 
Some broad Sir Baalam in Corinthian brass: 



High on a pedestal, ye freemen, place 
His magisterial paunch and griping face ; 
Letter'd and gilt, let him adorn Cheapside, 
And grant the tradesman what a king's denied. 

Old coins and medals I collect, 'tis true ; 
Sir Andrew has 'em, and I'll have em too, 
But among friends, if I the truth might speak, 
I like the modern, and despise th' antique. 
Though in the drawers of my japan bureau, 
To lady Gripeall I the Cajsars show, 
'Tis equal to her ladyship or me, 
A copper Otho, or a Scotch bawbee. 

Without Italian, or without an ear, 
To Bononcini's music I adhere; 
Music has charms to soothe a savage breast. 
And therefore proper at a sheriff's feast. 
My soul has oft a secret pleasure found 
In the harmonious bagpipe's lofty sound. 
Bagpipes for men, shrill German-flutes for boys, 
I'm English born, and love a grumbling noise. 
The stage should yield the solemn organ's note, 
And Scripture tremble in the eunuch's throat. 
Let Sensino sing what David writ, 
And hallelujahs charm the pious pit. 
Eager in throngs the town to Esther came, 
And oratario was a lucky name. 
Thou, Heidegger ! the English taste hast found. 
And rulcst the mob of quality with sound. 
In Lent, if masquerades displease the town. 
Call 'em ridottos, and they still go down. 
Go on, prince Phiz ! to please the British nation 
Call thy next masquerade a convocation. 

Bears, lions, wolves, and elephants I breed, 
And Philosophical Transactions read. 
Next lodge I'll be Free-mason, nothing less, 
Unless I happen to be F. R. S. 
■ I have a palate, and (as yet) two ears, 
Fit company for porters or lor peers. 
Of every useful knowledge I've a share, 
But my top talent is a bill of fare. 
Sirloins and rumps of beef offend my eyes, 
Pleased with frogs fricasseed, and coxcomb-pies ; 
Dishes I choose, though little, yet genteel, 
Snails the first course, and peepers crown the 

meal. 
Pigs' heads, with hair on, much my fancy 

please; 
I love young cauliflow'rs if stew'd in cheese. 
And give ten guineas for a pint of peas. 
No tattling servants to my table come, 
My grace is silence, and my waiter dumb. 
Queer country-puts extol queen Bess's reign, 
And of lost hospitality complain. 
Say, thou that dost thy father's table praise, 
Was there mahogany in former days? 

Oh, could a British barony be sold ! 
I would bright honour buy with dazzling gold. 
Could I the privilege of peer procure, 
The rich I'd bully, and oppress the poor. 
To give is wrong, but it is wronger still 
On any terms to pay a tradesman's bill. 
I'd make the insolent mechanics stay, 
And keep my ready money all for play. 
I'd try if any pleasure could be found 
In tossing up for twenty thousand pound: 



WILLIAM MESTON. 



439 



Had I whole counties, I to White's would go, 
And set Ipnd, woods, and rivers, at a throw. 
But should I meet with an unlucky run. 
And at a throw be gloriously undone; 
My debts of honour I'd discharge the first; 
Let^all my lawful creditors be cursed: 
My title would preserve me from arrest, 
And seizing hired horses is a jest. 

I'd walk the morning with an oaken stick, 
With gloves and hat, like my own footman Dick; 
A footman I would be in outward show, 
In sense and education truly so. 
As for my head, it should ambiguous wear 
At once a periwig and its own hair. 
My hair I'd powder in the women's way. 
And dress and talk of dressing more than they. 
I'll please the maids of honour if I can ; 
Without black velvet breeches, what is man 1 
I will my skill in button-holes display. 
And brag how oft I shift me every day. 
Shall I wear clothes in awkward England madel 
And sweat in cloth to help the woollen trade] 
In French embroid'ry and in Flanders lace, 
I'll spend the income of a treasurer's place. 
Deard's bill for baubles shall to thousands mount, 
And I'd out-di'mond even the di'mond count. 
I would convince the world by tawdry clothes. 
That belles are less effeminate than beaux. 
And doctor Lamb should pare my lordship's toes. 

To boon companions I my time would give ; 
With players, pimps, and parasites, I'd live. 
I would with jockeys from Newmarket dine, 
And to rough-riders give my choicest wine ; 
I would caress some stableman of note. 
And imitate his language and his coat. 
My evenings all I would with sharpers spend. 
And make the thief-catcher my bosom friend; 
In Fig the prize-fighter by day delight. 
And sup with Colley Gibber every night. 
Should I perchance be fashionably ill, 
I'd send for Misaubin, and take his pill. 
I should abhor, though in the utmost need, 
Arbuthnot, Hollins, Wigan, Lee, or Mead ; 



But if I found that I grew worse and worse, 
I'd turn off Misaubin and take a nurse. 
How oft when eminent physicians fail. 
Do good old women's remedies prevail! [years, 
When beauty's gone, and Chloe's struck with 
Eyes she can couch, or she can syringe ears. 
Of graduates I dislike the learned rout, 
And choose a female doctor for the gout. 

Thus would I live, with no dull pedants cursed; 
Sure, of all blockheads, scholars are the worst. 
Back to your universities, ye fools ! 
And dangle arguments on strings in schools: 
Those schools which universities they call, 
'Twere well for England were there none at all. 
With ease that loss the nation might sustain, 
Supplied by Goodman's-fiel'ds and Drury-lane. 
Oxford and Cambridge are not worth one farthing. 
Compared to Haymarket and Covent-garden; 
Quit those, ye British youth, ami follow these, 
Turn players all, and take your 'squire's degrees. 
Boast not your incomes now, as heretofore. 
Ye book-learn'd seats ! the theatres have more : 
Ye stiff-rum p'd heads of colleges, be dumb ; 
A single eunuch gets a larger sum. 
Have some of you three hundred by the yearl 
Booth, Rich, and Cibber, twice three thousand 

clear. 
Should Oxford to her sister Cambridge join 
A year's rack-rent and arbitrary fine. 
Thence not one winter's charge would bedefray'd, 
For play-house, opera, ball, and masquerade. 
Glad I congratulate the judging age. 
The players are the world, the world the stage. 

I am a politician too, and hate. 
Of any party, ministers of state : 
I'm for an act, that he, who sev'n whole years 
Has served his king and country, lose his ears. 

Thus from my birth I'm qualified, you find. 
To give the laws of taste to human kind. 
Mine are the gallant schemes of politesse. 
For books and buildings, politics and dress. 
This is true taste, and whoso likes it not. 
Is blockhead, coxcomb, puppy, fool, and sot. 



WILLIAM MESTON. 



[Born, 1688. Died, 1745.: 



William Meston was born in the parish of 
Midmar, in Aberdeenshire. He received a liberal 
education at the Marischal College of Aberdeen, 
and was for some time one of the teachers in the 
High School of that city. He removed from that 
situation to l)e preceptor to the young Earl of 
Marshal, and to his brother, who was afterward 
the celebrated Marshal Keith, and by the intere-st 
of the family was appointed professor of philosophy 
in the Marischal College. On the breaking out of 
the rebellion of 1715, he followed the fortunes of 
his misguided patrons, who made him governor 
of Dunotter Castle. After the battle of Sherrif- 
Muir, till the act of indemnity was passed, he 
lurked with a few fugitive associates, for whose 



amusement he wrote several of the burlesque 
poems to which he gave the title of Mother 
Grim's Tales. Not being restored to his profes- 
sorship, he lived for some time on the hospitality 
of the Countess of Marshal, and after her death 
established an academy successively at Elgin, 
Turiff, Montrose, and Perth, in all of which 
places he failed, apparently from habits of care- 
less expense and conviviality. The Countess of 
Elgin supported him during the decline of his 
latter days, till he removed to Aberdeen, where 
he died of a languishing distemper. He is said 
to have been a man of wit and pleasantry in 
conversation, and of considerable attainmtrN io 
classical and mathematical knowledge. 



440 



WILLIAM MESTON. 



THE COBBLER. AN IRISH TALE. 

FROM MOTHER GRIM'S TALES. 

Sages and moralists can show 
Many misfortunes here below ; 
A truth which no one ever miss'd, 
Though neither sage nor moralist. 
Yet all the troubles notwithstanding, 
Which fate or fortune has a hand in, 
Fools to themselves will more create, 
In spite of fortune and of fate. 
Thus oft are dreaming wretches seen, 
Tortured with vapours and with spleen, 
Transform'd, at least in their own eyes, 
To China, glass, or mutton pies; 
Others -vvill to themselves appear 
Stone dead as Will the Conqueror. 

■»■*** 

There lived a gentleman, possess'd 
Of all that mortals reckon best ; 
A seat well chosen, wholesome air. 
With gardens and with prospect fair ; 
His land from debt and jointure free. 
His money never in South Sea ; 
His health of body firm and good, 
Though past the hey-day of his blood ; 
His consort fair, and good, and kind, 
His children rising to his mind ; 
His friends ingenuous and sincere. 
His honour, nay, his conscience, clear : 
He wanted naught of human bliss 
But power to taste his happiness. 
Too near, alas ! this great man's hall, 
A merry Cobbler had a stall ; 
An arch old wag as e'er you knew. 
With breeches red and jerkin blue; 
Cheerful at working as at play, 
He sung and whistled life away. 
When rising morning glads the sky. 
Clear as the merry lark on high ; 
When evening shades the landscape veil, 
Late warbling as the nightingale. 
Though pence came slow, and trade was ill. 
Yet still he sung, and whistled still ; 
Though patch'd his garb, and coarse his fare. 
He laugh'd and cast away old care. 
The rich man vievv'd with discontent 
His tatter'd neighbour's merriment; 
With °nvy grudged, and pined to see 
A beggar pleasanter than he ; 
And by degrees to hate began 
Th' intolerable happy man, 
Who haunted him like any sprite. 
From morn to eve, by day and night. 

It chanced as once in bed he lay. 
When dreams are true, at break of day. 
He heard the Cobbler at his sport, 
And on a sudden to cut short. 
Whether his morning draught he took, 
Or warming whiff of morning smoke, 
The squire suspected, being shrewd, 
This silence boded him no good ; 
And 'cause he nothing saw or heard, 
A Machiavelian plot he fear'd. 



Straight circumstances crowded plain. 

To vex and plague his jealous brain ; 

Trembling, in panic dread he lies, 

With gaping mouth and staring eyes; 

And straining, lustful, both his ears. 

He soon persuades himself he hears 

One skip and caper up the stairs; 

Sees the door open quick, and knew 

His dreaded foe in red and blue ; 

Who, with a running jump, he thought. 

Leapt plumb directly down his throat, 

Laden with tackle of his stall, 

Last, ends and hammer, strap and awl. 

No sooner down, than, with a jerk. 

He fell to music and to work. 

If much he grieved our Don before, 

When but o' th' outside of the door, 

How sorely must he now molest, 

When got the inside of his breast? 

The waking dreamer groans and swells. 

And pangs imaginary feels: 

Catches and scraps of tunes he hears 

For ever ringing in his ears ; 

lU-savour'd smells his nose displease, 

Mundungus strong, and rotten cheese : 

He feels him when he draws his breath. 

Or tugs the leather with his teeth, 

Or beats the sole, or else extends 

His arm to the utmost of his ends; 

Enough to crack, when stretch'd so wide, 

The ribs of any mortal side. 

Is there no method, then, to fly 

This vile intestine enemy 1 

What can be done in this condition, 

But sending instant for physician ! 

The doctor, having heard the case, 

Burst into laughter in his face, 

Told him he need no more than rise. 

Open his windows and his eyes, 

W histling and stitching, there to see 

The Cobbler as he used to be. 

"Sir," quoth the patient, "your pretences 

Shall ne'er persuade me from my senses. 

How should I rise] the heavy brute 

Will hardly let me wag a foot. 

Though seeing for belief may go. 

Yet feeling is the truth you know. 

I feel him in my sides, I tell ye ; 

Had you a Cobbler in your belly. 

You scarce could stir as now you do ; 

I doubt your guts would grumble too. 

Still do you laugh] I tell you, sir, 

I'd kick you soundly, could I stir. 

Thou quack, that never hadst degree 

In either University ; 

Thou mere licentiate without knowledge, 

The shame and scandal of the college ; 

I'll call my servants if you stay ; 

So, doctor, scamper while you may !" 

One thus despatch'd, a second came. 
Of ei]ual or of greater fame. 
Who swore him mad as a March hare ; 
For doctors, when provoked, will swear. 
To drive such whimsies from his pate, 
He dragg'd him to the window straight ; 



WILLIAM MESTON. 



441 



But jilting fortune can devise 

To 'mffle and outwit the wise. 

T^v^ ('obbler, ere exposed to view, 

Had just puU'd off his jerkin blue, 

Not dreaming 'twould his neighbour hurt, 

To sit in fresco in his shirt. 

" Oh," quoth the patient, with a sigh, 

" i''ou know him not so well as I. 

The man that down my throat is run. 

Has got a true blue jerkin on." 

In vain the doctor raved and tore. 

Argued and fretted, stamp'd and swore; 

Told him he might believe as well, 

The giant of Pantagruel 

Did oft, to break his fast, and sup. 

For potch'd eggs swallow windmills up ; 

Or that the Holland dame could bear 

A child for every day o' th' year. 

The vapour'd dotard, grave and sly. 

Mistook for truth each rapping lie. 

And drew conclusions such as these, 

Resistless from the premises. 

" I hope, my friends, you'll grant me all, 

A windmill's bigger than a stall: 

And since the lady brought alive, 

Children three hundred sixty-five. 

Why should you think there is not room 

For one poor Cobbler in my womb 1" 

Thus, every thing his friends could say. 

The more confirmed him in his way ; 

Further convinced by what they tell, 

'Twas certain, though impossible. 

Now worse and worse his piteous state 
Was grown, and almost desperate; 
Yet stdl the utmost bent to try. 
Without more help he would not die. 
An old physician, sly and shrewd. 
With management of face endued. 
Heard all his tale, and ask'd, with care. 
How long the Cobbler had been there ; 
Noted distinctly what he said. 
Lift up his eyes and shook his head ; 
And, grave, accosts him in this fashion. 
After mature deliberation, 
With serious and important face: 
" Sir, yours is an uncommon case; 
Though I've read Galen's Latin o'er, 
I never met with it before ; 
Nor have I found the like disease 
In stories of Hippocrates." 
Then, after a convenient stay, 
'• Sir, if prescription you'll obey. 
My lile lor yours. Til set you free 
From this same two-legg'd tympany. 
* * * Your throat, you know, is wide, 
And scarcely closed since it was tried. 
The same way he got in, 'tis plain, 
There's room to letch him back again. 
I'll bring the forked worm away 
Without a dysenteria. 
Emetics strong will do the feat. 
If taken quanium sujfidt. 
I'll see myself the proper dose. 
And go hypnotics to compose." . 
&6 



The wretch, though languishing and weak, 
Revived already by the Greek, 
Cries, "What so learn'd a man ^s you 
Prescribes, dear doctor, I shall do." 

The vomit speedily was got. 
The Cobbler sent for to the spot. 
And taught to manage the deceit, 
And not his doublet to forget. 
But first the operator wise 
Over his eyes a bandage ties, 
For vomits always strain the eyes. 
" Courage ! I'll make you disembogue, 
Spite of his teeth, th' unlucky rogue ; 
I'll drench the rascal, never fear, 
And bring him up, or drown him there." 
Warm water down he makes him pour. 
Till his stretch'd guts could hold no more 
Which, doubly swoln, as you may think, 
Both with the Cobbler and the drink, 
What they received against the grain, 
Soon paid with interest back again. 
"Here comes his tools: he can't be long 
Without his hammer and his thong." 
The Cobbler humour'd what was spoke, 
And gravely carried on the joke ; 
As he heard named each single matter. 
He chuck'd it souse into the water; 
And then, not to be seen as yet, 
Behind the door made his retreat. 
The sick man now takes breath awhile. 
Strength to recruit for further toil: 
Unblinded, he, with joyful eyes. 
The tackle floating there espies; 
Fully convinced with his mind. 
The Cobbler would not stay behind. 
Who to the alehouse still would go, 
Wliene'er he wanted work to do ; 
Nor could he like his present place. 
He ne'er loved water in his days. 
At length he takes a second bout. 
Enough to turn him inside out: 
With vehemence so sore he strains. 
As would have split another's brains. 
" Ah ! here the Cobbler comes, I swear !" 
And truth it was, for he was there ; 
And, like a rude ill-manner'd clown, 
Kick'd, with his foot, the vomit down. 
The patient, now grown wondrous light, 
Whipt off the napkin from his sight; 
Briskly lift up h's head, and knew 
The breeches and the jerkin's hue ; 
And smiled to hear him grumbling say. 
As down the stairs he ran away. 
He'd ne'er set foot within his door. 
And jump down open throats no more; 
No, while he lived, he'd ne'er again 
Run, like a fox, down the red lane. 
Our patient thus (his inmate gone) 
Cured of the crotchets in his crown, 
Joyful, his gratitude expresses. 
With thousand thanks and hundred pieces 
And thus, with much of pains and cost, 
Regain'd the health — he never lost. 



THOMAS SOUTHERNE * 



[Born, 1659. Died, 1746.] 



FROM THE TRAGEDY OF THE "FATAL MARRIAGE.' 



ACT IV. SCENE n. 



Isabella meeting with Biron after her marriage with 
Villeroy. 

Enter Nurse. 

Nurse, Madam, the gentleman's below, [him. 

Isabella, I had forgot ; pray let me speak with 
[Exit Nurse. 
This ring was the first present of my love 
To Biron, my first husband; I must blush 
To think I have a second. Biron died 
(Still to my loss) at Candy ; there's my hope. 
Oh, do I live to hope that he died there ] 
It must be so, he's dead, and this ring left 
By his last breath, to some known faithful friend, 
To bring me back again. 

[Biron introduced — Nurse retires. 
That's all I have to trust to— 
My fears were woman's — I have viewed him all: 
And let me, let me say it to myself, 
I live again, and rise but from his tomb. 

Biron. Have you forgot me quite 1 

Isa. Forgot you ! [fortunes, 

Bir. Then farewell my disguise, and my mis- 
My Isabella ! 

[Hk goes to her; s?ie shrieks, and falls into a swoon. 

Isa. Ha! 

Bir. Oh, come again ! 
Thy Biron summons thee to life and love; 
Once 1 had charms to wake thee : 
Thy once-loved, ever-loving husband calls — 
Thy Biron speaks to thee. 

Isa. My husband! Biron! 

Bir. Excess of love, and joy for my return 
Has overpower'd her. I was to blame 
To take thy sex's softness unprepared: 
But sinking thus, thus dying in my arms, 
This ecstasy has made my welcome more 
Than words could say : words may be counterfeit, 
False-coin'd, and current only fi-om the tongue. 
Without the mind ; but passion's in the soul, 
And always speaks the heart. 

Isa. Where have I been 1 Why do you keep 
him from mc'? 
I know his voice; my life upon the wing,. 
Here's the soft lure that brings me back again ; 
'Tis he himself, my Biron, the dear man ! 
My true-loved husband ! Do I hold you fast. 
Ne'er to part again 1 Can I believe it 1 
Nothing but you could work so great a change: 
There's more than life itself in dying here ; 
If I must fall, death's welcome in these arms. 



[* ] n all debate.i where critics hear a port, 

Not one but nod.'! and talks of Jonson's art, 

Of Shakf penrc's nature and of Cowley's wit; 

Uow lleaumout's judgment checkd what Fletcher writ; 



Bir. Live ever in these arms ! 

Isa. But pardon me — 
Excuse the wild disorder of my soul : 
The joy, the strange surprising joy, of seeing you, 
Of seeing you again, distracted me 

Bir. Thou everlasting goodness ! 

Isn. Answer me : 
What hand of Providence has brought you back 
To your own home again ! Oh, satisfy 
The impatience of my heart! I. long to know 
The story of your sufferings. You would think 
Your pleasures sufierings, so long removed 
From Isabella's love. But tell me all. 
For every thought confounds me. 

Bir, My best life ! at leisure, all. [of Candy— 

Isa, We thought you dead ; kill'd at the siege 

Bir, There I fell among the dead ; 
But hopes of life reviving fi-om my wounds, 
I was preserved but to be made a slave : 
I often writ to my hard father, but never had 
An answer ; I writ to thee, too 

Isa, What a world of woe 
Had been prevented, but in hearing from you ! 

Bir. Alas ! thou couldst not help me ! [done ; 

Isa. You do not know how much I could have 
At least, I'm sure I could have suffer'd all : 
I would have sold myself to slavery, 
Without redemption ; given up my child, 
The dearest part of me, to basest wants 

Bir. My little boy ! 

Isa. My life, but to have heard 
You were alive — which now too late I find. 

[Aaide. 

Bir, No more, my love. Complaining of the 
We lose the present joy. 'Tis over price [past, 
Of all my pains that thus we meet again — 
I have a thousand things to say to thee — 

Isa, Would I were past the hearing ! [Asidt. 

Bir, How does my child, my boy, my father 
I hear he's living still. [too ? 

Isa. Well both, both well ; 
And may he prove a father to your hopes. 
Though we have found him none! 

Bir. Come, no more tears. 

Isa. Seven long years of sorrow for your loss. 
Have mourn'd with me 

Bir. And all my days behind 
Shall be employ'd in a kind recompense 
For thy' afflictions, — Can't I see my boy? 

Isa. He's gone to bed, I'll have him brought 
to you ? 

Bir. To-morrow I shall see him : I want rest 
Myself, after this weary pilgrimage. 



How Shadwell hasty, Wycherley w.ns slow ; 
But for the passions, Southerne s.ire and Kowo. — Pope. 
Southerne and IJowc pospes.^ed these part's with Lee and 
Otway ; tbey touched the passions and expressed them.] 



THOMAS SOUTHERNE. 



443 



Isa. Alas ! what shall I get for you 1 

Sir. Nothing but rest, my love ! To-night I 
would not 
Be known, if possible, to your family : 
[ see my nurse is with you ; her welcome 
Would be tedious at this time : 
To-morrow will do better. 

Isa. I'll dispose of her, and order every thing 
As you would have it. [Exit. 

Bir. Grant me but life, good Heaven, and give 
the means 
To make this wondrous goodness some amends. 
And let me then forget her, if I can ! 
Oh ! she deserves of me much more than I 
Can lose for her, though I again could venture 
A tlither, and his fortune, for her love ! 
You wretched fathers, blind as fortune all ! 
Not to perceive that such a woman's worth 
Weighs down the portions you provide your sons ; 
What is your trash, what all your heaps of gold, 
Compared to this my heart-felt happiness ! 

[Bards into tears. 
What has she, in my absence, undergone ! 
I must not think of that ; it drives me back 
Upon myself, the fatal cause of all. 

Isabella returns. 

Isa. I have obey'd your pleasure ; 
Every thing is ready for you. 

Bir. I can want nothing here; possessing thee, 
All my desires are carried to their aim 
Of happiness ; there's no room for a wish, 
But to continue still this blessing to me ; 
I know the way, my love ; I shall sleep sound. 

Isn. Shall I attend you ! 

Bir. By no means ; 
I've been so long a slave to others' pride, 
To learn, at least, to wait upon myself; 
You'll make haste after [Goes in. 

Isa: I'll but say my prayers, and follow you — 
My prayers ! no, I must never pray again. 
Prayers have their blessings to reward our hopes, 
But I have nothing left to hope for more. 
What Heaven could give, I have enjoy 'd; but now 
The baneful planet rises on my fate, 
And what's to come is a long line of woe. 

Yet I may shorten it 

I promised him to follow — him ! 

Is he without a name 1 Biron, my husband, 

To follow him to bed my husband ! ha ! 

What then is Villeroy ! But yesterday 

That very bed received him for its lord. 

Yet a warm witness of my broken vows. 

Oh, Biron, hadst thou coine but one day sooner, 

1 would have follow'd thee through beggary, 

Through all the chances of this weary life ; 

VVander'd the many ways of wretchedness 

With thee, to find an hospitable grave ; 

For that's the only bed that's left me now ! 

[ Weeping. 

What's to be done 1 — ^for something must be 

done. 
Two husbands! yet not one! By both enjoy'd, 

And yet a wife to neither ! Hold my brain 

This is to live in common ! Very beasts, 



That welcome all they meet, make just such wives. 
My reputation ! Oh, 'twas all was left me ! 
The virtuous pride of an uncensured life; 
Which the dividing tongues of Biron's wrongs, 
And Villeroy's resentments, tear asunder. 
To gorge the throats of the blaspheming rabble. 
This is the best of what can come to-morrow, 
Besides old Baldwin's triumph in my ruin ! 

I cannot bear it 

Therefore no morrow : Ha : a lucky thought 
Works the right way to rid me of them all ; 
All the reproaches, infemies, and scorns, 
That every tongue and finger will find for me. 
Let the just horror of my apprehensions 
But keep me warm — no matter what can come. 
'Tis but a flow — ^yet I will see him first — 
Have a last look to heighten my despair, 
And then to rest for ever — 

Biron meets her. 

Bir. Despair, and rest for ever, Isabella ! 
These words are far from thy condition. 
And be they ever so ! I heard thy voice. 
And could not bear thy absence: come, my love! 
You have staid long ; there's nothing, nothing 

sure 
Now to despair of in succeeding fate. 

Isa. I am contented to be miserable. 
But not this way : I have been too long abused, 
And can believe no more. 
Let me sleep on to be deceived no more. 

Bir. Look up, my love ! I never did deceive 
Nor never can ; believe thyself, thy eyes, [thee. 
That first inflamed, and lit me to my love ; 
Those stars, that still must guide me to my joys — 

Isa. And me to my undoing ; I look round, 
And find no path, but leading to the grave. 

Bir. I cannot understand thee. 

Isa. My good friends above, 
I thank them, have at last found out a way 
To make my fortune perfect; having you, 
I need no more ; my fate is finish'd here. 

Bir. Both our ill fates, I hope. 

Isa. Hope is a lying, fawning flatterer. 
That shows the fair side only of onr fortunes, 
To cheat us easier into our fall; 
A trusted friend, who only can betray you ; 
Never believe him more. If marriages 
Are made in heaven, they should be happier: 
Why was I made this wretch 1 

Bir. Has marriage made thee wretched] 

Isa. Miserable, beyond the reach of comfort 

Bir. Do I live to hear thee sajj so 1 

Isa. Why, what did I say 1 

Bir. That I have made thee miserable. 

Isa. No : you are my only earthly happiness : 
And my false tongue belied my honest heart. 
If it said otherwise. 

- Bir. And yet you said, 
Your marriage made you miserable. 

Isa. I know not what I said: 
I have said too much, unless I could speak all. 

Bir. Thy words are wild ; my eyes, my earn, 
my heart. 
Were all so full of thee, so much employ'd 



444 



THOMAS SOUTHERNE. 



In wonder of thy charms, I could not find it : 
Now I perceive it plain 

ha. You will tell nobody [Distractedly. 

Eir. Thou art not well. 

Isa. Indeed I am not ; I knew that before ; 
But where's the remedy 1 

Eir. Rest will relieve thy cares : come, come, 
I'll banish sorrow from thee. [no more ; 

Isa. Banish first the cause. 

Bir. Heaven knows how willingly ! 

hn. You are the only cause. [tunes 1 

Bir. Am I the cause 1 the cause of thy misfor- 

ha. The fatal, innocent cause of all my woes. 

Bir. Is this my welcome home ! this the reward 
Of all ray miseries, long labours, pains. 
And pining wants of wretched slavery. 
Which I have outlived, only in hopes of thee! 
Am I thus paid at last for deathless love, 
And call'd the cause of thy misfortunes now 1 

Isa. Inquire no more ; 'twill be explain'd too 
soon. [.^''^ ^ 9oing off. 

Bir. What ! canst thou leave me too 1 

[He slays her. 

Isa. Pray let me go: 
For both our sakes, permit me. 

Bir. Rack me not with imaginations 

Of things impossible Thou canst not mean 

What thou hast said Yet something she must 

mean. — 

'Twas madness all Compose thyself, my love ! 

The fit is past ; all may be well again : 
Let us to bed. 

Isa. To bed ! You have raised the storm 
Will sever us for ever. Oh, Biron ! 
While I have life, still I must call you mine. 
I know I am, and always was, unworthy 
To be the happy partner of your love ; 
And now must never, never share it more. 
But oh ! if ever I was dear to you. 
As sometimes you have thought me, on my knees 
(The last time I shall care to be believed,) 
I beg you, beg to think me innocent, 
Clear of all crimes, that thus can banish me 
From this world's comforts, in my losing you. 

Bir. Where will this end ] 

Isa. The rugged hand of fate has got between 
Our meeting hearts, and thrusts them from their 
Since we must part [joys, 

Eir. Nothing shall ever part us. 

Isa. Parting's the least that is set down for me: 
Heaven has decreed, and we must suffer all. 

IJir. I know thee innocent; I know myself so: 
Indeed we both have been unfortunate ; 
But sure misfortunes ne'er were faults in love. 

Isii. Oh ! there's a fatal story to be told ; 
Be deaf to that, as Heaven has been to me ! 
And rot the tongue that shall reveal my shame: 
When thou shalt hear how much thou hast been 

wrong'd, 
How wilt thou curse thy fond believing heart, 
Tear me from the warm bosom of thy love, 
And throw me like a poisonous weed away! 
Can I bear that ! bear to be curst and torn, 
And thrown out of thy family and name, 
Like a disease ? Can I bear this from thee 1 



I never can: no, all things have their end. 
When I am dead, forgive and pity me. [Exil 

Bir. Stay, my Isabella 

What can she meani These doubtings will di» 

tract me : 
Some hidden mischief soon will burst to light; 

I .cannot bear it 1 must be satisfied 

*Tis she, my wife, must clear this darkness to me. 

She shall — if the sad tale at last must come. 

She is my fate, and best can speak my doom. 

[£xtJ. 



ACT V. 

Scene I.— £n<er BmoN. NrxTse following ?iim. 
Bir. I know enough : the important question 
Of life or death, fearful to be resolved. 
Is clear'd to me: I see where it must end, 
And need inquire no more — Pray let me have 
Pen, ink and paper. I must write awhile. 

And then I'll try to rest to rest for ever! 

[Exit Nurse 
Poor Isabella ! now I know the cause, 
The cause of thy distress, and cannot wonder 
That it has turn'd thy brain. If I look back 
Upon thy loss, it will distract me too. 
Oh, any curse but this might be removed ! 
But 'twas the rancorous malignity 
Of all ill stars combined, of heaven and fate — 
Hold, hold, my impious tongue — Alas! I rav» : 
Why do I tax the stars, or heaven, or fate 1 
They are all innocent of driving us 
Into despair ; they have not urged my doom ; 
My father and my brother are my fates 
That drive me to my ruin. They knew well 
I was alive. Too well they knew how dear 
My Isabella — Oh, my wife no more ! 
How dear her love was to me — Yet they stood. 
With a malicious silent joy, stood by. 
And saw her give up all my happiness, 
The treasure of her beauty to another; 
Stood by, and saw her married to another. 
Oh, cruel father! and unnatural brother! 
Shall I not tell you that you have undone me ! 
I have but to accuse you of my wrongs. 
And then to fall forgotten — Sleep or death 
Sits heavy on me, and benumbs my pains: 
Either is welcome; but the hand of death 
Works always sure, and best can close my eyes. 

[Exit lilBON 



Scene II. — Draws, shoius Biron asleep on a couch. 
Enter Isabella. 
Isa. Asleep so soon ! Oh, happy, happy thou, 
W'ho thus can sleep ! I never shall sleep more — 
If then to sleep be to he happy, he 
Who sleeps the longest is the happiest: 
Death is the longest sleep— Oh, have a care ! 
Mischief will thrive apace. — Never wake more. 

[To BiROit 
If thou didst ever love thy Isabella, 
To-morrow most be doomsday to thy peace. 
The sight of him disarms even death itself. 



THOMAS SOUTHERNE. 



445 



The starting transport of new quickening life 
Gives just such hopes: and pleasure grows again 
With looking on hiin — liCt me look my last — • 
But is a look enough for parting love ! 
Sure I may take a kiss — Where am I going! 
Help, help me Villeroy ! Mountains and seas 
Divide your love, never to meet my shame ! 

[Tlirnws linrsflf vpnn the flour : oJUr a short pause 
sfte raises herself upon her elbow. 
What will this battle of the brain do with me ! 
This little ball, this ravaged province, long 

Cannot maintain The globe of earth wants 

room 
And food for such a war — I find I am going — 
Famine, plagues, and flames, 
Wide waste and desolation, do your work 
Upon the world, and then devour yourselves! 
The scene shifts fast — [SAe risesJi — and now 'tis 

better with me ; 
Conflicting passions have at last unhinged 
The great machine! the soul itself seems changed! 
Oh, 'tis a happy revolution here ! 
The reasoning faculties are all deposed ; 
Judgment, and understanding, common sense, 
Driven out as traitors to the pul)Iic peace. 
Now I am revenged upon my memory ! 
Her seat dug up, where a'.l the images 
Of a long mis-spent life were rising still, 
To glare a sad reflection of my crimes, 
And stab a conscience through them ! You are 

safe. 
You monitors of mischief! What a change ! 
Belter and better still ! This is the infant state 
Of innocence, before the birth of care. 
My thoughts are smooth as the Elysian plains, 
Without a rub : the drowsy falling streams 
Invite me to their slumbers. 

Would I were landed there [Sinks into a chair. 

What noise was that] A knocking at the gate! 
It may be Villeroy No matter who. 

lur. Come, Isabella, come. 

Isa. Hark! lamcail'd! 

Bir. You stay too long from me. [there 1 

Isa. A man's voice ! in my bed ! How came he 
Nothing but villainy in this bad world! [Jiises. 
Coveting neighbours' goods, or neighbours' wives : 
Here's physic for your fever. 

[Draivs a dagger, and goes backward to the couch. 
Breathing a vein is the old remedy. 
If husbands go to heaven, 

W here do they go that send themi — This to try 

[Just going to stab him, he. rises; she Imows him, 
and shrieks. 
What do I see ! 

Ijir. Isabella, arm'd ! 

Isa. Against my husband's life! 
Who, but the wretch, most reprobate to grace, 
Despair e'er harden'd for danniation. 
Could think of such a deed — Murder my husband! 
I ir. Tliou didst not think it. 

La. Madi'Pss has brouirbt me to the gatesof hell, 



And there has left me. Oh, the frightful change 

Of my distractions ! Or is this interval 

Of reason but to aggravate my woes, 

To drive the horror back with greater force 

Upon my soul, and fix me mad for ever] 

Bir. Why dost thou fly me so ] 

Isa. I cannot bear his sight ; Distraction, come, 
Possess me all, and take me to thyself! 
Shake off thy chains, and hasten to my aid ; 

Thou art my only cure Like other friends. 

He will not come to my necessities; 
Then I must go to find the tyrant" out — ■ 
Which is the nearest way ] [Running out. 

Bir. Poor Labeila ! she's not in a condition 
To give me any comfort, if she could: 

Lost to herself as quickly I shall be 

To all the world Horrors come fast around me; 

My mind is overcast — the gathering clouds 
Darken the prospect — I approach the brink, 
And soon must leap the precipice ! Oh, heaven ! 
While yet my senses are my own, thus kneeling, 
Let me implore thy mercies on my wife: 
Release her from her pangs ; and if my reason, 
O'erwhelm'd with miseries, sink before- the 

tempest. 
Pardon those crimes despair may bring upon me! 

[liises. 
Enter Nurse. 

N%irse. Sir, there is somebody at the door must 
needs speak with you; he will not tell his name. 

Bir. I come to him. [Exit Nurse. 
'T'is Belford, I suppose ; he little knows 
Of what has happen'd here; I wanted him, 
Must employ his friendship, and then [I'mi. 



SONQ. 

IN SIR ANTHOXY LOVE, OR THE RAMBIJJJG LADT. 

Pursuing beauty, men descry 

The distant shore, and long to prove 

Still richer in variety 

The treasures of the land of love. 

We women, like weak Indians, stand 
Inviting from our golden coast 

The wand'ring rovers to our land : 
But she who trades with them is lost. 

With humble vows they first begin, 
Stealing unseen into the heart ; 

But by possession settled in. 

They quickly play another part. 

For beads and baubles we resign, 
In ignorance, our shining store ; 

Discover nature's richest mine, 

And yet the tyrants will have more. 

Be wise, be wise, and do not try 
How he can court, or you be won ; 

For love is but discovery: 

When that is made, the pleasure's done 

2N 



THOMAS WARTON. 



TuonrAS Warton, the elJer, father of Joseph 
and Thomas Warton, was of Magdalen College, 



[Born, 1687. Died, 1745.] 

Oxford, vicar of Basingstoke and Cohham, and 
twice chosen Poetry Professor. 



RETIREMENT. AN ODE. 
On beds of daisies idly laid, 
The willow waving o'er my head. 
Now morning, on the bending stem, 
Hangs the round and glittering gem, 
LuU'd by the lapse of yonder spring, 
Of nature's various charms I sing: 
Ambition, pride, and pomp, adieu. 
For what has joy to do with you ] 
Joy, rose-lipt dryad, loves to dwell 
In sunny field or mossy cell; 
Delights on echoing hills to hear 
The reaper's song, or lowing steer ; 
Or view, with tenfold plenty spread. 
The crowded corn-field, blooming mead ; 
While beauty, health, and innocence. 
Transport the eye, the soul, the sense. 
Not fresco'd roofs, not beds of state. 
Not, guards that round a monarch wait; 
Not crowds of flatterers can scare. 
From loftiest courts, intruding Care. 
'Midst odours, splendours, banquets, wine. 
While minstrels sound, while tapers shine. 
In sable stole sad Care will come. 
And darken the sad drawing-room. 
.Vymphs of the groves, in green array'd. 
Conduct me to your thickest shade ; 
Deep in the bosom of the vale, 
Where haunts the lonesome nightingale; 
Where Contemplation, maid divine. 
Leans against some aged pine. 
Wrapt in solemn thought profound. 
Her eyes fix'd steadfast on the ground. 
Oh, virtue's nurse, retired queen. 
By saints alone and hermits seen, 
Beyond vain mortal wishes wise, 
I'each me St. James's to despise ; 



For what are crowded courts, but schools 
For fops, or hospitals for fools; 
Where slaves and madmen, young and old, 
Meet to adore some calf of gold 1 



VERSES WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WINDSOR 
CASTLE. 
From beauteous Windsor's high and storied halls, 
Where Edward's chiefs start from the glowing 
To my low cot, from ivory beds of state, [walls, 
Pleased I return, unenvious of the great: 
So the bee ranges o'er the varied scenes 
Of corn, of heaths, of fallows, and of greens, 
Pervades the thicket, soars above the hill. 
Or murmurs to the meadow's murmuring rill ; 
Now haunts old hoUow'd oaks, deserted cells. 
Now seeks the luw vale-lily's silver bells; 
Sips the warm fragrance of the greenhouse bowers, 
And tastes the myrtle and the citron .lowers; 
At length returning to the wonted comb. 
Prefers to all his little straw-built home. 



AN AMERICAN LOVE ODE. 

FROM THE SECONP VOLUME OP MONTAIGNE'S ESSAYS. 

Stay, stay, thou lovely, fearful snake. 
Nor hide thee in yon darksome brake: 
But let me oft thy charms review. 
Thy glittering scales, and golden hue; 
P'rom thee a chaplet shall be wove, 
To grace the youth I dearest love. 
Then ages hence, when thou no more 
Shalt creep along the sunny shore. 
Thy copied beauties shall be seen ; 
Thy red and azure mix'd with green. 
In mimic folds thou shalt display: — 
Stay, lovely, fearful adder, stay. 



ROBERT BLAIR. 

[Born, 1699. Died, 1746.J 



Robert Blair was minister of the parish of 
Alhelstaneford, in East Lothian. His son, who 
died not many years ago, was a very high legal 
character in Scotland. The eighteenth century 
has produced few specimens of blank verse of so 
powerful and simple a character as that of The 
Grave. It is a popular poem, not merely because 
it is religious, but because its language and 
imagery are free, natural, and picturesque. The 
latest editor of the poets has, with singularly bad 
taste, noted some of this author's most nervous 
and expressive phrases as vulgarisms, among 
which he reckons that of friendship " the solder 
446 



of society." Blair may be a homely and even a 
gloomy poet in the eye of fastidious criticisii. ; 
but there is a masculine and pronounced cha- 
racter even in his gloom and homeliness that 
keeps it most distinctly apart from either dullness 
or vulgarity. His style pleases us like the power- 
ful expression of a countenance without regular 
beauty.* 



[* Bliiir was a great fnvourito with Burn?, who quotes 
from "'The Grave." very frequently in his Utters. 

'• Blairs Grave," .say.s Southey, '■ is the only loem T can 
call to miuil whifh has been compo.sed in imiiatiou of the 
Aight Thoughts.'"— ii/e of Cowper, vol. ii. p. 14o.J 



ROBERT BLAIR. 



447 



FROM "THE GRAVE." 
Whilst some affect the sun, and some the shade, 
Some flee the city, some the hermitage ; — 
Their aims as various, as the roads they take 
In journeying through hfe ; — the task be mine 
To paint the gloomy horrors of the tomb ; 
Th' appointed place of rendezvous, where all 

These travellers meet. Thy succours I implore, 

Eternal king! whose potent arm sustains 

The keys of hell and death. The Grave — 

dread thing ! 
Men shiver when thou'rt named : Nature, appall'd, 
Shakes off her wonted firmness. Ah ! how 

dark 
Thy long-extended realms, and rueful wastes ! 
Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark 

night, 
Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun 
Was roird together, or had tried his beams 
Athwart the gloom profound. The sickly 

taper, 
By glimm'ring through thy low-brow'd misty 

vaults 
(Furr'd round with mouldy damps, and ropy 

slime,) 
Lets fall a supernumerary horror, 
, And only serves to make thy night more irksome. 
Well do I know thee by thy trusty yew. 
Cheerless, unsocial plant! that loves to dwell 
'Midst skulls and coffins, epitaphs and worms: 
Where light-heel'd ghosts, and visionary shades, 
Beneath the wan cold moon, (as fame reports,) 
Embodied, thick, perform their mystic rounds. 
No other merriment, dull tree, is thine. 

See yonder hallow'd fane ; — the pious work 
Of names once famed, now dubious or forgot, 
And buried 'midst the wreck of things which were; 
There lie interr'd the more illustrious dead. 
The wind is up: hark! how it howls! Methinks 
Till now I never heard a sound so dreary : 
Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul 

bird, 
Rook'd in the spire, screams loud : the gloomy 

aisles 
Black plaster'd, and hung round with shreds of 

'scutcheons 
And tatler'd coats of arms, send back the sound 
Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults, 
The mansions of the dead. Roused from their 

slumbers. 
In grim array the grisly spectres rise, 
Grin horrible, and, obstinately sullen. 
Pass and repass, hush'd as the foot of Night. 
Again the screech-owl shrieks: ungracious sound! 
I'll hear no more; it makes one's blood run chill. 

Quite round the pile, a row of reverend elms 
(Coeval near with that) all ragged show. 
Long lash'd by the rude winds. Some rift half down 
Their branchless trunks ; others so thin a-top, 
That scarce two crows could lodge in the same 

tree. 
Strange things, the neighbours say, have happen'd 

here : 
Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs : 
Dead men have come again, and walk'd about; 



And the great bell has toll'd, unrung, untouch'd 
(Such tales their cheer at wake or gossipping, 
When it draws near to witching time of night.) 
Oft, in the lone church-yard, at night I've seen 
By glimpse of moonshine chequering through 

the trees, 
The schoolboy, with his satchel in his hand, 
Whistling aloud to bear his courage up, 
And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones, 
(With nettles skirted, and with moss o'ergrown,) 
That tell in homely phrase who lie below. 
Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he hears. 
The sound of something purring at his heels ; 
Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him, 
Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows : 
Who gather round, and wonder at the tale 
Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly, 
That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand 
O'er some new-open'd grave ; and (strange to 

tell!) 
Evanishes at crowing of the cock. 

* * * * 

Invidious grave ! — how dost thou rend in sunder 
Whom love has knit, and sympathy made one] 
A tie more stubborn far than nature's band. 
Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul ; 
Sweetener of life, and solder of society, 
I owe thee much. Thou hast deserved from me 
Far, far beyond what I can ever pay. 
Oft have I proved the labours of thy love, 
And the warm efforts of the gentle heart. 
Anxious to please. — Oh ! when my friend and I 
In some thick wood have wander'd heedless on. 
Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down 
Upon the sloping cowslip-cover'd bank. 
Where the pure limpid stream has slid along 
In grateful errors through the underwood, 
Sweet murmuring; methought the shrill-tongued 

thrush 
Mended his song of love ; the sooty blackbird 
Mellow'd his pipe, and soften'd every note : 
The eglantine smell'd sweeter, and the rose 
Assumed a dye more deep ; whilst every flower 
Vied with its fellow plant in luxury 

Of dress Oh! then, the longest summer's day 

Seem'd too, too much in haste: still the full heart 
Had not imparted half: 'twas happiness 
Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed, 
Not to return, how painful the remembrance ! 

* * * * 

Beauty — thou pretty plaything, dear deceit. 
That steals so softly o'er the stripling's heart. 
And gives it a new pulse, unknown before. 
The grave discredits thee : thy charms expunged. 
Thy roses faded, and thy lilies soil'd, 
What hast thou more to boast ofl Will thy 

lovers 
Flock round thee now, to gaze and do thee 

homage 1 
Methinks I see thee with thy head low laid, 
VV hilst surfe.ted upon thy damask cheek, 
The high-fed worm, in lazy volumes roll'd, 

Riots uiiscared. For this, was all thy caution t 

For this, thy painful labours at thy glass 1 



448 



ROBERT BLAIR. 



To improve those charms, and keep them in re- 
pair, 
Forwhich the spoiler thanks thee not. Foul feeder, 
Coarse fare and carrion please thee full as well, 
And leave as keen a relish on the sense. 
Look how the fair one weeps ! — the conscious tears 
Stand thick as dew-drops on the bells of flowers : 
Honest effusion ! the swollen heart in vain 
Works hard to put a gloss on its distress. 

* * * * 
Sure 'tis a serious thing to die ! My soul. 

What a strange moment must it be, when near 
Thy journey's end, thou hast the gulf in view ! 
That awful gulf no mortal e'er repass'd 
To tell what's doing on the other side. 
Nature runs back, and shudders at the sight, 
And every life-string bleeds at thoughts of part- 
ing; 
For part they must: body and soul must part; 
Fond couple ! link'd more close than wedded pair. 
This wings its way to its almighty source. 
The witness of its actions, now its judge ; 
That drops into the dark and noisome grave, 
Like a disabled pitcher of no use. 

* * * * 

Tell us, ye dead, will none of you, in pity 
To those you left behind, disclose the secret] 
Oh! that some courteous ghost would blab it out; 
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be. 
I've heard, that souls departed have sometimes 
Forewarn'd men of their death: — 'Twas kindly 
done 

To knock, and give the alarm But what means 

This stinted charity ? — 'Tis but lame kindness 
That does its work by halves. — Why might you 
Tell us what 'tis to die 1 do the strict laws [not 
Of your society forbid your speaking 
Upon a point so nice ? — I'll ask no more : 
Sullen, like lamps in sepulchres, your shine 
Enlightens but yourselves. Well, 'tis no matter; 
A very little time will clear up all, 
And make us learn'd as you are, and as close. 
Death's shafts fly thick : — Here falls the vil- 
lage-swain. 
And there his pamper'd lord. — The cup goes 

round : 
And who so artful as to put it by ! 
'Tis long since death had the majority ; 
Yet strange ! the living lay it not to heart. 
See yonder maker of the dead man's bed, 
The sexton, hoary-headed chronicle. 
Of hard unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole 
A gentle tear ; with mattock in his hand 
Digs through whole rows of kindred and acquaint- 
ance, 

By far his juniors. Scarce a skull's cast up. 

But well he knew its owner, and can tell 

Some passage of his life. Thus hand in hand 

The sot has walked with death twice twenty years; 
And yet ne'er yonker on the green laughs louder. 
Or clubs a smuttier tale: — When drunkards meet. 
None sings a merrier catch, or lends a hand 
More willing to his cup. — Poor wretch, he minds 
not 



That soon some trusty brotner of the trade 
Shall do for him what he has done for thousands. 

* * * * 

Poor man ! — how happy once in thy first state ! 
When yet but warm from thy great Maker's 

hand. 
He stamp'd thee with his image, and, well pleased. 
Smiled on his last fair work. — Then all was well. 
Sound was the body, and the soul serene ; 
Like two sweet instruments ne'er out of tune. 
That play their several parts. — Nor head, nor 

heart, 
Offer'd to ache: nor was there cause they should ; 
For all was pure within : no' fell remorse. 
Nor anxious castings-up of what might be, 
Alarm'd his peaceful bosom. — Summer seas 
Show not more smooth, when kiss'd by southern 
winds 

Just ready to expire scarce importuned, 

The generous soil, with a luxurious hand, 
Offer'd the various produce of the year. 
And every thing most perfect in its kind, [short! 
Blessed ! thrice blessed days ! — But ah ! how 
Bless'd as the pleasing dreams of holy men; 
But fugitive like those, and quickly gone. 
Oh! slippery state of things. — What sudden turns! 
What strange vicissitudes in the first leaf 

Of man's sad history ! To-day most happy. 

And ere to-morrow's sun has set, most abject. 
How scant the space between these vast ex- 
tremes ! [joy'*! 
Thus fared it with our sire : — Not long h' en- 
His paradise. — Scarce had the happy tenant 
Of the fair spot due time to prove its sweets. 
Or sum them up, when straight he must be gone, 

Ne'er to return again. And must he go] 

Can nought compound for the first dire offence 
Of erring mani — Like one that is condemn'd, 
Fain would he trifle time with idle talk. 

And parley with his fate. But 'tis in vain. 

Not all the lavish odours of the place, 
Offer'd in incense, can procure his pardon. 
Or mitigate his doom. — A mighty angel, 
With flaming sword, forbids his longer stay. 
And drives the loiterer forth ; nor must he take 
One last and farewell round. 

* * * * 

* * * Sure the last end 
Of the good man is peace ! — How calm his exit! 
Night-dews fall not more gently to the ground, 
Nor weary worn-out winds expire so soft. 
Behold him in the evening-tide of life, 

A life well-spent, whose early care it was 
His riper years should not upbraid his green , 
By unperceived degrees he wears away; 
Yet, like the sun, seems larger at his setting. 
(High in his faith and hopes) look how he reaches 
After the prize in view ! and, like a bird 
That's hamper'd, struggles hard to get away : 
Whilst the glad gates of sight are wide expanded 
To let new glories in, the first fair fruits 
Of the fast-coming harvest. — Then, oh then ! 
Each earth-born joy grows vile, or disappears, 
Shrunk to a thing of nought. — Oh ! how he longs 



JAMES THOMSON. 



449 



To have his passport sign'd, and be dismiss'd ! 
'Tis done ! and now he's happy ! — The glad soul 
Has not a wish uncrown'd. — Ev'n the lag flesh 
Rests too in hope of meeting once again 
Its belter half, never to sunder more. [on, 

Nor shall it hope in vain : The time draws 

When not a single spot of burial earth. 
Whether on land or in the spacious sea. 
But must give back its long-committed dust 
Inviolate — and faithfully sh^U these 
Make up the full account ; not the least atom 
Embezzled, or mislaid, of the whole tale. 
Each soul shall have a body ready furnish'd ; 
And each shall have his own. — Hence, ye pro- 
fane ! 
Ask not, how this can be 1 — Sure the same pow'r 
That rear'd the piece at first, and took it down, 
Can re-assemble the loose scatter'd parts, 
And put them as they were. — Almighty God 
Has done much more ; nor is his arm impair'd 
Through length of days : And what he can, he 
will: 



His faithfulness stands bound to see it done. 
When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumb'ring 

dust 
(Not unattentive to the call) shall wake: 
And ev'ry joint possess its proper place, 
With a new elegance of form, unknown 

To its first state. Nor shall the conscious soul 

Mistake its partner, but amidst the crowd 
Singling its other half, into its arms 
Shall rush with all the impatience of a man 
That's new come home, and, having long been 

absent. 
With haste*runs over ev'ry diflferent room. 
In pain to see the whole. Thrice happy meeting ! 
Nor time, nor death, shall ever part them more. 
'Tis but a night, a long and moonless night. 
We make the grave our bed, and then are gone. 

Thus, at the shut of ev'n, the weary bird 
Leaves the wide air, and in some lonely brake 
Cow'rs down, and dozes till the dawn of day. 
Then claps his well-fledged wings, and bears 

away. 



JAMES THOMSON. 



3orn, 1700. Died, 1748.] 



It is singular that a subject of such beautiful 
unity, divisibility, and progressive interest as the 
description of the year, should not have been 
appropriated by any poet before Thomson.* 
Mr. Twining, the translator of Aristotle's Poetics, 
attributes the absence of poetry devoted to pure 
rural and picturesque description among the 
ancients, to the absence or imperfections of the 
art of landscape painting. The Greeks, he 
observes, had no Thomsons because they had no 
Claudes. Undoubtedly they were not blind to 
the beauties of natural scenery; but their de- 
scriptions of rural objects are almost always what 
may be called sensual descriptions, exhibiting 
circumstances of corporeal delight, such as 
breezes to fan the body, springs to cool the feet, 
grass to repose the limbs, or fruits to regale the 
taste and smell, rather than objects of contem- 
plative pleasure to the eye and imagination. 
From the time of Augustus, when, according to 
Pliny, landscape painting was first cultivated, 
picturesque images and descriptions of prospects 
seem to have become more common. But on 
the whole there is much more studied and detailed 
description in modern than in ancient poetry. 
There is besides in Thomson a pure theism, and 
a spirit of philanthropy, which, though not un- 
known to classic antiquity, was not familiar to 



* Even Thomson's extension of his pul ject to the whole 
year siems to have hi^eu an after-thought, as he be.;;an 
wilh tlie last of the .-ea-ons. It is nuidf that lie conceived 
the first design of liis Winter, from a poem on the same 
snbject hy a Mr. IliokleLon. Vidf the O'nfura Litf.rari'i, 
vol. ill. where tliere is an amu.sing e.\tract from the first 
and second edition of Thomson's Winter. 1 have seen an 
English poem, entitled The Seasons, which was published 
67 



its popular breast. The religion of the ancients 
was beautiful in fiction, but not in sentiment. It 
had revealed the most voluptuous and terrific 
agencies to poetry, but had not taught her to 
contemplate nature as one great image of Divine 
benignity, or her creatures as the objects of com- 
prehensive human sympathy. Before popular 
poetry could assume this character, Christianity, 
philosophy, and freedom, must have civilized the 
human mind. 

Habits of early admiration teach us all to look 
back upon this poet as the favourite companion 
of our solitary walks, and as the author who 
has first or chiefly reflected back to our minds a 
heightened and refined sensation of the delight 
which rural scenery aflbrds us. The judgment 
of cooler years may somewhat abate our estimation 
of him, though it will still leave us the essential 
features of his poetical character to abide the test 
of reflection. The unvaried pomp of his diction 
suggests a most unfavourable comparison with the 
manly and idiomatic simplicity of Cowper ; at the 
same time the pervading spirit and feeling of his 
poetry is in general more bland and delightful 
than that of his great rival in rural description. 
Thomson seems to contemplate the creation with 
an eye of unqualified pleasure and ecstasy, and 
to love its inhabitants with a lofty and hallowed 



eariier (I think) than those of Thomson : but it is so in- 
significant that it may be doubted if Thomson ever heard 
of it. 



[t He tells us so him-elf in one of his early letters. See 
Memoir of Thomson in Aliline Poets, p. xvii. The recovery 
of Rickleton's poem would be an ad lition to our poetry, 
for Thomson speaks of its many masterly strokes.] 
2n2 



450 



JAMES THOMSON. 



feeling of religious happiness; Cowper has also 
his philanthropy, but it is clashed with religious 
terrors, and with themes of satire, regret, and 
reprehension. Cowper's image of nature is more 
curiously distinct and familiar. Thomson carries 
our associations through a wider circuit of specu- 
lation and sympathy. His touches cannot be 
more faithful than Cowper's, but they are more 
soft and select, and less disturbed by the intru- 
sion of homely objects. Cowper was certainly 
much indebted to him ; and though he elevates 
his style with more reserve and judgment than 
4iis predecessor, yet in his highest rrfoments he 
seems to retain an imitative remembrance of 
him.* It is almost stale to remark the beauties 
of a poem so universally felt; the truth and 
genial interest with which he carries us through 
the life of the year ; the harmony of succession 
which he gives to the casual phenomena of na- 
ture; his pleasing transition from native to foreign 
scenery ; and the soul of exalted and unfeigned 
benevolence which accompanies his prospects of 
the creation. It is but equal justice to say, that 
amidst the feeling and fancy of the Seasons, we 
meet with interruptions of declamation, heavy 
narrative, and unhappy digression — with a par- 
helion eloquence that throws a counterfeit glow 
of expression on commori-place ideas — as when 
he treats us to the solemnly ridiculous bathing 
of Musidora ; or draws from the classics instead 
of nature; or, after invoking Inspiration from her 
hermit-seat, makes his dedicatory bow to a pa- 



tronizing Countess, or Speaker of the House of 
Comrnons-t As long as he dwells in the pure 
contemplation of nature, and appeals to the uni- 
versal poetry of the human breast, his redundant 
style comes to us as something venial and adven- 
titious — it is the flowing vesture of the druid; 
and perhaps to the general experience is rather 
imposing; but when he returns to the familiar 
narrations or courtesies of life, the same diction 
ceases to seem the .mantle of inspiration, and 
only strikes us by its unwieldy ditlerence from 
the common costume of expression. Between 
the period of his composing the Seasons and the 
Castle of Indolence, he wrote several works, 
which seem hardly to accord with the improve- 
ment and matuiity of his taste exhibited in the 
latter production. To the Castle of Indolence he 
brought not only the full nature, but the perfect 
art, of a poet. The materials of that exquisite 
poem are derived originally from Tasso; but he 
was more immediately indebted for them to the 
Fairy Queen: and in meeting with the paternal 
spirit of Spenser he seems as if he were admitted 
more intimately to the home of inspiration.^ 
There he redeemed the jejune ambition of his 
style, and retained all its wealth and luxury with- 
out the accompaniment of ostentation. Every 
stanza of that charming allegory, at least of the 
whole of the first part of it, gives out a group of 
images from which the mind is reluctant to part, 
and a flow of harmony which the ear wishes to 
hear repeated. 



THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. 

AN ALLEGORICAL POEM, WKITTEN IM IMITATION OP SPENSER. 

CANTO 1. 
MORTAL man, who livest here by toil, 
Do not complain of this thy hard estate ; 
That like an emmet thou must ever moil, 
Is a sad sentence of an ancient date ; 
And, certes, there is for it reason great; 
For, though sometimes it makes thee weep and 

wail. 
And curse thy star, and early drudge and late, 
Withouten that would come an heavier bale, 
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale. 



[* Thomson was admirable in description ; but it al- 
ways seemed to me that there was somewhat of affectar 
tion in his style, and that his numhers are sometimes not 
well harmonized. I could wish too, with Dr. .Johnson, 
that he had confined him.self to this country: for when 
he describes what he never saw, one is forced to read 
him with some allowances for possible misreprefentar 
tion. He was, however, a true poet, and his lasting 
f ime has proved it. — Cowper. Letter to Mrs. King, June 
I'Jth, 1788. 

Thomson was an honour to his country and to mankind, 
and a man to whose writings I am under very particular 
obli;,'ations : for if 1 have any true relish for the beauties 
of nature, 1 may say with truth, that it w;i8 from Virtiil 
and from Thoinson that 1 caught it. — Beattie to S. 
Arhnthnot. 

The love of nature seems to have led Thomson to a 
cheerful religion ; and a gloomy religion to have led Cow- 
pei to a love of nature. The one would carry his fellow- 



In lowly dale, fast by a river's side, 

With woody hill o'er hill encompass'd round, 

A most enchanting wizard did abide. 

Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found 

It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground : 

And there a season atween June and May, 

Half prankt with spring, with summer half im- 

brown'd, 
A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, 
No living wight could work, ne cared ev'n for play. 

Was nought around but images of rest : 
Sleep-sooihing groves, and quiet lawns between; 
And flowery beds that slumberous influence kest, 
From poppies breathed, and beds of pleasant green 



men along with him into nature; the other files to nature 
f n m his fellow men. In chastity of diction, however, and 
the harmony of blank ver.'e, Cowper leaves Tliomton im- 
measurabiy below him: yet I still feel the latter to have 
been the born poet. — Coleridge.] 

[t This is tuo true ; but Thomson, we learn from Smol- 
lett, intended, had he lived, to have wi.h Irawn the whole 
of these dedications— not from their poetic impropriety, 
however, but f:om the ingratitude of his patrons. To the 
Castle of Ir.dolence. his latest, chastest, but not his best 
work, there is no dedi( ation.] 

[X He had sli-ht obligations also to Alexander Barclay's 
Castle cf l>ab<jur. and to a poem of Mitchell's on Indo- 
lence, which, with his own lazy way of life, gave occasion 
to this deightful allegorical poem. "in which the manner 
he prof( esed to imitate is perhaps the most perfei t without 
ser\ility ever m:ide of any author. There is no imitation 
of Spender to iipproach it in genius and in manner. Gil- 
bert West has fcpenser's style and his style only.] 



JAMES THOMSOX. 



451 



Where never yet was creeping creature seen. 
Meantime unnuniber'd glittering streamlets 

play'd, 
And hurled everywhere their waters sheen ; 
That, as they bicker'd through the sunny 

glade, 
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur 

made. 

Join'd to the prattle of the purling rills, 
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale. 
And flocks loud-bleating from the distant hills. 
And vacant shepherds piping in the dale : 
And now and then sweet Philomel would wail, 
Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep, 
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale; 
And still a coil the grasshopper did keep ; 
Yet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep. 

Full in the passage of the vale above, 

A sable, silent, solemn forest stood ; 

Where nought but shadowy forms were seen to 

move 
As Idless fancied in her dreaming mood: 
And up the hills, on either side, a wood 
Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro. 
Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood; 
And vthere this valley winded out, below. 
The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely 
heard, to flow. 

A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was. 
Of dreams that wave before the h:df-shut eye; 
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
For ever flushing round a summer-sky : 
There eke the soft delights, that witchingly 
Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast. 
And the calm pleasures, always hover'd nigh ; 
But whate'er smack'd of 'noyance, or unrest. 
Was far, far off expell'd from this delicious nest. 

The landskip such, inspiring perfect ease. 
Where Indolence (for so the wizard hight) 
Close-hid his castle mid embowering trees. 
That half shut out the beams of Phoebus bright. 
And matie a kind of checker'd day and night; 
Meansvhile, unceasing at the massy gate. 
Beneath a spacious palm, the wicked wight 
Was placed ; and to his lute, of cruel fate. 
And labour harsh, complain'd, lamenting man's 
estate. 

Thither continual pilgrims crowded still. 
From all the roads of earth that pass there by: 
For, as they chaunced to breathe on neighbour- 
ing hill. 
The fieshnsss of this valley smote their eye, 
And drew them ever and anon more nigh; 
Till clustering round th' enchanter false they 

hung, 
Ymolten with his syren melody ; 
While o'er th' enfeebling lute his hand he 
flung, 
And to the trembling chords these tempting 
verses suns : 



" Behold ! ye pilgrims of this earth, behold ! 
See all but man with unearn'd pleasure gay: 
See her bright robes the butterfly unfold. 
Broke from her wintry tomb in prime of May 
What youthful bride can equal her array ] 
Who can with her for easy pleasure vie 1 
From mead to mead with gentle wing to stray, 
From flower to flower on balmy gales to fly, 
Is all she has to do beneath the radiant sky. 

" Behold the merry minstrels of the morn, 
The swarming songsters of the careless grove, 
Ten thousand throats ! that from the flowering 

thorn. 
Hymn their good God, and carol sweet of love, 
Such grateful kindly raptures them emove : 
They neither plough, nor sow : ne, fit for flail. 
E'er to the barn the nodding sheaves they 

drove — 
Yet theirs each harvest dancing in the gale. 
Whatever crowns the hill, or smiles along tho 

vale. 

" Outcast of nature, man ! the wretched thrall 
Of bitter dropping sweat, of sweltry pain. 
Of cares that eat away thy heart with gall, 
And of the vices, an inhuman train. 
That all proceed from savage thirst of gain 
For when hard-hearted Interest first began 
To poison earth, Astrsa left the plain ; 
Guile, violence, and murder seized on man. 
And, for soft milky streams, with blood the rivers 



" Come, ye, who still the cumberous load of life 
Push hard up hill ; but as the furthest steep 
You trust to gain, and put an end to strife, 
Down thunders back the stone with mighty 

sweep. 
And hurls your labours to the valley deep, 
For ever vain: come, and, wilhouten fee, 
I in oblivion will your sorrows steep. 
Your cares, your toils, will steep you in a sea 
Of full delight : O come, ye weary wights, to me ! 

" With me, you need not rise at early dawn. 
To pass the joyless day in various stounds: 
Or, touting low, on upstart fortune fawn, 
And sell fair honour for some paltry pounds; 
Or through the city take your dirty rounds. 
To cheat, and dun, and lie, and visit pay, 
Now flattering base, now giving secret wounds' 
Or prowl in courts of law lor human prey. 
In venal senate thieve, or rob on broad highway. 

"No cocks, with me, to rustic labour call. 
From village on to village sounding clear: 
To tardy swain no shrdl-voiced matrons squall; 
No dogs, no babes, no wives, to stun your ear; 
No hammers thump; no horrid blacksmith 

sear, 
Ne noisy tradesmen your sweet slumbers start. 
With sounds that are a misery to hear: 
But all is calm, as would delight the heart 
Of Sybarite of old, all nature, and all ar» 



i52 



JAMES THOMSON. 



"Here nought but candour reigns, indulgent 

ease, 
Good-natured lounging, sauntering up and down : 
They who are pleased themselves must always 

please ; 
On others' ways they never squint a frown, 
Nor heed what haps in haralet or in town : 
Thus, from the source of tender indolence, 
With rnilky blood the heart is overflown. 
Is soothed and sweetn'd by the social sense ; 
For interest, envy, pride, and strife are banish'd 

hence. 

"What, what is virtue, but repose of mind, 
A pure ethereal calm, that knows no storm ; 
Above the reach of wild ambition's wind. 
Above those passions that this world deform. 
And torture man, a proud malignant worm 1 
But here, instead, soft gales of passion play, 
And gently stir the heart, thereby to form 
A quicker sense of joy ; as breezes stray 
Across th' enliven'd skies, and make them still 
more gay. 

" The best of men have ever loved repose : 
They hate to mingle in the filthy fray ; 
Where the soul sours, and gradual rancour 

grows, 
Imbitter'd more from peevish day to day. 
Ev'n those whom Fame has lent her fairest ray, 
The most renown'd of worthy wights of yore, 
From a base world at last have stolen away : 
S.0 Scipio, to the soft Cumsean shore 
Retiring, tasted joy he never knew before. 

" But if a little exercise you choose. 
Some zest for ease, 'tis not forbidden here. 
Amid the groves you may indulge the Muse, 
Or tend the blooms, and deck the vernal year; 
Or softly stealing, with your watery gear. 
Along the brooks, the crimson-spotted fry 
You may delude : the whilst, amused, you hear 
Now the hoarse stream, and now the zephyr's 
sigh. 
Attuned to the birds, and woodland melody. 

« grievous folly ! to heap up estate. 
Losing the days you see beneath the sun ; 
When, sudden, comes blind unrelenting Fate, 
And gives th' untasted portion you have won. 
With ruthless toil, and many a wretch undone. 
To those who mock you gone to Pluto's reign, 
There with sad ghosts to pine, and shadows dun : 
But sure it is of vanities most vain. 
To toil for what you here untoiling may obtain." 

He ceased. But still their trembling ears retain'd 
The deep vibrations of his witching: song ; 
That, by a kind of magic power, constrain'd 
To enter in, pell-mell, the listening throng. 
Heaps pour'd on heaps, and yet they slipt along, 
In silent ease, as when beneath the beam 
Of suromer-iiioons, the distant woods among. 
Or by some flood all silver'd with the gleam. 
The soft-embodied fays through airy portal stream : 



By the smooth demon so it order'd was, 
And here his baneful bounty first began: 
Though some there were who would not further 

pass. 
And his alluring baits suspected han. 
The wise distrust, the too fair spoken man. 
Yet through the gate they cast a wishful eye : 
Not to move on, perdie, is all they can ; 
For do their very best they cannot fly. 
But often each way look, and often sorely sigh. 

When this the watchful wicked wizard saw. 
With sudden spring he leap'd upon them 

straight ; 
And soon as touch'd by his unhallow'd paw, 
They found themselves within the cursed gate ; 
Full hard to be repass'd, like that of Fate. 
Not stronger were of old the giant crew, 
M'ho sought to pull high Jove from regal state: 
Though, feeble wretch, he seem'd of sallow hue : 
Certes, who bides his grasp, will that encounter rue. 

For whonisoe'er the villain takes in hand, 
Their joints unknit, their sinews melt apace; 
As lithe they grow as any willow-wand. 
And of their varnish'd force remains no trace : 
So when a maiden fair, of modest grace. 
In all her buxom blooming May of charms, 
Is seized in some losel's hot embrace. 
She waxeth very weakly as she warms, [harms. 
Then sighing yields her up to love's delicious 



Waked by the crowd, slow from his bench arose 
A comely full-spread porter, swoln with sleep ; 
His calm, broad, thoughtless aspect breathed 

repose ; 
And in sweet torpor he was plunged deep, 
Ne could himself from ceaseless yawning keep: 
While o'er his eyes the drowsy liquor ran. 
Through which his half-waked soul would 

faintly peep. 
Theii taking his black staff, he call'd his man. 
And roused himself as much as rouse himself he can. 

The lad leap'd lightly at his master's call. 
He was, to weet, a little roguish page. 
Save sleep and play who minded nought at all. 
Like most the untaught striplings of his age. 
This boy he kept each band to disengage, 
Garters and buckles, task for him unfit, 
But ill-becoming his grave personage, 
And which his portly paunch would not permit, 
So this same limber page to all performed it. 

Meantime the master-porter wide display 'd 
Great store of caps, of slippers, and of gowns; 
Wherewith he those that enter'd in, array'd 
Loose, as the breeze that plays along the downs. 
And waves the summer-woods when evening 

frowns. 
O fair undress, best dress! it checks no vein. 
But every flowing limb in pleasure drowns. 
And heightens ease with grace. This done, 
right fain. 
Sir Porter sat him down, and turn'd to «leep again. 



JAMES THOMSON. 



Thus easy robed, they to the fountain sped, 
That in the middle of the court up-threw 
A stream, high spouting from its liquid bed. 
And falling back again in drizzly dew : [drew. 
There each deep draughts, as deep he thirsted, 
It was a fountain of nepenthe rare: 
Whence, as Dan Homer sings, huge pleasaunce 

grew, 
And sweet oblivion of vile earthly care ; 
Fair gladsome waking thoughts, and joyous 

dreams more fair. 

This rite perform'd, all inly pleased and still, 
Withouten tromp was proclamation made. 
" Ye sons of Indolence do what you will ; 
And wander where you list, through hall or glade ! 
Be no man's pleasure for another's stay'd; 
Let each as likes him best his hours employ. 
And cursed be he who minds his neighbour's 

trade ! 
Here dwells kind ease and unreproving joy: 
He little mci-its bliss who others can annoy." 

Straight of these endless numbers, swarming 

round, 
As thick as idle motes in sunny ray. 
Not one eftsoons in view was to be found, 
But every man stroll'd ofl'his own glad way, 
Wide o'er this ample court's blank area. 
With all the lodges that thereto pertain'd. 
No living creature could be seen to stray ; 
While solitude and perfect silence reign'd : 
So that to think you dreamt you almost was con- 
strain'd. 

As when a shepherd of the Hebrid-isles, 
Placed far amid the melancholy main, 
(Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles; 
Or that aerial beings sometimes deign 
To stand embod.ed, to our senses plain,) 
Sees on the naked hill, or valley low. 
The whilst in ocean Phoebus dips his wain, 
A vast assembly moving to and fro ; [show. 
Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous 

Ye gods of quiet and of sleep profound! 
Whose soft dominion o'er this castle sways, 
And all the widely-silent places round, 
Forgive me, if my trembling pen displays 
What never yet was sung in mortal lays. 
But how shall I attempt such arduous string, 
I who have spent my nights and nightly days 
In this soul-deadening place, loose loitering ! 
Ah ! how shall I for this uprear my molted wing 1 

Come on, my Muse, nor stoop to low despair. 
Thou imp of Jove, touch'd by celestial fire ! 
Thou yet shalt sing of war, and actions fair. 
Which the bold sons of Britain will inspire ; 
Of ancient bards thou yet shall sweep the lyre; 
Thou yet shall tread in tragic pall the stage, 
Paint love's enchanting woes, the hero's ire. 
The sage's calm, the patriot's noble rage. 
Dashing corruption down through every worth- 
less age. 



The doors, that knew no shrill alarming bell, 
Ne cursed knocker ply'd by villain's hand, 
Self-open'd into halls, wliere, who can tell 
What elegance and grandeur wide expand, 
The pride of 'J''urkey and of Persia land 1 
Soft quilts on quilts, on carpets carpets spread, 
And couches stretch'd around in seemly band ; 
And endless pillows rise to prop the head ; [bed. 
So that each spacious room was one full-swelling 

And everywhere huge cover'd tables stood, 
With wines high flavour'd and rich viands 

crown'd ; 
Whatever sprightly juice or tasteful food 
On the green bosom of this earth are found. 
And all old ocean genders in his round : 
Some hand unseen these silently display'd, 
Even undemanded by a sign or sound ; 
You need but wish, and, instantly oliey'd. 
Fair ranged the dishes rose, and thick the glasses 

play'd. 

Here freedom reign'd, without the least alloy ; 
Nor gossip's tale, nor ancient maiden's gall. 
Nor saintly spleen durst murmur at our joy. 
And with envenom'd tongue our pleasures pall. 
For why 1 there was but one great rule for all ; 
To wit, that each should work his own desire, 
And eat, drink, study, sleep, as it may fall. 
Or melt the time in love, or wake the lyre. 
And carol what, unhid, the Muses might inspire. 

The rooms with costly tapestry were hung. 
Where was inwoven many a gentle tale; 
Such as of old the rural poets sung, 
Or of Arcadian or Sicilian vale : 
Reclining lovers, in the lonely dale, 
Pour'd forth at large the sweetly-tortured heart; 
Or, looking tender passion, swell'd the gale, 
And taught charm'd echo to resound their smart; 
While flocks, woods, streams, around, repose and 
peace impart. 

Those pleased the most, where, by a cunning 

hand, 
Depainted was the patriarchal age ; 
What time Dan Abraham left the Chaldee land, 
And pastured on from verdant stage to stage, 
Where fields and fountains fresh could best 

engage. 

Toil was not then. Of nothing took they heed, 

But with wi d beasts the sylvan war to wage,' 

And o'er vast plains their herds and flocks to feed. 

Blest sons of nature they ! true golden age indeed ! 

Sometimes the pencil, in cool airy halls, 
Bade the gay bloom of vernal landscapes rise, 
Or autumn's varied shades imbrown the walls* 
Now the black tempest strikes th' astonish'd eyes. 
Now down the steep the flashing torrent flies; 
The trembling sun now plays o'er ocean olue. 
And now rude mountains frown amid the skies; 
Whate'er Lorraine Lght-touch'd with softening 
hue, 
Or savage Rosa dash'd, or learned Poussin drew. 



J 



454 



JAMES THOMSON. 



Each sound, too, here to languishment inclined, 
liUll'd the weak bosom, and induced ease, 
Aerial music in the warbling wind, 
At distance rising oft by small degrees, 
Nearer and nearer came, till o'er the trees 
It hung, and breathed such soul-dissolving airs, 
As did, alas ! with soft perdition please : 
Entangled deep in its enchanting snares. 
The listening heart forgot all duties and all cares. 

A certain music, never known before. 
Here lull'd the pensive melancholy mind ; 
Full easily obtain'd. Behooves no more, 
But, sidelong, to the gently-waving wind. 
To lay the well-tuned instrument reclined : 
From which, with airy flying fingers light. 
Beyond each mortal touch the most refined. 
The god of winds drew sounds of deep delight: 
Whence, with just cause, The Harp of ^olus it 
hight. 

Ah me ! what hand can touch the strings, so 

fine ! 
Who up the lofty diapason roll 
Such sweet, such sad, such solemn airs divine, 
Then let them down again into the soull 
Now rising love they fann'd ; now pleasing dole 
They breathed in tender musings through the 

heart; 
And now a graver sacred strain they stole. 
As when seraphic hands an hymn impart : 
Wild-warbling nature all, above the reach of art ! 

Such the gay splendour, the luxurious state, 
Of Caliphs old, who on the Tigris' shore, 
In n)ighty Bagdat, populous and great, 
Held their bright court, where was of ladies 

store : 
And verse, love, music, still the garland wore: 
When sleep was coy, the bard in waiting there, 
Cheer'd the lone midnight with the Muse's lore: 
Composing music bade his dreams be fair. 
And music lent new gladness to the morning air. 

Near the pavilions where we slept still ran 
Soft-tinkling streams, and dashing waters fell, 
And sobbing breezes sigh'd, and oft began 
(So work'd the. wizard) wintry storms to swell. 
As heaven and earth they would together mell: 
At doors and windows, threatening seem'd to 

call 
The demons of the tempest, growling fell. 
Yet the least entrance found they none at all: 
Whence sweeter grew our sleep, secure in massy 
hall. 

And hither Morpheus sent his kindest dreams, 
Raising a world of gayer tinct and grace ; 
O'er which were shadowy cast Eiysian gleams. 
That play'd in waving lifjhts, from place to place, 
And shed a roseate smile on nature's face. 
Not Titian's pencil e'er could so array, 
So fleece with clouds the pure etherial space; 
Ne could it e'er such melting forms display. 
As loose on flowery beds all languishingly lay. 



No, fair illusions ! artful phantoms, no ! 
My Muse will not attempt your fairy-land ; 
She has no colours that like you can glow : 
To catch your vivid scenes too gross her hand. 
But sure it is, was ne'er a subtler band 
Than these same guileful angel-seeming sprites. 
Who thus in dreams, voluptuous, soft, and bland, 
Pour'd all th' Arabian heaven upon her nights. 
And bless'd them oft besides with more refined 
delights. 

They were in sooth a most enchanting train, 
Even feigning virtue; skilful to unite 
With evil good, and strew with pleasure pain. 
But for those fiends, whom blood and broils 

delight; 
Who hurl the wretch, as if to hell outright, 
Down, down black gulfs, where sullen waters 

sleep. 
Or hold him clambering all the fearful night 
On beetling cliffs, or pent in ruins deep ; 
They, till due time should serve, were bid far 

hence to keep. 

Ye guardian spirits, to whom man is dear. 
From these foul demons shield the midnight 

gloom : 
Angels of fancy and of love, be near, 
And o'er the blank of sleep difl'use a bloom: 
Evoke the sacred shades of Greece and Rome, 
And let them virtue with a look itnpart: 
But chief, awhile, O! lend us from the tomb 
Those long-lost friends for whom in love we smart. 
And fill with pious awe and joy, mixt woe the heart. 

Or are you sportive — bid the morn of youth 
Rise to new light, and beam afresh the days 
Of innocence, simplicity, and truth ; 
To cares estranged, and manhood's thorny ways. 
What transport to retrace our boyish plays. 
Our easy bliss, when each thing joy supplied; 
The woods, the mountains, and the warbLng maze 
Of the wild brooks ! — But fondly wandering wide, 
My Muse, resume the task that yet doth thee abide. 

One great amusement of our household was. 
In a huge crystal magic globe to spy. 
Still as you turn'd it, all things that do pass 
Upon this ant-hill earth ; where constantly 
Of idly-busy men the restless fry 
Run bustling to and fro with foolish haste. 
In search of pleasures vain that from them fly. 
Or which obtain'd, the caitiffs dare not taste : 
When nothing is enjoy'd, can there be greater 



« Of vanity the mirror" this was call'd. 
Here you a muckworm of the town might see. 
At his dull desk, amid his legers stall'd, 
Eat up with carking care and penurie;' 
Most like to carcase parch'd on gallow-tree. 
"A penny saved is a penny got;" 
Firm to this scoundrel ma.xim keepeth he, 
Ne of its rigour will he bate a jot. 
Till it has quench'd his fire, and banished hi*- pot. 



JAMES THOMSON. 



455 



Straight from the filth of this low grub, behold! 
Comes fluttering forth a gaudy spendthrift heir, 
All glossy gay, enamell'd all with gold, 
The silly tenant of the summer-air. 
In folly lost, of nothing takes he care. 
Pimps, lawyers, stewards, harlots, flatterers vile, 
And thieving tradesmen him among them share: 
His father's ghost from limbo-lake the while. 
Sees this, which more damnation doth upon him 
pile. 

This globe portray'd the race of learned men. 
Still at their books, and turning o'er the page, 
Backward and forward: oft they snatch the pen, 
As if inspired, and in a Thespian rage; 
Then write and blot, as would your ruth engage. 
Why, authors, all this scrawl and scribbling sorel 
To lose the present, gain the future age : 
Praised to be when you can hear no more, 
And much enrich'd with fame, when useless 
worldly store. 

Then would a splendid city rise to view. 
With carts and cars, and coaches roaring all : 
Wide pour'd abroad behold the giddy crew ; 
See how they dash along from wall to wall! 
At every door, hark, how they thundering call! 
Good Lord ! what can this giddy rout excite 1 
Why, on each other with fell tooth to fall ; 
A neighbour's fortune, fame, or peace, to blight. 
And make new tiresome parties for the coming 
night. 

The puzzling sons of party next appear'd, 
In dark cabals and nightly juntos met; [rear'd 
And now they whisper'd close, now shrugging 
Th' important shoulder; then, as if to get 
New light, their twinkling eyes were inward set. 
No sooner Lucifer recalls aifairs. 
Than forth they various rush in mighty fret; 
When, lo! push'd up to power, and crown'd 
their cares. 
In comes another set, and kicketh them down 
stairs. 

But what most show'd the vanity of life. 
Was to behold the nations all on fire. 
In cruel broils engaged, and deadly strife: 
Most Christian kings, inflamed by black desire. 
With honourable ruffians in their hire. 
Cause war to rage, and blood around to pour: 
Of this sad work when each begins to tire, 
They sit them down just where they were before, 
Till for new scenes of woe peace shall their force 
restore. 

To number up the thousands dwelling here, 
An useless were, and eke an endless task; 
From kings, and those who at the helm appear, 
To gipsies brown in summer-glades who bask. 
Yea, many a man perdie I could unmask. 
Whose desk and table make a solemn show. 
With tape-tied trash, and suits of fools that ask 
For place or pension laid in decent row; 
But these I passen by, with nameless numbers moe. 



Of all the gentle tenants of the place. 
There was a man of special grave remark :* 
A certain tender gloom o'erspread his face, 
Pensive, not sad, in thought involved, not dark. 
As soot this man could sing as morning-lark. 
And teach the noblest morals of the heart: 
But these his talents were yburied stark ; 
Of the fine stores he nothing would impart, 
Which or boon Nature gave, or nature-painting 
Art. 

To noontide shades incontinent he ran. 
Where purls the brook with sleep-inviting 

sound ; 
Or when Dan Sol to slope his wheels began. 
Amid the broom he bask'd him on the ground, 
Where the wild thyme and camomile are found : 
There would he linger, till the latest ray 
Of light sat trembling on the welkin's bound ; 
Then homeward through the twilight shadows 

stray. 
Sauntering and slow. So had he passed many 

a day. 

Yet not in thoughtless slumber were they pass'd: 

For oft the heavenly fire, that lay conceal'd 

Beneath the sleeping embers, mounted fast, 

And all its native light anew reveal'd: 

Oft as he traversed the cerulean field, 

And mark'd the clouds that drove before the 

wind. 
Ten thousand glorious systems would he build. 
Ten thousand great ideas fiU'd his mind ; 
But with the clouds they fled, and left no trace 
behind. 

With him was sometimes join'd, in silent walk 
(Profoundly silent, for they never spoke,) 
One shyer still, who quite detested talk : 
Oft, stung by spleen, at once away he broke. 
To groves of pine, and broad o'ershadowing oak , 
There, inly thrill'd, he wander'd all alone ; 
And on himself his pensive fury wroke, 
Ne ever utter'd word, save when first shone 
The ghttering star of eve — " Thank heaven ! the 
day is done."f 

Here lurk'd a wretch, who had not crept abroad 
For forty years, ne face of mortal seen ; 
In chamber brooding like a loathly toad : 
And sure his linen was not very clean. 
Through secret loop-holes, that had practised 

been 
Near to his bed, his dinner vile he took ; 
Unkempt, and rough, of squalid face and mien. 
Our castle's shame ! whence, from his filthy nook. 
We drove the villain out for fitter lair to look. 

One day there chaunced into these halls to rove 
A joyous youth.J who took you at first sight ; 



[* Patterson, the poet's friend, and the author of Ai 
miniu^i, a trageJy.] 

[t r»r. Armstron..'.] 

[I Young John Forbes of Culloden, the only son of Dun- 
can Forbes.J 



i'-.e 



JAMES THOMSON. 



Him the wild wave of pleasure hither drove, 
Before the sprightly tempest tossing light : 
Certes, he was a most engaging wight, 
Of social glee, and wit humane, though keen, 
Turning the night to day, and day to night: 
For him the merry bells had rung, I ween. 
If in this nook of quiet, bells had ever been. 

But not even pleasure to excess is good : 
What most elates then sinks the soul as low: 
When spring-tide joy pours in with copious 

flood, 
The higher still th' exulting billows flow, 
The farther back again they flagging go, 
And leave us groveling on the dreary shore : 
Taught by this son of joy we found it so; 
W'ho, whilst he staid, kept in a gay uproar 
Our madden'd castle all, th' abode of sleep no more. 

As when in prime of June a burnish'd fly. 
Sprung from the meads, o'er which he sweeps 

along, 
Cheer'd by the breathing bloom and vital sky. 
Tunes up amid these airy halls his song. 
Soothing at first the gay reposing throng : 
And oft he sips their bowl ; or, nearly drown'd, 
He, thence recovering, drives their bed^ among, 
And scares their tender sleep, with trump pro- 
found ; 
Then out again he flies, to wing his mazy found. 

Another guest there was,* of sense refined. 
Who felt each worth, for every worth he had ; 
Serene, yet warm ; humane, yet firm his mind, 
As little touch'd as any man's with bad ; 
Him through their inmost walks the Muses lad, 
To him the sacred love of nature lent. 
And sometimes would he make our valley glad ; 
When as we found he would not here be pent, 
To him the better sort this friendly message sent. 

" Come, dwell with us, true son of virtue, come ! 
But if, alas! we cannot thee persuade. 
To lie content beneath our peaceful dome, 
Ne ever more to quit our quiet glade ; 
Yet when at last thy toils but ill apaid 
Shall dead thy fire, and damp its heavenly spark, 
Thou wilt be glad to seek the rural shade, 
There to indulge the Muse, and nature mark: 
We then a lodge for thee will rear in Hagley- 
Park." 

Here whilom ligg'd th' Esopus of the age ;t 
But caird by Fame, in soul ypricked deep, 
A noble pride restored him to the stage, 
And roused him like a giant from his sleep. 
Even from his slumbers we advantage reap: 
With double force th' enliven'd scene he wakes 
Yet quits not natures bounds. He knows to keep 
Each due decorum : now the heart he shakes. 
And now. with well-urged sense, th' enlighten'd 
judgment takes. 

r* Lord LyttlBtou.] 

[t Quin, whom a quarrel with Garrick had driven tem- 
porarily off the stage.] 



A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems ;J 
Who, void of envy, guile, and lust of gain. 
On virtue still, and nature's pleasing themes, 
Pour'd forth his unpremeditated strain: 
The world forsaking with a calm disdain, 
Here laugh'd he careless in his easy seat ; 
Here quaft'd encircled with the joyous train, 
Oft moralizing sage; his ditty sweet 
He loathed much to write, ne cared to repeat. 

Full oft by holy feet our ground wa.s trod. 
Of clerks great plenty here you mote espy. 
A little, round, fat, oily man of God, § 
Was one I chiefly mark'd among the fry : 
He had a roguish twinkle in his eye. 
And shone all glittering with ungodly dew. 
If a tight damsel chaunced to trippen by ; 
Which when observed, he shrunk into his mew, 
And straight w6uld recollect his piety anew. 

Nor be forgot a tribe who minded nought 
(Old inmates of the place) but state aflairs : 
They look'd, perdie, as if they deeply thought; 
And on their brow sat eve'ry nation's cares. 
The world by them is parcell'd out in shares. 
When in the hall of smoke they congress hold, 
And the sage berry sun-burnt Mocha bears 
Has clear'd their inward eye : then,smoke-enroird. 
Their oracles break forth mysterious as of old. 

Here languid beauty kept her pale-faced court : 
Bevies of dainty dames, of high degree. 
From every quarter hither made resort : [free, 
W^here, from gross mortal care and business 
They lay, pour'd out in ease and luxury. 
Or should they a vain show of work assume, 
Alas ! and well-a-day ! what can it be ? 
To knot, to twist, to range the vernal bloom ; 
But far is cast the distafl'. spinning-wheel, and loom. 

Their only labour was to kill the time ; 
And labour dire it is, and weary woe. 
They sit, they loll, turn o'er some idle rhyme ; 
Then, rising sudden, to the glass they go, 
Or saunter forth, with tottering step and slow. 
This soon too rude an exercise they find ; 
Straight on the couch their limbs again they throw. 
W'here hours and hours they sighing lie reclined, 
And court the vapoury god soft-breathing in the 
wind. 

Now must I mark the villainy we found. 
But ah ! too late, as shall eftaoons be shown. 
A place here was, deep, dreary, under ground ; 
Wherestill our inmates, when unpleasing grown. 
Diseased, and loathsome, privily were thrown ; 
Far from the light of heaven, they languish'il there, 
Unpity'd, uttering many a bitter groan ; 
For of these wretches taken was no care : [were. 
Fierce fiends, and hags of hell, their only nurses 



[X Thomson himself. This stanza was written by Lord 
Ljttleton.] 

[§ The Rev. Patrick Murdoch, the poet's fiieud and 
hiographer. His sleek, rosy vi.sage, and roguish eyp, arc 
preserved on canvas at CuIlodeu.J 



JAMES THOMSON. 



457 



Alas! the change! from scenes of joy and rest* 
To this dark den, where sickness toss'd alway. 
Here Lethargy, with deadly sleep oppress'd, 
Stre^ch'd on his back, a mighty lubbard, lay, 
Heaving his sides, and snored night and day ; 
To stir him from his traunce it was not eath, 
And his half-open'd eyne he shut straightway; 
He led, I wot, the softest way to death, 
And taught withouten pain and strife to yield the 
breath. 

Of limK? enormous, but withal unsound, 
Soft, swuln and pale, here lay the Hydropsy : 
Unwieldy man ; with belly monstrous round, 
For ever fed with watery supply ; 
For still he drank, and yet he still was dry. 
And moping here did Hypochondria sit,t 
Mother of spleen, in robes of various dye, 
Who vexed was full oft with ugly fit ; 
And some her frantic deem'd, and some her deem'd 
a wit. 

A lady proud she was, of ancient Ijlood, 
Yet oft her fear her pride made crouchen low; 
She felt, or fancy'd in her fluttering mood. 
All the diseases which the spittles know, 
And sought all physic which the shops bestow. 
And still new leeches and new drugs would try, 
Her humour ever wavering to and fro ; [cry, 
For sometimes she would laugh, and sometimes 
Then sudden waxed wroth, and all she knew not 
why. 

Fast by her side a listless maiden pined. 
With aching head, and squeamish heart-burn- 
ings ; 
Pale, bloated, cold, she seem'd to hate mankind, 
Yet loved in secret all forbidden things. 
And here the tertian shakes his chilling wings; 
The sleepless gout here counts the crowing cocks, 
A wolf now gnaws him, now a serpent stings; 
Whilst apoplexy cram m'd intemperance knocks 
Down to the ground at once, as butcher fellethox. 



TO FOKTUNE. 

Fob, ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove 
An unrelenting foe to love, 
And when we meet a mutual heart. 
Come in between, and bid us part. 



[* The four last verses were written by Armstrong at 
Thomson's desire. Thomson, however, mude a few verbal 
iilterations.] 
[t la Armstrong and in the first edition of the poem : 
And here a moping mystery did sit,] 
08 



Bid us sigh on from day to day. 
And wish, and wish the soul away; 
Till youth and genial years are flown. 
And all the life of love is gone ! 

But busy, busy still art thou, 
To bind the loveless, joyless vow. 
The heart from pleasure to delude, 
And join the gentle to the rude. 

For pomp and noise, and senseless show, 
To make us Nature's joys forego. 
Beneath a gay dominion groan, 
And put the golden fetter on ! 

For once, Fortune, hear my prayer, 
And I absolve thy future care ; 
All other blessings I resign. 
Make but the dear Amanda mine. 



ETJLE, BRITANNIA! 

When Britain first, at Heaven's command. 

Arose from out the azure main, 
This was the charter of her land. 

And guardian angels sung this strain : 
"Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, 
Britons never will be slaves !" 

The nations, not so bless'd as thee. 
Must, in their turns, to tyrants fall ; 

While thou shall flourish great and free. 
The dread and envy of them all. 

Still more majestic shall thou rise, 

More dreadful from each foreign stroke: 

As the loud blast that tears the skies, 
Serves but to root thy native oak. 

These haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame: 
All their attempts to bend thee down 

Will but arouse thy generous flame ; 
But work their woe and thy renown. 

To thee belongs the rural reign ; 

Thy cities shall with commerce shine ; 
All thine shall be the subject main: 

And every shore it circles thine. 

The Muses, still with freedom found, 

Shall to thy happy coast repair : 
Bless'd isle! with matchless beauty crown'd, 
And manly hearts to guard the fair: 
"Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, 
Britons never will be slaves !" 

no 



AMBROSE PHILIPS. 



[Born, 1671, Died, 1749.] 



Ambkose Philips, the pastoral rival of Pope, 
was educated at Cambridge, and distinguished 
for many years in London as a member of clubs 
witty and political, and as a writer for the 
Whigs.* By the influence of that party he was 
put into the commission of the peace soon after 
the accession of George I., and, in 1717, was 
appointed one of the commissioners of the lot- 
tery. When his friend Dr. Boulter was ap- 
pointed primate of Ireland, he accompanied the 



prelate, received 'considerable preferments, and 
was elected member for Armagh in the Irish 
Commons. He returned to England in the 
year 1748, and died in the following year, at 
his lodgings near Vauxhall. The best of his 
dramatic writings is the Distrest Mother, a trans- 
lation of Racine's Andromache. His two other 
tragedies, the Briton, and Humphrey Duke of 
Gloucester, are not much better than his pasto- 
rals. 



TO THE EAKL OF DORSET.f 

Copenhagen, March 9, 1709. 

From frozen climes, apd endless tracts of snow, 
From streams which northern winds forbid to flow, 
What present shall the Muse to Dorset bring, 
Or how, so near the pole, attempt to sing 1 
The hoary winter here conceals from sight 
All pleasing objects which to verse invite. 
The hills and dales, and the delightful woods. 
The flowery plains, and silver-streaming floods, 
By snow disguised, in bright confusion lie. 
And with one dazzling waste fatigue the eye. 

No gentle breathing breeze prepares the spring. 
No birds within the desert region sing. 
The ships, unmoved, the boisterous winds defy, 
While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly. 
The vast leviathan wants room to play, 
And spout his waters in the face of day. 
The starving wolves along the main sea prowl, 
And to the moon in icy valleys howl. 
O'er many a shining league the level main 
Here spreads itself into a glassy plain: 
There solid billows of enormous size, 
Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise. 

And yet but lately have I seen, even here, 
The winter in a lovely dress appear. 
Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasured snow, 
Or winds begun through hazy skies to blow. 
At evening a keen eastern breeze arose. 
And the descending rain unsullied froze. 
Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew, 
The ruddy morn dicslosed at once to view 
The face of nature in a rich disguise. 
And brighten'd every object to my eyes : 
For every shrub, and every blade of grass. 
And every pointed thorn, seemed wrought in glass : 
In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show. 
While through the ice the crimson berries glow. 
The thick-sprung reeds, which watery marshes 
Seem'd polish'd lances in a hostile field, [yield. 



[* The Freethinker, in which A. Philips wrote, began 
its career on Monday, March 24, ITlS, was iniblishud 
twice a week, atd terminated with the 159, h pi.per, Mon- 
day. September -Zhth., 1719. Dr. Drake fpeaks in praise of 
its easy and perspicuous diction, and thinks a very iute- 
458 



The stag, in limpid currents, with surprise, 
Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise : 
The spreading oak, the beech, and towering pine, 
Glazed over, in the freezing ether shine. 
The frighted birds the rattling branches shun. 
Which wave and glitter in the distant sun. 

When if a sudden gust of wind arise. 
The brittle forest into atoms flies, 
The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends 
And in a spangled shower the prospect ends: 
Or, if a southern gale the region warm, 
And by degrees unbind the wintry charm. 
The traveller a miry country sees. 
And journeys sad beneath the drooping trees: 
Like some deluded peasant, Merlin leads 
Through fragrant bowers, and through delicious 

meads. 
While here enchanted gardens to him rise, 
And airy fabrics there attract his eyes, 
His wandering feet the magic paths pursue. 
And, while he thinks the fair illusion true. 
The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air. 
And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear, 
A tedious road the weary wretch returns, 
And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns. 



A HYMN TO VENUS. 

FROM THE GREEK OF SAPPHO. 

Venus, Beauty of the skies. 

To whom a thousand templ«s rise. 

Gaily false in gentle smiles. 

Full of love-perplexing wiles, 

O goddess ! from my heart remove 

The wasting cares and pains of love. 

If ever thou hast kindly heard 
A song in soft distress preferr'd. 
Propitious to my tuneful vow, 
0, gentle goddess, hear me now. 



resting selection might be made from it. — Essay on Pe- 
riodical Pajiers.] 

[t The opening of this poem is incomparably fine. The 
latter part is tedious and trifling. — Goldsmith.] 



ISAAC WATTS. 



459 



Descend, thou bright immortal guest, 
In all thy radiant charms confess'd. 

Thou once didst leave almighty Jove, 
And all the golden roofs above : 
The car thy wanton sparrows drew ; 
Hovering in air they lightly flew; 
As to my bower they wingM their way, 
I saw their quivering pinions play. 

The birds dismiss'd (while you remain) 
Bore back their empty car again : 
Then you, with looks divinely mild. 
In every heavenly feature smiled, 
And ask'd what new complaints I made, 
And why I called you to my aid] 

What frenzy in my bosom raged, 
And by what ca-e to be assuaged 1 
What gentle youth I would allure. 
Whom in my artful toils secure 1 
Who does thy tender heart subdue. 
Tell me, my Sappho, tell me who 1 

Though now he shuns thy longing arms, 
He soon shall court thy slighted charms; 
Though now thy offerings he despise. 
He soon to thee shall sacrifice; 
Though now he freeze, he soon shall burn. 
And be thy victim in his turn. 



Celestial visitant, once more, 
Thy needful presence I implore! 
In pity come and ease my grief, 
Bring my distemper'd soul relief: 
Favour thy suppliant's hidden fires. 
And give me all my heart desires. 



A FRAGMENT OF SAPPHO. 

Bless'd as the immortal gods is he, 
The youth who fondly sits by thee, 
And hears and sees thee all the while 
Softly speak and sweetly smile. 

'Twas this deprived my soul of rest, 
And raised such tumults in my breast; 
For while I gazed, in transport toss'd. 
My breath was gone, my voice was lost. 

My bosom glow'd : the subtle flame 
Ran quickly through my vital frame; 
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung. 
My ears with hollow murmurs rung. 

In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd. 
My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd; 
My feeble pulse forgot to play, 
I fainted, sunk, and died away.* 



ISAAC WATTS. 



[Born, 1671. Died, 1718.] 



Dr. Watts's devotional poetry was for the 
most part intentionally lowered to the under- 
standing of children. If this was a sacrifice of 
taste, it was at least made to the best of inten- 
tions. The sense and sincerity of his prose 
writin°^s, the excellent method in which he at- 
tempted to connect the study of ancient logic 
with common sense, and the conciliatory manner 
in which he allures the youthful mind to habits 
of study and reflection, are probably remembered 
with gratitude by nine men out of ten, who have 
had proper books put into their hands at an early 
period of their education. Of this description 
was not poor old Percival Stockdale, who in one 



of his lucubrations gives our author the appella- 
tion of '• Mo her Walts." The nickname would 
not be worth mentioning if it did not suggest a 
compassionate reflection on the difference between 
the useful life and labours of Dr. Watts, and the 
utterly useless and wasted existence of Percival 
Stockdale. It might have been happy for the 
frail intellects of that unfortunate man, if they 
had been braced and rectified in his youth by 
such works as Watts's Logic and Improvement 
of the Mind. The study of them might pos- 
sibly have saved even him from a life of vanity, 
vexation, and oblivion."!" 



FEW HAPPY MATCHES. 
Say, mighty love, and teach my song. 
To whom thy sweetest joys belong. 

And who the happy pairs 
Whose yielding hearts and joining hands, 
Find blessings twisted with their bands. 

To soften all their cares. 

[* Joseph Warton tliinkg that Aclclit on lent a helping 
ii:in(l to Philips in these tnins'a'ions, He was fond of 
rcndenng sur-h a^si-tiiuce, iinil ni:iy have done so; liut 
it is idle to indulge in conjectures and plausible per- 
liapies.] 



Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains 
That thoughtless fly into thy chains. 

As custom leads the way ; 
If there be bliss without design, 
Ivies and oaks may grow and twine, 

And be as blest as they. 



[•j- Of Watts"s pietry one can praise the desijfn but not 
tha execution, though Cowper professed to find excellent 
poetry in his vori-e. The author of the Olney Hymns, 
which are about tlie level of Watts's, may be pardoned 
for such natural blindness.] 



460 LEONARD WELSTED. 


Not sordid souls of earthly mould 


As well may heavenly concerts sprmg 


Who drawn by kindred charms of gold 


From two old lutes with ne'er a string. 


To dull embraces move ; 


Or none besides the bass. 


So two rich mountains of Peru 




May rush to wealthy marriage too, 


Nor can the soft enchantments hold 


And make a world of love. 


Two jarring souls of angry mould. 




The rugged and the keen : 


Not the mad tribe that hell inspires 


Samson's young foxes might as well 


With wanton flames; those raging fires 


In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell, 


The purer bliss destroy ; 


With firebrands tied between. 


On ^Etna's top let furies wed, 




And sheets of lightning dress the bed 


Nor let the cruel fetters bind 


T' improve the burning joy. 


A gentle to a savage mind ; 




For love abhors the sight: 


Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms 


Loose the fierce tiger from the deer, 


None of the melting passions warms, 


For native rage and native fear 


Can mingle hearts and hands: 


Rise and forbid delight. 


Logs of green wood that quench the coals 




Are married just like Stoic souls. 


Two kindest souls alone must meet. 


With osiers for their bands. 


'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet, 




And feeds their mutual loves: 


Not minds of melancholy strain. 


Bright Venus on her rolling throne 


Still silent, or that still complain, 


Is drawn by gentlest birds alone. 


Can the dear bondage bless : 


And Cupids yoke the doves. 


LEONARD 


WELSTED. 


[Born, 1688. 


Died, 1746-7.) 


Leonard Welsted, a victim of Pope's satire, whose verses did not always deserve it. 




And Rome in ashes lay.— What after thati 
Waste India's realms.— What then"! Then sit 


FROM HIS " SUMMUM BOXUJI." 


Smile, my Hephestion, smile, no more be seen 


and chat; 


This dupe to anger, and tlvis slave to spleen ; 


Then quaff the grape, and mirthful stories tell. — 


No more with pain ambition's trappings view; 


Sir, you may do so now, and full as well. 


Nor envy the false greatness, nor the true. 


Look through but common life, look o'er man- 


Let dull St. Bevil dream o'er felons' fates. 


kind, 


Bright Winnington in senates lead debates. 


A thousand humbler madmen there you'll find; 


Vain Bulbo let the sheriff's robe adorn, 


A thousand heroes of Epirus view ; 


And Holies* wake to bless the times unborn. 


Then scorn to beat this hackney d path anew. 


* * * * 


In search of fancied good forget to roam, 


The palm excels that trembles o'er the brooks, 


Nor wander from your safer, better home. 


The bastard rose not half so gaudy looks. 


* * * * 


The myrrh is worth, that scents Arabia's sky, 


See Heartgood, how he tugs for empty praise ; 


An hundred gourds, yet rises not, so high. 


He's got the vine, yet scrambles for the bays: 


This not disturbs you, nor your bliss alloys. 


A friendly neighbour born, his vain desire 


Then why should fortune's, sports and human 


Prompts him to get a little cubit higher; 


toys 1 


When all unvex'd, untroubled, he might live. 


What is't to us if Clod the self-same day 


And all that nature ask'd, his farm would give. 


Trolls in the gilded car and drives the dray 1 


Colvilleand Madge one field, one cow possess'd. 


If Richvil for a Roman patriot pass. 


Had dwelt unanxious many years and blest; 


And half the livery vote for Isinglass? 


A quiet conscience, and their neighbours' praise 


With grateful mind let's use the given hour. 


They held — It was in Friar Bacon's days. 


And what's our own enjoy and in our power. 


No thief alarm'd the lowly cottage roof. 


To his great chiefs the conqueror Pyrrhus spoke. 


And pride and base contention kept aloof. 


Two moons shall wane, and Greece shall own our 


At length the rumour all about was flown 


yoke. 


They monk had found the philosophic stone. 


'Tis wey, replied the friend ; admit it so. 


Quoth Colville, be 't— in comfort, peace we live, 


What next 1 Why next to Italy I'll go, 


For his arcanum not a hair I'll give ; 




To me all wealth contentment does impart, 
I have this chemic secret in my heart. 


[* Welsted's great patron, the Duke of Kewcastle.] 



AMHURST SELDEN. 461 


Let Munich bow the haughty Othman crest, 
Among my humble teams I'll be as blest; 
liCt the great Schach o'er trembling Ganges ride, 
I'll boast more conquests by my chimney side. 
What post you stand in, trust me, my Hephestion, 
The part you bear in life is not the question ; 
But how you act it, how your station grace, 
There is the matter; that's the point in case. 
All one if peer or pedlar you sustain, 
A laurel'd victor be or shepherd swain ; 
For social weal alike each state was made, 
And every caUing meant the others' aid; 
Together all in mystic numbers roll, 
All in their order act, and serve the whole, 
Who guard the laws, or bid the orchat bloom. 
Who wield the sceptre, and who guide the loom. 

* * * _ * 

An easy and contented mind is all, 
On whom and where it will let glory fall; 
Let us the soul in even balance bear, 
Content with what we have and what we are. 

* * * * 

On rapt'rous visions long had Berkley fed, 
The lemon groves were ever in his head ; 


He hangs on Waller,* and the landscape aids, 
Sees in Bermuda blooming Ida's shades. 

'Tis said— 'tis done — the project quick prevails ; 
He gets the promised freight — he weds — he sails. 
The storms loud rattle, but on storms he smiles, 
They will but waft me to Bermuda's isles. 
At length the port he gains, when all his dreams 
He vanish'd views, and owns the airy schemes: 
The orange branch had lost its fragrant load, 
The cedar waved not, nor the citron blow'd ; 
In Eden's stead he sees a desert stand, 
For figs and vines a poor unpeopled land ; 
For balmy breezes, and for cloudless skies, 
He hears around the whistling tempest rise. 
And is this all ] said the good Dean of Down, 
Is this the end, my hope and labour's crown 1 
Too blest the swain o'er Ormond's flowery 

dales 
Who roves at ease, or sleeps in Derry's vales. 
Henceforth I'll gratulate my native shore. 
In search of bright delusions range no more, 
Content to be, to cure this rambhng itch, 
An humble Bishop, and but barely rich. 


AMHURSI 

Of the. history of this author I am sorry that I 
can give no account. His poem of Love and Folly 
was published in April, 1749. It seemed to me 
to be somewhat better than that which is generally 


' SELDEN. 

condemned to oblivion. If the extracts should 
appear to be tedious, the only apology I can offer 
is, the difficulty of making short specimens of a 
story at all intelligible. 


LOVE AXD FOLLY. 

ARRAIGNMENT AND TRIAL OF CUPID. 

The gods, in senate to debate, 
And settle high affairs of state, 
Where vast Olympus' summits rise, 
Descended from the azure skies: 
As their great sire and lord revered, 
Their cloud-compelling Jove, appear'd ; . 
Calm in his lap the thunders lay, 
The symbols of imperial sway, 
While Heaven's high power sat round the throne, 
And deck'd it like a splendid zone : 
There Juno and the Paphian Queen, 
The Graces in their train, were seen; 
Amidst her father's radiant race, 
Th(! chaste Diana took her place; 
Without his helmet, sword, or car, 
There frown'd the haughty God of War; 
There joyous smiled the God of Wine, 
With numbers more of birth divine; 
Metis, who prudent counsels guides, 
And o'er the letter'd world presides; 
Themis, who Heaven's dread laws attends, 
And Truth's deserted cause defends; 
Sage Vesta through the earth renown'd, 
And Cybele with turrets crown'd ; 


Neptune, the Ocean's awful lord ; 
Pluto, by Hell's dark realms adored; 
Pan, to whose altars shepherds bow ; 
Ceres, inventress of the plough; 
And last sat down old gay Silenus, 
With Vulcan, spouse and slave to Venus. 

Grand was the pomp, for thither all 
Attended on the Thunderer's call; 
The heavene themselves were in a blaze ; 
Phcebus was there, bedeck'd with rays. 
Yet scarcely, though he look'd so bright, 
Was seen 'midst such a flood of light, 
Where each with beams celestial shone, 
Beyond the splendour of the sun; 
Together by great Jove convened. 
To hear the God of Love arraign'd. 
Solemn the session, high the cause. 
For Love had broke through all their laws, 
And made the deities obey, 
As vassals, his tyrannic sway ; 
Enslaved, they dragg'd his galling chain, 
And mourn'd his power, but mourn'd in vain. 
Kindling his flames in every breast, 
He never gave th' immortals rest, 


[* Waller's poem on the Summer Iglands-l 
2o2 



But, fond their weakness to expose. 
Involved them in a thousand woes. 
While Jove's despised omnipotence 
Against his arts found no defence. 

This haughty treatment had o'erthrown 
Their empire, though it raised his own ; 
For, with his all-subduing bow, 
He sunk their power and lame so low, 
And, ever since his fatal birth, 
Ruled so supreme o'er heaven and earth, 
That mortals now to Cupid paid 
The chief oblations which they made, 
And slighting every name above. 
Adored no other god but Love. 

Besides, to men of worth and sense 
His shameless conduct gave offence: 
He drank, he wench'd, he gamed, he swore, 
His life with crimes was blotted o'er; 
He scorn'd good Hymen's sacred ties. 
And made a trade of vows and lies; 
Fair Virtue's praise, and honour'd fame. 
He laugh'd at as an empty name ; 
By which example all the nations 
Lay quite exposed to great temptations, 
And, doating on their lewd amours, 
Had turn'd Religion out of doors. 

* * * 
Silence proclaim'd, th' assessors wait. 
Anxious for Love's impending fate, 
When Themis, watching Dian's eyes, 
Straight to th' etherial court applies, 
And, like intrepid Yorke,* demands 
Impartial justice at their hands; 
That no mean bias warp their hearts 
To Cupid's treacherous charms and arts, 
While they, by long establish'd laws, 
Decide the great approaching cause; 
That on their votes depended all 
Which they could dear or sacred call ; 

In heav'n their peace, on earth their fame. 
Their endless glory or their shame ; 
That e'en their temples, priests, and power, 
Hung on this one decisive hour. 

* * * 
Therefore, in right and truth's support, 
She humbly moved a rule of court, 
That Hermes might his prisoner bring 
Before his peers and Heaven's high King, 
To hear, by their decree, his crimes 
('ondemn'd to late succeeding times, 
And heaven and earth at once set free 
From such a traitor's tyranny. 

High Jove, who on th' imperial throne. 
Sceptred and throned, was placed alone. 
Looks awful round th' assenting gods, 
Shakes his ambro?ial curls, and nods. 

Straight Hermes, at his sire's command. 
His wreath'd caducous in his hand, 
From his close ward the caititf brings, 
With hands unbound, but pinion'd wings: 
While at his back his bow, unstrung. 
Tied to his feather'd quiver hung. 



f* The Lord High Chancellor.] 



By Dian's order Momus bore 
The mace, and solemn stalk'd before; 
When Hermes, with obeisance low, 
Show'd to the gods their daring foe: 
But such a foe, so wond'rous fair. 
Each grace of Venus in his air. 

* * * 
So bloom'd his ever youthful years. 
So moving were his silent tears. 

That half heaven's powers, with all their zeal, 
Some tender pangs began to feel, 
Lest such a god, indulging all 
Their pleasures, should unpitied fall. 
And turning things from bad to worse. 
Make imortality a curse. 

Venus, who saw them much amazed. 
While piteous on his form they gazed, 
Straight pray'd the court with humble pray'r, 
Her son might be allow'd a chair, 
Who was infirm, and scarce had slept 

One hour since Jove She paused and wept; 

The God seem'd moved, and though he guess'd 

Her foes the motion would contest. 

Glad their mean malice to prevent, 

Nods from the throne his kind assent; 

As jurors, whom the world believes 

Great rogues, oft sit on petty thieves. 

He knew some led amidst the sky, 

Worse lives than him they were to try ; 

And, loth poor love to treat too ill, 

Grants him a seat against their will. 

Thus loU'd at ease the little thief. 
When Dian rose, and from her brief 
Show'd, with just truth and cogent reason. 
Why she impeach'd him there of treason. 
« * * 

Before you comes arraign'd 
A wretch that has our shrines profaned, 
That basely labours to o'erthrow 
Our bliss above, our power below. 

* * * ■ 

Shall Heav'n alone 
Calm see this wretch its Gods disown, 
And bear the scorn with which he treats 
The rulers of these sacred seats] 
Apollo's bow, and Neptune's trident, 
He tramples on, and takes a pride in't; 
Ev'n Mars, who leads the radiant files 
Of war, is vanijuish'd by his wiles; 
From Bacchus he his tliyrsis wrests. 
And of his bolts high Jove divests; 
From Hermes charms the magic rod, 
And strips of all his wings the God; 
Pluto to him, and Proserpine, 
Were forced their empire to resign, 
And, humbled, found infernal fires 
Less violent than Love's desires: 
These crimes are vouch'd by flagrant facts, 
And treason by an hundred acts. 
* * * 

These are his deeds above ; on earth 
What mischiefs owe to him their birth! 
There, while his frantic slaves he tames, 
His rage the sufl'ering world inflames ; 



AMHURST SELDEN 46b 


He shoots around his fatal darts, 


I trust my greatest fault will be. 


To rack and torture all their hearts ; 


Their bliss was not proiong'd by me. 


The base deceiver there eludes 


Whilst absence, fate, or time control 


The vestal vows, the prayers of prudes ; 


That noblest passion of the soul, 


E'en those weak souls he deigns to bless, 


Let each Celestial here declare 


He strives with anguish Jo distress ; 


If aught like Love deserves their care. 


He triumphs o'er the racking pain 


* * * 


In which his vassals drag his chain ; 


What joys can match fond lovers' pains. 


Fear, joy, grief, hope, desire, despair, 


What freedom's equal to their chains ! 


By turns their wretched bosoms tear. 


What transports swell their hopes and fears, 


* * * 


What softness, sweetness, in their tears ! 


Frequent divides the dearest friends, 


Such tenderness, when fond they mourn, 


And breaks all laws to gain his ends ; 


Such ecstasy when hopes return; 


Rapes, murders, treasons, he commits, 


Such longing for th' enchanting bliss, 


False, true, kind, cruel, all by fits : 


Such raptures in a smile or kiss, 


Various and changing as the wind, 


Are secrets which the gods conceal. 


He parts whom Hymen's rites had join'd; 


And none but lovers know or feel. 


And whispers in the husband's ears 


If joys like these you treason callj / 
I own I have produced them all : *■■ 


A thousand cruel doubts and fears, 


For strife and mischief are his joy. 


Contrived and plann'd by me alone. 


Such, Venus, is your lovely boy ! 


The great foundation of my throne; 


Who, though he boasts that Jove's high blood 


And hard, great Deities, it were. 


Rolls in his veins its sacred flood, 


If mortal men such bliss should share, 


Yet has his mother's milk o'erflown 


And yet th' eternal choir above 


The tide, and made the mass her own. 

y^ * * 


Be quite denied the sweets of Love. 

* * * 
In heaven, on earth, above, below. 


Quick let the wretch his sins atone, 


And Jove at last resume his throne ! 


Whate'er is pleasing I bestow. 


Doom, doom him 'midst the shades below, 


* * * 


To shoot his darts and bend his bow ; 


Old Time and all the laughing hours, 


There let him labour to destroy 


Watch o'er my gifts and nurse my powers ; 


The little peace the damn'd enjoy. 


Mirth, Joy. and all th' inspired throng 


She ceased : while half the powers around 


Of Muses, tune for me their song ; 


Assented first with sighs profound. 


And if they fan my fires, I bring 


Then with her generous ardour moved. 


Sweetness and force to all they sing. 


A loud applause her zeal approved. 


* * * 


» * * 


Men's talents raised by me improve, 


Straight, Cupid, rising from his place, 


For wisdom springs and grows with Love; 


Smiled placid with enchanting grace ; 


By me adorn'd, the human mind 


Silent he paused, and to the skies. 


Is soften'd, polish'd, and refined. 


Though blushing, raised his beauteous eyes, 


* * * 


Tlien sigh'd, and round the radiant crowd, 


I melt and mould mankind with ease, 


Saluting, with respect he bow'd: 


To gentle manners form'd to please ; 


One coward tear was stealing down, 


A love of honour, truth, and fame. 


But quick he check'd it with a frown; 


Are kindled by my generous flame; 


And whde with matchless charms he shone. 


Sublimed by me, the soul pursues 


Thus to the court his plea begun. 


Exalted thoughts and noble views. 


'Tis said that Love, whene'er he pleads, 


Life lies as in a lethargy. 


With easy eloquence succeeds: 


Till, roused and raised, it turns to me; 


But that, ye powers, I'll never try. 


Till Love enliv'ning thoughts inspires. 


Nor on vain rhetoric rely ; 


Has neither business nor desires, 


'Tis by the force of truth I come 


Or such as only torment give. 


To strike my false accusers dumb. 


Men when they love begin to live. 


* * * 


Life's a dull blank, and useless quite. 


To dear integrity I trust, 


As dials in the gloom of night, 


As I am guiltless, you are just; 


Till Love's gay sun its splendour pours. 


While that I make my sole defence, 


And marks and gilds the brighten'd hours. 


I laugh at envy's impotence. 


* * * 


* * * 


These gifts, ye powers, from you I hold. 


Let those (and those, I hope, are few,) 


By your decree assign'd of old : 


Let those who ne'er his treasures knew, 


'Tis your behests I strive to do, 


Brand with all crimes unhappy Love, 


Then why must I for mercy sue. 


He's better known to you and Jove. 


At this high court impeach'd, and brought 


And if I've made the Gods employ. 


To answer for each lover's fault 1 


Some days in that transcendant joy. 


* * * 



464 



AMHURST SELDEN. 



If raaids to men inconstant prove, 
And scorn the sacred laws of Love, 
Charge not their broken vows to me, 
But their own horrid perfidy. 

* * * 

Must I be doom'd, if human kind 
In love disclose an impious mind 1 
With oaths, and death, and falsehood play, 
Whilst perjured vows the heart betray. 
If Heaven's despised — if all their aim 
Be wealth or lust — am I to blame] 
No, mighty powers! you know too well. 
In spite of heaven, in spite of hell, 
Of slighted love and reason too, 
And all that pitying Love can do, 
Men, to indulge their passions prone, 
Owe to themselves their crimes alone. 

Yet, cruel gods, if you decree 
To spare mankind and punish me; 
If I must be their victim made, 
I am not for myself afraid. 
But for the woes my wretched fate 
Will soon in either world create: 
While heaven and earth my fall o'erturns, 
And nature my destruction mourns. 
For what can stand, if Love contemn'd 
To shades infernal be cond^mn'd 1 
Yet since your gloomy frowns declare 
My only refuge is despair. 
Not thus to leave you all in woe. 
Take this last boon before I go ; 
Take it, and feeling Love's sweet pain, 
Ere you condemn me think again." 
He spoke, and secret cast his darts, 
Snatch'd from his quiver, at their hearts. 

* * * 
Upsprung the gods, with wounds distress'd ; 
Jove had a dozen in his breast. 

* * * • 
Mars lost an eye, and Bacchus two; 
Hermes, the god of Eloquence, 

Had his tongue sliced, and ever since 

An oratory has declined 

To noise, phrase, figures, words, and wind. 

* * * 

Never in heaven was such a scene. 

* * * 
While all with troubled hearts debate, 
How the dear rebel they should treat. 

* * * 
Their rage soft pity straight controls, 

And wav'ring thoughts distract their souls. 

This Venus guess'd, and soon begun 

To hope she might retrieve her son. 

While tears rolTd down her crimson'd cheeks. 

And her swell'd heart with anguish breaks. 

* * * 

" Oh hear, and spare my beauteous son. 
Or Venus — nay, the world's undone. 
Alas ! I would not, cannot hide 
His weakness, rashness, spleen, or pride. 
I see the faults I can't defend, 
Which oft I've fondly strove to mend; 
And had restored his lame and bliss 
Long since, but that he keeps a Miss, 



On whom, poor boy, he doats to rage, 
So much her charms his soul engage. 

* * * 

This nymph, on whom I said he doats. 
He loved when in his petticoats ; 
She's called Moria, thoifgh you know 
Folly's her fav'rite name below : 
The creature's handsome, and, indeed. 
Has beauties which all praise exceed ; 
And yet this nymph, possess'd of charms 
To tempt a Phoebus to her arms. 
Is still so giddy, wild, and weak, 
Half idiot, half coquet and rake; 
Is such a rattle, such a romp. 
So fond of cards, tea-tattle, pomp, 
Of feasts, balls, visits, drums, and park, 
And little frolics in the dark, 
That as with willing dotage sway'd. 
Love's ruled by this deluding maid; 
'Tis plain by her, and her alone. 
The glory of my son's o'erthrown. 
She sets him on a world of freaks. 
She makes him herd with cheats and rakes ; 
She brings him into brawls and scrapes. 
And mischief in a thousand shapes; 
And what's the most perplexing thought. 
Keeps him from settling as he ought. 
Till he was led by her, my boy 
Gave me and every being joy. 

* * * 
Now fool'd by her, he acts a part 

That shocks all heaven, and breaks my heart. 

* * * 

The cause thus shown of his ill carriage, 
Next comes the cure — in short, 'tis marriage. 
There is a Goddess sitting there, 
That might reclaim him by her care ; 
And, with her pardon, I must name 
Sage Metis, that transcendant dame. 
Whose aid the gods sometimes implore, 
And men by Wisdom's name adore." 
Up blush'd good Metis to the eyes, 
But shovv'd more pleasui-e than surprise: 
Joy, mix'd with wonder, secret stole 
Warm'd to her heart, and fill'd her soul; 
Some virgin fears about her hung. 
While modest shame tied up her tongue; 
Yet silent all her thoughts were seen. 
And glad went on the Paphian Queen. 

* * * 
" This sweet adviser, thus assign'd, 
Will make him wise, and form his mind. 

* * * 
Send, send them with me home ; my car 
Will hold us all, and 'tis not far : 

And happy may their nuptials be 

To gods and men, to them and me." 

She ceased * * 

* The relenting senate vow'd 

Her profi'er'd terms should be allow'd. 

As the best method to reform 

Her son, and calm the present storm ; 

So pitying much her hapless state, 

Pass'd her petition on debate, 



AMHURST SELDEN. 



While Love and WisJom gave their hands, 
And vow'd to join in Hymen's bands. 



Preparations in Cyprus for the marriage of Cupid and 
Metis ; iiis froward conduct, and relapse into tlie domi- 
nion of Folly. 



This Cyprus found: where all the swrains 
Rejoiced around her fertile plains, 
Metis and Love to meet, who came 
To join true wisdom with his flame: 
Young girls, old maidens, widows, wives, 
Were ne'er more jocund in their lives, 
Finding the god no more distress'd, 
And with so sage a tut'ress bless'd. 
Would lead a married life unblamed. 
* * * , 

Making the subject world perceive, 
What blessings Love and prudence give. 

Large were the preparations made, 
For Venus understood her trade. 
To make her palace wond'rous fine. 
And crown their nuptials and design ; 
Sage Metis, like a girl of sense. 
Would fain have saved the vast expense : 
But Venus, who affected show, 
Scorn'd management as vile and low. 

* * * 

" And as for mgney, I can seize. 
From mj' rich temples, what I please ; 
There, my gold statues I'll purloin. 
And turn them all to ready coin." 
So said, so done : from Cnidos four 
She took, from Cyprus many more ; 
Expending such a mint of gold 
As scarce all Lombard-street could hold : 
And as for each new-fashion'd thing 
Her mind was ever on the wing. 
Her wit and money she employs. 
Like high bred dames, to purchase toys ; 
For pomp her passion to display. 
Fond she postponed the wedding-day ; 
Crowds of artificers were brought. 
And night and day incessant wrought; 
Mahogany laid all her floors. 
Gold locks and hinges deck'd her doors ; 
With Indian screens and China jars. 
Her house was graced, like heaven with stars. 

Although she never read or pray'd, 
She forin'd a study for parade ; 
And a fine chapel, near her stairs, 
Was placed for nothing else but airs. 
Round the vast dome a corridore 
By the best hands was painted o'er ; 
Through all th' apartments Parian stone 
In columns and in friezes shone ; 
In splendid utensils profuse, 
Chased vessels served for common use ; 
As taste and luxury never plann'd 
Saloons so fine, or rooms so grand, 
59 



So all, from top to bottom seen, 

Look'd great, and like the Paphian Queen. 

But * * * 

* * 'midst this state hid sorrows, sprung 
From Cupid's pranks, o'er Metis hung; 
For though she saw all things agreed. 
The house set out, and lawyer's fee'd 
For drawing up the deeds of dower. 
For hastening Hymen's happy hour. 
She knew not what to think on't still. 
The God behaved himself so ill. 

* * * 
Besides, as through the smallest hole 
Men spy the day-light, so the soul, 
In every little habitude. 

With penetrating eye she view'd, 

And saw appearances at least. 

Which all her anxious doubts increased. 

Oft when the lover's part he play'd. 

His looks a soul unmoved betray'd : 

For, when he courted her, the wretch 

Would yawn, and sigh, and gape, and stretch ; 

And what the Goddess scarce could bear. 

Would call her wise, but never fair. 

In temper giddy as a child. 

He fawn'd and quarrel'd, frovvn'd and smiled ; 

This day all ice, the next he burns, 

Like agues, hot and cold by turns. 

Now dress'd like country squires and plain. 

He'd ride about in dirt and rain ; 

And as a proof of unfeign'd loving. 

Put on the husband and the sloven : 

Then, all those boorish whims abhorr'd, 

He'd go as fine as any lord : 

Grown fond of Metis to excess. 

Would prove his passion by his dress; 

And proud to show his love and clothes. 

Swear over all his vows and oaths ; 

Then tired of that, he'd quite forsake 

The Goddess, and affect the rake ; 

And fond of girls, and wine, and play, 

Would scarce speak to her twice a day : 

So fickle, that no weather-glass 

Could through more variations pass. 

* * * 
In short, his conduct was so bad. 

That grave good people thought him mad. 

And mad he was as any hare 

In March, while grieved he sought his fair ; 

For whom the wretch was all this while 

Scouring by night the Cyprian isle, 

Where, of the Goddesses afraid, , 

He heard they hid his charming maid.* 

Venus, poor soul, now storm'd, now wept. 

To get him in some order kept, 

And took the truant oft aside. 

And urged how much he shock'd his bride. 

* * «• 
Then she would mingle bitter taunts 
About his uncles and his aunts. 
And beg he would not thus disgrace 
Himself and his celestial race. 



■ Moria.] 



466 AMHURSl 


SELDEN. 




But lead a life like one that knew 


The heavenly pair, while clarions sound. 




What was to them and Metis due. 


With blessings hail'd, with glory crown'd, 




Thus things went on : poor Venus rail'd, 


* * * 




He promised to grow good — and fail'd. 


In state approach the temple's gates. 




And when slie told him of his Miss, 


Where half the Cyprian nation waits. 




He laugh'd and stopt her with a kiss : 


Till the high-priest their hands should tie 




He own'd he liked the nymph, but swore 


In bands which time and death defy. 




He liked as well a thousand more ; 


The gates unfold, they enter in, 




Yet hoped when married he should fix, 


And soon the hallow'd rites begin ; 




And lay aside his rambling tricks. 


With hallow'd fires the altars blaze, 




Thus with false prattle he amused 


The priest the bellowing victim slays; 




The Goddess, and her faith abused. 


The hymn to Juno while he spoke. 




* * * 


The nuptial cake in form was broke.: 




For Love, like many a senseless elf, 


But oh, amazing ! as their hands 




Thought his best counsellor himself. 


Were joining in the nuptial bands. 




But all this while a secret fear 


As Love prepared to give the ring. 




Was buzzing Metis in the ear, 


And the high-priest began to sing, 




What ways or measures she should take : 


Forth sprung Moria from the crowd. 




She loved the God, but loathed the rake. 


And, bold, forbade the banns aloud : 




For though his person pleased the eye. 


"The God is mine, is mine," she cries. 




His actions gave his looks the lie : 


"Both by divine and human ties. 




When like a friend she blamed his pranks, 


* * * 




She found she got but little thanks; 


By solemn oaths our hearts are knit. 




For spite of all her wise discourse. 


Two hearts that best each other fit. 




The little wretch show'd no remorse ; 


Speak, Cupid, art thou mine alone 1 




Would vow her ignorance and zeal 


Speak, and thy fond Moria own : 




Struck fire, when join'd, like flint and steel. 


This infant which I go with claims, 




* * * 


You'll vow it sprung from heavenly flames." 




Frequent he'd answer all she said 


Instant, enchanted with her face. 




With, " Pray, no chiding till we're wed ; 


Rush'd Cupid to her loved embrace; 




Or, prythee do not think me rude, 


Ravish'd to meet her, and amazed. 




To tell you plainly you're a prude: 


Upon her witching charms he gazed. 




Directing me looks something odd — 


And cried, "Bright nymph, I'm wholly thine, 




If you're a Goddess, I'm a God." 


And you, and only you, are mine." 




The truth is, Metis, though so wise. 


The pontiff stared, and dropped his book. 




Was much addicted to advise; 


* * * 




No pedant more inclined to teach. 


Dismay'd stood Venus— to the skies 




No deacon better pleased to preach. 


She held her hands and raised her eyes; 




* * * 


Sunk Wisdom to the earth forlorn. 




This talk of Metis and his mother 


Her soul with struggling passions torn ; 




Went in at one ear, out at t'other. 


And pierced with grief, and stung with pride, 




* * * 


The false perfidious God she eyed ; 




Yet though his heart, where'er he went. 


Then fainting with disdain away. 




Was on his bright Moria bent, 


Closed her grieved eyes and loathed the day. 




He seldom fail'd his court to pay 


Meanwhile, neglectful of their woes. 




To prudent Metis, day by day. 


Love with triumphant Folly goes, 




* * * 


Drawn by his mother's cooing doves, 




At length the happy morn appears 


To sunny Caria's citron groves. 




To crown the long revolving years, 


* * * 




Assign'd to join their plighted hands 


Ravish'd that Metis could not curb 




For ever in the nuptial bands; 


Their dotage, or their peace disturb. 




And sums immense were thrown away 


* ■ * * 




To grarie the triumph of the day. 


Meantime poor Metis kept her bed. 




* * * 


Much troubled with an aching head ; 




Their silk, their lace, their modes of dress. 


And as she never was a toast, 




We leave for courtly dames to guess; 


Look'd pale and meagre as a ghost : 




In robes how Venus gorgeous shone. 


Though strong, too weak to ward the blow ; 




And all bedizen'd out her son ; 


Though sage, too fond to slight the wo: 




How his grave bride with gems look'd bright. 


Love proud, like death, to level all, 




As stars adorn a frosty night, 


The wise like fools before him fall. 




The song omits — for it would tire 


* * * 




Bright Cowley's wit, great Shakspeare's fire. 


Venus, who still sat near her, press'd 




* * * 


Her head upon her snowy breast; 




Giaced with bright rays which shone afar. 


She kiss'd away the tears she shed. 




Sested with Venus in her car, 


With her own hands she dress'd her bed; 





AMHURST SELDEN. 



467 



She brought her cordials, made her tea 
Of the best hyson or bohea ; 
To drive away each fretful thought, 
She told what news the papers brought ; 
Whate'er in heaven or earth was done, 
She told, but never named her son. 
Ambrosia was her daily fare, 
With nectar'd drams to doze despair; 
She managed her with great address, 
Made her play cards, backgammon, chess. 
She got her out, and every morn 
Around the skies would take a turn, 
To try, while in their ear they flew, 
What air and exercise might do. 
Whene'er her pain relax'd, she vow'd 
No cure was like a brilliant crowd: 
So, in the eve of each good day, 
Coax'd her abroad to see the play. 
Thus, like fine belles, she idly sought, 
By vain delights to banish thought. 

» * * 

Her head she dress'd, her hair she curl'd, 
And made her visit half the world. 

* * * 

In short, she was in perfect pain 
The fair to comfort — but in vain. 



Venus despatches a messenger to remonstrate with Cupid, 
and to brinj; him ba jk tj W isdom. 

Swift through the air Irene pass'd, 
And finds deluded love at last, 
Gazing on Folly's beauteous face, 
Feasting his eyes on every grace, 
And thunders in his ears a peal 
Of bold plain truths, with honest zeal : 
Tells him the dreadful news she brings, 
And the plain consequence of things; 
Show'd all his mother's letters to him, 
And vow'd Moria would undo him ; 
Said twice as much as Venus bid her, 
And begg'd of Cupid to consider, 
How his vile pranks and broken vows 
Would Jove's insulted vengeance rouse; 
Then adding threats, vow'd o'er and o'er, 
The Gods would be deceived no more : 
In short, she made his conduct look 
So black, like aspen leaves he shook. 



FROM CANTO IV. 

Folly, after the departure of Irene, holds a long dialogue 
with Love, in which she avirues her own superiority 
over Wi d m. and the beneficial intluence which she 
exercises in the world, pretty much in the manner of 
Eias-mus's I'rai-e of Ko'.ly. She ferceives, however, 
that Cupid is so sadly terrified by the threats lately 
held out to him, that her empire over him is still in 
danger. 

Intranced in sleep while Cupid lies, 

And downy slumbers seal his eyes, 
* * * 

Distracting cares Moria's breast 
Disturb'd, and banish'd balmy rest; 
She saw her charmer's fluttering heart 
Was almost on the wing to part. 



She doubted fear might banish love, 
As frights will ague-fits remove. 

* * * 

Rack'd with despair, she rose and walk'd, 
And wildly to herself she talk'd. 

* * * 
Till roused at last her deluged eyes, 
Charm'd with a great design she tries: 
Flush'd with the thought, she wings her flight 
To the dun goddess of the Night: 

She found her on a mountain's side, 
Where rocks her palace portals hide ; 
Walls of thick mist its precincts close. 
No groves, lodge, cawing rooks, or crows, 
But solemn Silence, still as Death, 
Lay slumbering on th' extended heath: 
Old Nature built it under ground. 
Shut from the day, remote from sound; 
Its outstretch'd columns arch'd inclose 
Vast voids devoted to repose, 
Form'd of huge caverns so obscure, 
As 'twere of light the sepulture. 

* * * ' 
Stretch'd on her couch the Queen she found, 
Her head with wreaths of poppy crown'd. 
Each sense dissolved in soft repose. 

* * * 
While storms of grief her bosom swell. 
Prostrate the nymph before her fell. 
And thus the slothful power addrcss'd : 

" Wake, Night's great Goddess, give me rest, 

Assist your child — my birth I owe 

To you and Erebus below ;* 

With millions made to me a prey, 

I've throng'd the gloomy realms you sway; 

Yet Love, who gods and men deceives, 

Moria soon perfidious leaves; 

Unless your skill divine can find 

Some means to keep him true and kind." 

* * * 

* * Slow the yawning Goddess sighs. 
And, half asleep, with pain replies* 
"As I saw Love was false as fair. 
Know, child, I made your peace my care: 
While fond to fix his fickle heart, 
I've form'd this masterpiece of art: 
Here, take this phial, which I've fiU'd 
With oils from female tears distill'd. 

* * * 
Warm'd with your sighs, bedew it round 
His eye-lids, seal'd in trance profound. 
And by loved Erebus I swear. 

The God your chains shall raptured wear: 
Haste, use it — leave me to my rest." 
She sunk, with dozing fumes oppress'd. 

* * * 

So quick as airy Fancy flies. 
Or beamy light shoots round the skies, 
To Cupid's couch she wings her way, 
Where, sunk in sleep, the dreamer lay; 

[* Erebus, the i f^rnal (Uity, w;is married to Nox, the 
goddc' s, a-^ all my hologis s a^ree; and even Ciiero tens 
us this is hi- od iuuk i.f the N.-iture of ihe Goils. 'IMiis 
marriage prodicid a cro.vd of h vrrid cliildren, such a.' 
Deceit, Fear. l<abour, Knvy, and many others, among whom 
Folly is set down as one.J 



468 



AAIHURST SELDEN. 



Warin'J with her sighs, the oil, in rills, 
Soft round his eye-lids she distils, 
Then unperceived to bed she stole. 
While joys enraptured swell'd her soul. 

Wake, wretched Cupid, haste, arise, 
Or never shall thy radiant eyes 
Nature's fair face again survey, 
Or the bright sun's delightful ray; 
For by the mawic arts of Night 
Folly will roll thee of thy sight, 
And by mad fondness, undesign'd. 
Will make thee senseless, dark, and blind. 

And now the virgin Light had rear'd 
Her head, and o'er the mountains peer'd, 
When Folly, glad her grand design 
Was near the springing, like a mine, 
Impatient for the great event 
Of her dread mother's liniment. 
Drew the bed-curtains, wild with joy, 
To rouse the soul-subduing boy. 
And cried, " Awake, my dear, the sun 
Already has its course begun ; 
Whole nature smiles, while thus we use 
The morn, fresh bathed in limpid dews." 

Pleased he awakes; his ears rejoice 
To hear her sweet bewitching voice, 
And, fond, to see her turn'd his eyes, 
But, starting, found, with deep surprise, 
Though in their own warm melting rain 
He bathed and rubb'd them long in vain : 
Their powers of vision die away, 
While dimm'd, nor conscious of the day , 
Fruitless they roll their shining orbs. 
Which the dark gloom of night absorbs. 

" O Heaven !" he cries, " the Gods, I find, 
The cruel Gods, have struck me blind; 
Or rather Metis, in despite, 
Has by some art destroy 'd my sight. 

* * * 
Fair charmer, I no more shall see 

The sun, nor, what's more cruel, thee." 

* * * 
Stood fond Moria quite distress'd, 

She clapt her hands, she smote her breast ; 
She sighs, * * 

* * sinks down, and, cold as clay, 
Kisses his feet, and faints away. 

* * * 
At length her pulse begun to beat. 
And life renews its genial heat; 
Her heaving lungs expanded play. 
Again her eyes behold the day. 

" Bright charmer!" cries the God, "your grief 
Distracts, oui gives me no relief; 
Try to assist me : quick arise. 
And couch this film which veils my eyes : 
Here, take this dart, raze off, with care. 
This speck, and lay the pupil bare." 

While grief and shame her face o'erspread. 

Upon her knee she lean'd his head; 

Then points. the dart, and with her hands 

The crystal rooted film expands ; 

But oh ! the rack was so intense. 

So twinged the nerve, and shock'd the sense. 



He begg'd her, yelling with despair, 
The fruitless torture to forbear. 

* * * 

Withal the little subtle dart 

Quick through his eye so pierced hii 

Enkindling there such raging fires ; 



heart, 



They made the God his nymph adore, 
And, fond to dotage, love her more. 
His pain abates, but this fresh flame 
So shoots into his vital frame, 

* * * 

He, drunk with love and joy, forgets 
His blindness and his mother's threats. 
"My life !" says he, " I here discard 
For this distress the least regard: 
Methinks I feel my flames renew ; 
My life's not only yours — but you; 
While, like a graft fed by the tree, 
I live absorb'd and sunk in thee. 

* * * 

Lend me your hand ; a God shall bear, 
Unmoved those woes which mortals share. 
Yes! since the evil I endure 
Is past thy art and mine to cure, 
Thou now o'er me and men shalt reign. 

* * * 

Unchanged as fate, the world shall find, 
While Folly's faithful, I'll be kind; 
And ages yet unborn shall see 
How firm my soul is link'd to thee." 

* * * 

Thus the gay hours delightful fly. 

Till Folly's own good hour draws nigh. 

When, twinged and pain'd, her labour came, 

She sends for many a Carian dame; 

By great Lucina's help and theirs. 

To ease the burthen which she bears. 

Great was her danger ; for the fright 

She took when Cupid lost his sight. 

And the dread horror of her crime, 

Had made her come before her time: 

Yet blest with what she thought a treasure, 

A girl at last was born, call'd Pleasure, 

Of a weak, sickly, tender make. 

Tall, thin, and slender as a rake; 

So slight, it scarce would handling bear, 

Fainting in spite of Folly's care : 

For, as the sensitive plant, it seem'd 

To shrink at every touch, and scream'd 

Like mandrakes, when their tender shoots 

Are torn upwai;d by the roots. 

* * * 
Withal it had the loveliest face. 
With such enchanting mien and grace, 
No infant destined for a toast 

Could such a set of features boast. 

* * * 
Could Venus see it, they believed 
Her favour might be yet retrieved. 

Full of these views, their harness'd doves 
Bear them from Caria's fragrant groves, 
And though o'ertaken by the night, 
Safely near Paphos they alight; 



AMHURST SELDEN. 



469 



rhore, in a villa housed, they sent 
To Venus with a coiupliinent, 
On a gilt card, ill-spelt, and writ 
With modern cant and awkward wit. 
To tell her they were come to pay 
Their duty, and they hoped to stay. 



Venus, with much entreaty, permits her Son to intro;luce 
his Mistress aud Child to her. The sight of the beautiful 
infant Pleasure completes her reconci.emeut. As the 
apprehension of the Lovers, however, is not yet quieted 
respecting the anger of the Celestials, Venus appea'^es 
the lamentations of Folly, and prepares to set nut for 
Olympus, whither Metis had gone before to prefer her 
suit against her betrayer and her rival. 

* * * 
Venus distracted with their cries, 

* * * 
"Come, dry your tears," says she, "I'll try 
My interest yet in yonder sky : 

Make ready straight my car and doves ; 
Get on your riding-coats and gloves : 
Although my power may prove but faint, 
When weigh'd with Metis's complaint, 
And all my eloquence too weak. 
When injured Wisdom comes to speak, 
Yet these poor charms perhaps may plead 
With Jove, unless your doom's decreed." 

They reach'd, each storm and danger past, 
The mansions of the Gods at last. 

* * * 

Love's cause already was come on, 
And Metis had in form begun 
A huge philippic on her son. 
Alarm'd with this, in haste they dress'd, 
And Venus on her snowy breast 
The magic cestus secret placed, 
And walk'd, with heavenly glory graced. 
Love follow'd with his brilliant girl, 
TricU'd out with jewels, lace, and pearl ; 
Within her fost'ring arms coiivey'd. 
Pleasure her infant charms display'd ; 
When, all perfumed with civet, came 
Where Jove in judgment sat supreme ; 
There they heard Metis just concluding 
A long harangue of J^ove's eluding 
The powers above, and all the vows 
He swore, of making her his spouse. 



Venus, in reply to Metis, ndilre.<8ns Jove in her Son's behalf 
and pleads for permitliug Moiia to be his bride. 
* * . * 

She* ceased — the cestus did the rest, 
And roused soft pity in hisf breast : 
He sigh'd, and, with a pensive air. 
Saw Metis wise, and Folly fair ; 
And, secret, in his breast divine, 
Conceived a glorious great design. 

He paused : and thus each Hour that waits 
To guard high Heaven's resplendent gates, 



Bespoke, and, with a gracious mien. 
Shook his ambrosial curls serene. 

" ProcLiim a solemn banquet — call 
The Gods to our etherial hall. 
Where I'll promulgate a decree 
To bind both heaven, and earth, and me ; 
Where Love and Metis both shall own. 
Justice and mercy found my throne." 

* * * 

At once the swift-wing'd couriers rise. 
And sound a banquet through the skies; 
The Gotis the thunderer's call attend, 
And, pleased, the etherial hall ascend: 
As Jove, they heard, would now decide. 
Which lady should be Cupid's bride ; 
If Love would suit with Wisdom best, 
Or happier live in Folly blest. 

* * * 

Each, fond to hear the sentence past, 
To settle heaven and earth at last. 
Put on their gayest robe and face, 
The banquet and the God to grace. 

* * * 

The grand repasts of pompous kings. 
Compared to this, are sordid things. 

* * * 

Sat all the Deities elate, 

They ate and drank in golden plate. 

Wine cheers their hearts, yet, calm and cool, 
Each mused how Jove the cause would rule; 
And, when they took the cloth away, 
Watch'd the great business of the day. 
Straight Jove, all Heaven in silence hush'd. 
His will pronouncing, laugh'd and blush'd; 
And placing Folly at his side. 
Decrees her Cupid's fittest bride ; 
He shows his reasons, (but too long 
They would protract the fiithful song,) 
Then toasts her health ; the nectar'd bowl 
He gives her to enlarge her soul : 
She drank so deep, an air divine 
O'er all her features seem'd to shine. 

" That draught,"J says Jove, (and, pleased, h« 
smiled, 
Midst all his thunders, sweet and mUd,) 
"Has raised thee, fair Mpria, high 
As the bright daughters of the sky ; 
Thou'rt now immortal grown, and fit 
Great Love's embraces to admit: 
Together calm the frantic earth. 
Allay men's woes, augment their mirth; 
Sweeten their cares and let them see. 
If they're unbless'd, 'tis not from me." 
He joins their hands for endless ages. 
And bids them scorn censorious sages. 
" Let none," says Jove, " while thus they're tied. 
Sweet Folly and fond Love divide. 

* * * 
Accursed be his atrocious crime. 

Who parts you through the rounds of time; 



X Apuleius represents Jupiter (in his ^th book) making 
Psyche immortiil in this m inner, by making her diink out 
of the bowl whieh he renched to her 
2P 



470 WILLIAM CRAWFURD. 


And let fair Pleasure always be 


My chosen wife, whose counsels still 


Beloved by men, by gods, and me. 
Yet, prudent Metis, don't despair. 
For vhou art mine, by Styx I swear,* 


Shall rule my heart and guide my will, 


And with eternal charms control 


The fond aflections of my soul." 


WILLIAM CRAWFURD.f 


[Born, 1700? 


Died, 17507] 




That day she smiled, and made me glad, 


TWEEDSIDE. 


No maid seem'd ever kinder ; 


What beauties does Flora disclose ! 


I thought myself the luckiest lad, 


How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed ! 


So sweetly there to find her. 


Yet Mary's, still sweeter than those, 


I tried to soothe my amorous flame 


Both nature and fancy exceed. 


In words that I thought tender; 


Nor daisy, nor sweet-blushing rose, 


If more there pass'd, I'm not- to blame, 


Not all the gay flowers of the field. 


I meant not to oflend her. 


Not Tweed gliding gently through those, 




Such beauty and pleasure does yield. 


Yet now she scornful flees the plain, 




The fields we then frequented ; 


The warblers are heard in the grove. 


If e'er we meet, she shows disdain, 


The linnet, the lark, and the thrush, 


She looks as ne'er acquainted. 


The black-bird, and sweet-cooing dove, 

With music enchant every bush. 
Come, let us go forth to the mead. 


The bonny bush bloom'd fair in May, 

Its sweets I'll aye remember; 
But now her frowns make it decay, 


Let us see how the primroses spring; 


It fades as in December. 


We'll lodge in some village on Tweed, 




And love while the feather'd folks sing. 


Ye rural powers, who hear my strains. 


How does my love pass the long day 1 


Why thus should Peggy grieve mel 


Does Mary not tend a few sheep 1 


Oh ! make her partner in my pains, 


Do they never carelessly stray. 


Then let her smiles relieve me. 


While happily she lies asleep 1 


If not, my love will turn despair, 


Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest ; 


My passion no more tender, 


Kind nature indulging my bliss. 


I'll leave the bush aboon Traquair, 


To relieve the soft pains of my breast, 


To lonely wilds I'll wander. 


I'd steal an ambrosial kiss. 




'Tis she does the virgins excel. 




No beauty with her may compare: 


ON MRS. A. 11., AT A CONCERT. 


Love's graces around her do dwell ; 




She's fairest where thousands are fair. 


Look where my dear Hamilla smiles. 


Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray, 


Hamilla! heavenly charmer; 


Oh ! tell me at noon where they feed; 


See how with all their arts and wiles 


Shall I seek them on smooth-winding Tay 


The Loves and Graces arm her. 


Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed. 


A blush dwells glowing on her cheeks, 




Fair seats of youthful pleasures; 




There love in smiling language speaks. 






There spreads his rosy treasures. 


THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. 




Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain, 


fairest maid, I own thy power. 


I'll tell how Peggy grieves me : 


I gaze, I sigh, and languish, 


Though, thus I languish, thus complain, 


Yet ever, ever will adore, 


Alas ! she ne'er believes me. 


And triumph in my anguish. 


My vows and sighs, like silent air. 


But ease, charmer, ease my care. 


Unheeded never move her; 


And let my torments move thee; 


At the bonny bush aboon Traquair, 


As thou art fairest of the fair. 


'Twas there I first did love her. 


So I the dearest love thee. 


* The god Jess Metis, or W'ifdom. in Ilesiod's Theosonia, 


lie was alive in 1748. and ceitainl.v detd in 1758, havii.g 


is se*^ down as one of t)ie wives whom Jupiter married. — 


suffeied for many vears "the most torluriiig pains of Idly 


Vide Kat. Com. 1, 2, p. tO, ( ap. 2. 


1 wi.h an una terable cheerfulness of temper." ]t is said 


[^ A menhant in Olaszcw, one of the sweetest of onr 


that he was drowned (rosfing over from Franc . to Bcot 


'yrical writers, and one ottl;e insenious .young gentlemen 


lund, but this is very questionable.! 


that assisted Allan liamsay in his Tea Table Miscellany. 





AARON HILL. 



[Born, 1685. Died, 1750.] 



Was born in 1685, and died in the very minute 
of the earthquake of 1750, of the shock, of which, 
though speechless, he appeared to be sensible. 
His life was active, benevolent, and useful: he 
was the general friend of unfortunate genius, and 
his schemes for public utility were frustrated only 



by the narrowness of his circumstances. Though 
his mannerb were unassuming, his personal dig- 
nity was such, that he made Pope fairly ashamed 
of the attempt to insult him, and obliged the 
satirist to apologize to him with a mean equivo- 
cation. 



VERSES AVRITTEN WHEN ALONE IN AN INN AT 
SOUTHAMPTON. 
Twenty lost years have stolen their hours away, 
Since in this inn, even in this room, I lay: 
How changed ! what then was rapture, fire, 

and air. 
Seems now sad silence all and blank despair ! 
Is it that youth paints every view too bright. 
And, life advancing, fancy fades her light 1 
Ah, no! — nor yet is day so far declined. 
Nor can time's creeping coldness reach the mind. 

'Tis that I miss the inspirer of that youth ; 
Her, whose soft smile was love, whose soul was 

truth. 
Her, from whose pain I never wish'd relief, 
And for whose pleasure I could smile at grief. 
Prospects that, view'd with her, inspired before, 
Now seen without her can delight no more. 
Death snatch'd my joys, by cutting off her share. 
But left her griefs to multiply my care. 

Pensive and cold this room in each changed 

part 
I view, and shock'd, from ev'ry object start : 
There hung the watch, that beating hours fi-om 

day. 
Told its sweet owner's lessening life away. 
There her dear diamond taught the sash my 

name ; 
'Tis gone ! frail image of love, life, and fame. 
That glass she dress'd at, keeps her form no 

more; 
Not one dear footstep tunes th' unconscious floor. 
1 here sat she — yet those chairs no sense retain, 
And busy recollection smarts in vain. 
Sullen and dim, what faded scenes are here ! 
I wonder, and retract a starting tear, 
Gaze in attentive doubt — with anguish swell. 
And o'er and o'er on each weigh'd object dwell. 
Then to the window rush, gay views invite. 
And tempt idea to permit delight. 
But unimpressive, all in sorrow drown'd. 
One void forgetful desert glooms around. 
O life ! — deceitful lure of lost desires ! 
How short thy period, yet how fierce thy fires! 
Scarce can a passion start (we change so fast) 
Ere new lights strike us, and the old are past. 
Schemes following schemes, so long life's taste 

explore. 
That ere we learn to live, we live no more. 



Who then can think — yet sigh, to part with 

breath. 
Or shun the healing hand of friendly death 1 
Guilt, penitence, and wrongs, and pain, and 

strife, 
Form the whole heap'd amount, thou flatterer, 

life! 
Is it for this, that toss'd 'twixt hope and fear. 
Peace, by new shipwrecks, numbers each new 

year? 
Oh take me, death ! indulge desired repose. 
And draw thy silent curtain round my woes. 

Yet hold — one tender pang revokes that pray'i. 
Still there remains one claim to tax my care. 
Gone though she is, she left her soul behind. 
In four dear transcripts of her copied mind. 
They chain me down to life, new task supply. 
And leave me not at leisure yet to die ! 
Busied for them I yet forego release, 
And teach my wearied heart to wait for peace. 
But when their day breaks broad, I welcome 

night, 
Smile at discharge from care, and shut out 

light. 



ALEXIS, OR POPE. 

FROM A CAVEAT.* 

Tuneful Alexis, on the Thames' fair side, 
The ladies' plaything, and the Muses' pride ; 
With merit popular, with wit polite. 
Easy though vain; and elegant though light: 
Desiring and deserving others' praise. 
Poorly accepts a fame he ne'er repays ; 
Unborn to cherish, sneakingly approves. 
And wants the soul to spread the worth he loves. 
This, to the juniors of his tribe, gave pain. 
For mean minds praise but to be praised again. 
Henceforth, renouncing an ungracious Baal, 
His altars smoke not, and their offerings fail : 
The heat his scorn had raised, his pride inflamed. 
Till what they worshipp'd first they next defamed. 



[* These lines are in Hill's best manner, and excellent 
of themselves. lie makes his indiviJual ease, whii h is 
true enough, gf nerally true, which it is not: I'ope how- 
ever felt their stin^, and has left a writhe in writing. Hill 
cau!d hardly expect to receive what Prior and Thomson 
failed in finding — a return in kind for their poetic ">m- 
mendations.] 



471 



WILLIAM HAMILTON. 



[Born, 1704. Died, 1754.) 



"William Hamilton, of Bangour, was of an i 
ancient family in Ayrshire. He was liberally | 
educated, and his genius and delicate constitu- I 
tion seemed to mark him out for pacific pursuits 
alone ; but he thought fit to join the standard of 
rebellion in 1745, celebrated the momentary 
blaze of its success in an ode on the battle of 
Gladsmuir, and finally escaped to France, after 
much wandering and many hardships in the 
Highlands. He made his peace however with 
the government, and came home to take posses- 
sion of his paternal estate ; but the state of his 
health requiring a warmer climate, he returned 
to the Continent, where he continued to reside 



till a slow consumption carried him off at Lyons^ 
in his 50th year. 

The praise of elegance is all that can be given 
to his verses. In case any reader should be im- 
moderately touched with sympathy for his love 
sufferings, it is proper to inform him, that 
Hamilton was thought by the fair ones of his 
day to be a very inconstant swain. A Scotch 
lady, whom he teased with his addresses, applied 
to Home, the author of Douglas, for advice how 
to get rid of them. Home advised her to affect 
to favour his assiduities. She did so, and they 
were immediately withdrawn.* 



FEOJI "CONTEMPLATION; OR, THE TRIUMPH OF 
LOVE." 

VOICE divine whose heavenly strain 
No mortal measure may attain, 
powerful to appease the smart, 
That festers in a wounded heart. 
Whose mystic numbers can assuage 
The bosom of tumult'ous rage. 
Can strike the dagger from despair, 
And shut the watchful eye of care. 
Oft lured by thee, when wretches call, 
Hope comes, that cheers or softens all ; 
Expell'd by thee, and dispossest, 
Envy forsakes the human breast, 
J'ull oft with thee the bard retires, 
And lost to earth, to heaven aspires. 
How nobly lost! with thee to rove 
Through the long deep'ning solemn grove. 
Or underneath the moonlight pale. 
To silence trust some plaintive tale. 
Of nature's ills, and mankind's woes, 
While kings and all the proud repose ; 
Or where some hdly aged oak, 
A stranger to the woodman's stroke, 
From the high rock's aerial crown 
In twisting arches bending down. 
Bathes in the smooth pellucid stream, 
Full oft he waits the mystic dream 
Of mankind's joys right understood, 
And of the all-prevailing good. 
Go forth invoked, O voice divine ! 
And issue from thy sacred shrine. 

* * * 

* * Ascending heaven's height. 
Contemplation, take thy flight: 

Behold the sun, through heaven's wide space, 
Strong as a giant, run his race : 
Behold the moon exert her light, 
As blushing bride on her love-night- 
Behold the sister starry train, 
Her bridemaids, mount the azure plain. 
472 



See where the snows their treasures keep ; 
The chambers where the loud winds sleep ; 
Where the collected rains abide 
Till heaven set all its windows wide, 
Precipitate from high to pour 
And drown in violence of show'r: 
Or gently strain'd they wash the earth, 
And give the tender fruits a birth. 
See where thunder springs his mine; 
Where the paths of lightning shine. 
Or tired those heights still to pursue. 
From heaven descending with the dew. 
That soft impregns the youthful mead. 
Where thousand flowers exalt the head, 
Mark how nature's hand bestows 
Abundant grace on all that grows. 
Tinges, with pencil slow unseen, 
The grass that clothes the valley green; 
Or spreads the tulip's parted streaks. 
Or sanguine dyes the rose's cheeks, 
Or points with light Monimia's eyes. 
And forms her bosom's beauteous rise. 
Ah ! haunting spirit, art thou there ! 
Forbidden in these walks t' appear. 
I thought. O Love! thou wouldst disdain 
To mix with wisdom's black staid train ; 
But when my curious searching look 
A nice survey of nature took, 
Well pleased the matron set to show 
Her mistress-work, on earth below. 
Then fruitless knowledge turn aside, 
What other art remains untried 
This load of anguish to remove. 
And heal the cruel wounds of love 1 
To friendship's sacred force apj)ly. 
That source of tenderness and joy ; 
A joy no' anxious fears profane, 
A tenderness that feels no pain : 



[* It has not liitherto been noticed thut the first transla 
tion from Uumer ia blauk verse was made by ilumiUou.] 



Frieiii-lship shall all these ills appease, 
And give the tortured mourner ease. 
Th' indissoluble tie, that binds 
In equal chains two sister minds: 
Not such as servile int'rests choose. 
From partial ends and sordid views; 
Nor when the midnight banquet fires. 
The choice of wine-inflamed desires; 
When the short fellowships proceed, 
From casual mirth and wicked deed; 
Till the next morn estranges quite 
The partners of one guilty night; 
But such as judgment long has weigh'd, 
And years of faithfulness have tried ; 
Whose tender mind is framed to share 
The equal portion of my care; 
Whose thoughts my happiness employs 
Sincere, who triumphs in my joys ; 
With whom in raptures I may stray 
Through study's long and pathless way, 
Obscurely blest, in joys, alone, 
To the excluded world unknown. 
Forsook the weak fantastic train 
Of flatt'ry, mirth, all false and vain; 
On whose soft and gentle breast 
My weary soul may take her rest, 
While the still tender look and kind 
Fair springing from the sjjotless mind, 
My perfected delights insure 
To last immortal, free and pure. 
Grant, heaven, if heaven means bliss for me, 
Monimia such, and long may be. 
* * * 

Contemplation, baffled maid. 
Remains tliere yet no other aid! 
Helpless and weary must thou yield 
To love supreme in ev'ry field 1 
Let Melancholy last engage, 
Rev'rend, hoary-mantled sage. 
Sure, at his sable flag's display 
Love's idle troop will flit away : 
And bring with him his due compeer. 
Silence, sad, forlorn, and drear. 

Haste thee, Silence, haste and go, 
To search tiie gloomy world below. 
My trembling steps, O Sibyl, lead, 
Through the dominions of the dead: 
Where Care, enjoying soft repose, 
Lay^ down the burden of his woes ; 
Where meritorious Want no more 
Shiv'ring begs at Grandeur's door; 
Unconscious Grandeur, seal'd his eyes, 
On the mould'ring purple lies. 
In the dim and dreary round, 
Speech in eternal chains lies bound. 
And see a tomb, its gates display'd. 
Expands an everlasting shade. 
O ye inhabitants! that dwell 
Each forgotten in your cell. 
Oh say ! for whom of human race 
Has fate decreed this hiding-place? 

And hark! methinks a spirit calls. 
Low winds the whisper round the walls, 
A voice, the sluggish air that breaks. 
Solemn amid the silence speaks. 



Mistaken man, thou seek'st to know, 
What known will but afflict with wo; 
There thy Monimia shall abide, 
With the pale bridegroom rest a bride. 
The wan assistants there shall lay, 
In weeds of death, her beauteous clay. 
Oh words of woe! what do I hear] 
What sounds invade a lover's car? 
Must then thy charms, my anxious care, 
The fate of vulgar beauty share] 
Good heaven retard (for thine the power) 
The wheels of time, that roll the hour. 

Yet ah ! why swells my breast with fears'! 
Why start the interdicted tears ] 
Love, dost thou tempt again ] depart, 
'I'hou devil, cast out from my heart. 
Sad I forsook the feast, the ball. 
The sunny bower, and lofty hall. 
And sought the dungeon of despair; 
Yet thou overtak'st me there. 
How little dream'd I thee to find 
In this lone state of human kind ] 
Nor melancholy can prevail. 
The direful deed, nor dismal tale: 
Hoped I for these thou wouldst remove I 
How near akin is grief to love? 
Then no more I strive to shun 
Love's chains : O heaven ! thy will be done. 
The best physician here I find, 
To cure a sore diseased mind, 
For soon this venerable gloom 
Will yield a weary sufferer room; 
No more a slave to love decreed. 
At ease and free among the dead. 
Come then, ye tears, ne'er cease to flow, 
In full satiety of wo : 
Though now the maid my heart alarms, 
Severe and mighty in her charms, 
Doom'd to obey, in bondage prest. 
The tyrant's love commands unblest; 
Pass but some fleeting moments o'er. 
This rebel heart shall beat no more; 
Then from my dark and closing eye. 
The form beloved shall ever fly. 
The tyranny of love shall cease. 
Both laid down to sleep in peace; 
To share alike our mortal lot. 
Her beauties and my cares forgot. 



SONG. 



Ah the poor shepherd's mournful fate, 

When doom'd to love, and doom'd to languish 
To bear the scornful fair one's hate, 

Nor dare disclose his anguish. 
Yet eager looks and dying sighs, 

My secret soul discover ; 
While rapture trembling through mine eyes, 

Reveals how much I love her. 
The tender glance, the reddening cheek, 

O'erspread with rising blushes, 
A thousand various ways they speak 

A thousand various wishes. 
2Vi 



474 



GILBERT WEST. 



For oh ! that form so heavenly fair, 
Those languid eyes so sweetly smiling, 

That artless blush and modest air, 
So fatally beguiling ! 

The every look and every grace. 
So charm whene'er I view thee ; 



Till death o'ertake me in the chase, 
Still will my hopes pursue thee : 

Then when my tedious hours are past, 
Be this last blessing given, 

Low at thy feet to breathe my last, 
And die in sight of heaven. 



GILBERT WEST. 



[Born, 1706. Died, 1755.] 



The translator of Pindar was the son of the 
Rev. Dr. West, who published an edition of the 
same cl&ssic at Oxford. His mother was sister 
to Sir Richard Temple, afterward Lord Cobham. 
Though bred at Oxford with a view to the church, 
he embraced the military life for some time, but 
left it for the employment of Lord Townshend, 
then Secretary of State, with whom he accom- 
panied the king to Hanover. Through this in- 
terest he was appointed clerk extraordinary to 
the privy council, a situation which however was 



not immediately profitable. He married soon 
after, and retired to Wickham, in Kent, where 
his residence was often visited by Pitt and Lord 
Lyttleton. There he wrote his Observations on 
the Resurrection, for which the University of Ox- 
ford made him a doctor of laws. He succeeded 
at last to a lucrative clerkship of the privy coun- 
cil, and Mr. Pitt made him deputy-treasurer of 
Chelsea Hospital; but this accession to his for- 
tune came but a short time previous to his death, 
which was occasioned by a stroke of the palsy.* 



ALLEGORICAL DESCRIPTION OF VERTlJ. 

FROM "the abuse OP TRAVELUNG." 

So on he passed, till he comen hath 
To a small river, that full slow did glide, 
As it uneath mote find its watry path 
For stones and rubbish, that did choak its tide. 
So lay the mouldering piles on every side, 
Seem'd there a goodly city once had been, 
Albeit now fallen were her royal pride. 
Yet mote her ancient greatness still be seen. 
Still from her ruins proved the world's imperial 
queen. 

For the rich spoil of all the continents. 
The boast of art and nature there was brought, 
Corinthian brass, Egyptian monuments. 
With hieroglyphic sculptures all inwrought. 
And Parian marbles, by Greek artists taught 
To counterfeit the forms of heroes old, 
And set before the eye of sober thought 
Lycurgus, Homer, and Alcides bold. 
All these and many more that may not here be 
told. 

There in the middest of a ruin'd pile, 
That seem'd a theatre of circuit vast. 
Where thousands might be seated, he erewhile 
Discover'd hath an uncouth trophy placed ; 
Seem'd a huge heap of stone together cast 
In nice disorder and wild symmetry, 
Urns, broken friezes, statues half defaced, 
And pedestals with antique imagery 
Emboss'd, and pillars huge of costly porphyry. 



Aloft on this strange basis was ypight 
With girlonds gay adorn'd a golden chair, 
In which aye smiling with self-bred dehght, 
In careless pride reclined a lady fair, 
And to soft music lent her idle ear ; 
The which with pleasure so did her enthral, 
That for aught else she had but little care, 
For wealth, or fame, or honour feminal. 
Or gentle love, sole king of pleasures natural. 

A Is by her side in richest robes array 'd. 
An eunuch sate, of visage pale and dead. 
Unseemly paramour for royal maid ! 
Yet him she courted oft and honoured, 
And oft would by her place in princely sted. 
Though from the dregs of earth he springen were, 
And oft with regal crowns she deck'd his head. 
And oft, to soothe her vain and foolish ear. 
She bade him the great names of mighty Kesa'S 
bear. 

Thereto herself a pompous title bore. 
For she was vain of her great ancestry. 
But vainer still of that prodigious store 
Of arts and learning, which she vaunts to lio 
In the rich archives of her treasury. 
These she to strangers oftentimes would show. 
With grave demean and solemn vanity. 
Then proudly claim as to her merit due, 
The venerable praise and title of Vertu. 

[* That West had a yearly pension of two hundred and 
fifty pounds, is a fact new to our literary hiftciy. tioutliey 
has spoken cf him as the founder or ori>;inator of the 
spbool of Akenside, Mason, Gray, and the Wartons : '• His 
poems," says Coleridge, with far more justire, " hav-. the 
merit of chaste and manly diition : lut they are coid md, 
it I may so express it, only deaU-C'>louied.\ 



WILLIAM COLLINS. 



475 



Vertii she was yclept, and held her court 
With outward shows of pomp and majesty, 
To which natheless few others did resort, 
But men of base and vulgar industry. 
Or such perdy as of them cozen'd be. 
Mimes, fiddlers, pipers, eunuchs squeaking fine. 
Painters and builders, sons of masonry, 
Who well could measure with the rule and line, 
And all the orders five right craftily define. 

But other skill of cunning architect. 
How to contrive the house for dwelling best, 
With self-sufficient scorn they wont neglect. 
As corresponding with their purpose least; 
And herein be they copied of the rest, 



Who aye pretending love of science fair, 
And generous purpose to adorn the breast 
With liberal arts, to Vertii's court repair. 
Yet nought but tunes and names and coins away 
do bear. 

For long, to visit her once-honour'd seat 
The studious sons of learning have forbore- 
Who whilom thither ran with pilgrim feet, 
Her venerable reliques to adore. 
And load their bosom with the sacred store. 
Whereof the world large treasure yet enjoys. 
But sithence she declined from wisdom's lore, 
They left her to display her pompous toys 
To virtuosi vain and wonder-gaping boys. 



WILLIAM COLLINS. 



[Born, 1720. Died, 17&9.] 



Collins published his Oriental Eclogues while 
at college, and his lyrical poetry at the age of 
twenty-six. Those works will abide comparison 
with whatever Milton wrote under the age of 
thirty. If they have rather less exuberant 
wealth of genius, they exhibit more exquisite 
touches of pathos. Like Milton, he leads us 
into the haunted ground of imagination ; like 
nim, he has the rich economy of expression 
haloed with thought, which by single or few words 
often hints entire pictures to the imagination. In 
what short and simple terms, for instance, does 
he open a wide and majestic landscape to the 
mind, such as we might view from Benlomond 
or Snowden, when he speaks of the hut 
"That from the mountain's fide 
Views wilds and s.i'ellin^ Hoods." 

And in the line "Where faint and sickly winds 
for ever howl around," he does not merely seem 
to describe the sultry desert, but brings it home 
to the senses. 

A cloud of obscurity sometimes rests on his 
highest conceptions, arising from the fineness of 
his associations, and the daring sweep of his 
allusions ; but the shadow is transitory, and in- 
terferes very little with the light of his imagery, 
or the warmth of his feelings. The absence of 
even this speck of mysticism from his Ode on the 
Passions is perhaps the happy circumstance that 
secured its unbounded popularity. Nothing is 



commonplace in Collins. The pastoral eclogue, 
which is insipid in all other English hands, 
assumes in his a touching interest, and a pictu- 
resque air of novelty. It seems that he himself 
ultimately undervalued those eclogues, as defi- 
cient in characteristic manners ; but surely no 
just reader of them cares any more about this 
circumstance than about the authenticity of the 
tale of Troy.* 

In his Ode to Fear he hints at his dramatic 
ambition, and he planned several tragedies. Had 
be lived to enjoy and adorn existence, it is not 
easy to conceive his sensitive spirit and har- 
monious ear descending to mediocrity in any 
path of poetry ; yet it may be doubted if his mind 
had not a passion for the visionary and remote 
forms of imagination too strong and exclusive 
for the general purposes of the drama. His genius 
loved to breathe rather in the preternatural and 
ideal element of poetry, than in the atmosphere 
of imitation, which lies closest to real life; and 
his notions of poetical excellence, whatever vows 
he might address to the manners, were still tend- 
ing to the vast, the undefinable, and the abstract. 
Certainly, however, he carried sensibility and 
I tenderness into the highest regions of abstracted 
I thought: his enthusiasm spreads a glow even 
I among " the shadowy tribes of mind," and his 
I allegory is as sensible to the heart as it is 
I to the fancy. 



ODE TO EVENING. 
If nnght of oaten stop or pastoral song 
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe the modest ear. 

Like thy own brawling springs. 

Thy springs, and dying gales; 

[* "Thc'^e ei'Io^rue.x bv Mr. Collins," s-ays Goldsmith, 
'•lire very pre t" : thi: images, it must lie owned, are not 
Ti'rv lo<-.il ; tor the pastoral siil ject could not well admit 
of it. Thi' de-<rit'lion of Asi.itii- mn'-nifirence and man- 
ners is a subject as yet unattempted amoug us, and, I 



nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired 

sun 
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts. 

With brede etherial wove, 

O'erhang his wavy bed: 



believe, capable of furnishing a great variety of poetical 
jm gery." Of eai-tcrn imagery our poetry is now nearly 
siutlVd full— thanks to Collins, Sir WUUam Jones, Mb 
Southey, and Mr. Moore.] 



476 



WILLIA:\I COLLINS. 



Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat, 
With short shrill shriek flits hy on leathern wing, 

Or where the beetle winds 

His small but sullen horn. 

As oft he rises midst the twilight path. 
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum ; 
Now teach me, maid composed, 
To breathe some soften'd strain. 

Whose numbers stealing through thy darkening 
May not unseemly with its stillness suit, [vale 

As, musing slow, I hail 

Thy genial, loved return ! 

For when thy folding-star arising shows 
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp 

The fragrant Hours, and Elves 

Who slept in buds the day, 
And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows 

with sedge. 
And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still. 

The pensive Pleasures sweet 

Prepare thy shadowy car. 
Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene 
Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells, 

Whose walls more awful nod 

By thy religious gleams. 
Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, 
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut, 

'I'hat from the mountain's side. 

Views wilds, and swelling floods, 
And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires. 
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all 

Thy dewy fingers draw 

The gradual dusky vail. 
While Springshall pour hisshowers, as oft he wont, 
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! 

While summer loves to sport 

Beneath thy lingering light: 
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves. 
Or Winter yelling through the troublous air, 

A ft rights thy shrinking train. 

And rudely rends thy robes : 
So long, regardful of thy quiet rule. 
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, 

Thy gentlest influence own. 

And love thy favourite name!* 



ODE ON THE POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS OF THE 
HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND; 

CONSIDERED AS THE SUBJECT OF POETRY. 

Inscribed to Mr. John Home. 
1749. 
Home, thou return'stfrom Thames, whose Naiads 
long 
Have seen thee lingering, with a fond delay. 
Mid those soft friends, whose hearts some 
future day 
Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song.t 

[* Tt has not lieen observed tliiit to I ho tin ee Ihj t verses of 
tills beautiful Oilc. Burns was indel tid f r tire iilea of liis 
Adilress 10 the .^h:ide of Thom>on. lie hud beuu reudiug 
Collins at the time.] 



Go, not unmindful of that cordial youthj 

Whom, long endear'd, thou leavest by Lavant's 
Together let us wish him lasting truth, [side, 

And joy untainted with his destined bride. 
Go ! nor regardless, while these numbers boast 

My short-lived bliss, forget my social name ; 
But think, far oft', how, on the southern coast, 

I met thy friendship with an e(|ual flan)e ! 
Fresh to that soil thou turn'st, where every vale 

Shall prompt the poet, and his song demand : 
To thee thy copious subjects ne'er shall fail ; 

Thou need'st but take thy pencil to thy hand, 
And paint what all believe, who own thy genial 
land. 

There, must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill ; 

'Tis fancy's land to which thou sett'st thy feet; 

Where still, 'tis said, the fairy people meet, 
Beneath each birken shade, on mead or hill. 
There, each trim lass, that skims the milky store. 

To the swart tribes their creamy bowls allots ; 
By night they sip it round the cottage door. 

While airy minstrels warble jocund notes. 
There, every herd, by sad experience, knows 

How, wing'd with fate, their elf-shot arrows fly, 
When the sick ewe her summer food foregoes, 

Or, stretch'd on earth, the heart-smit heifers lie. 
Such airy beings awe th' untutor'd swain : 

Nor thou, though learn'd,his homelier thoughts 
neglect; 
Let thy sweet .Muse the rural faith sustain ; 

These are the themes of simple sure eflect. 
That add new conquests to her boundless reign. 

And fill, with double force, her heart-com- 
manding strain. 

Even yet preserved, how often may'st thou hear, 
V\'here to the pole the Boreal mountains run, 
Taugiit by the father to his listening son, 
StranjiC lays, whose power had charni'd a Spenser's 

ear. 
At every pause, before thy mind posscst. 

Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around, 
With uncouth lyres, in many-colour'd vest. 
Their matied hair with boughs fantastic 
crown'd : 
Whether thou bid'st the well-taught hind repeat 
The choral dirge, that mourns some chieftain 
brave. 
When every shrieking maid her bosom heat. 
And strew 'd with choicest herbs his scented 
grave ; 
Or whether, sitting in the^ shepherd's shiel.§ 
Thou hear'st some sounding tale of war's 
alarms; 
When at the bugle's call, with fire and steel. 
The sturdy clans pour'd forth their brawny 
swarms, 
And hostile brothers met to prove each other's 
arms. 



[t How trulv did Collius predirt Home's tr.igi^- powors!] 
X A ;;entlemin of tlie name of Barrow, whci inUoiluiid 
Home to Collins. [Barrow had Leea uut in lUnfuriij-Jiee 
with Hfini\] 

? A ^Ulnmo^ hut. hui!t in the high part of the moun- 
tains, to tend their lioclcs in the wuim season, when the 
pasture is fine. 



WILLIAM COLLINS. 



477 



'Tis thine to sing how, framing hideous spells, 

In Si<y's lone isle, the gifted wizard-seer, 

Lodged in the wintery cave with Fate's fell spear, 
Or in the depth of Uist's dark forest dwells: 

How they, whose sight such dreary dreams 
engross, 
With their own visions oft astonish'd droop. 

When, o'er the wat'ry strath, or quaggy moss. 
They see the gliding gho:<ts unbodied troop, 

Or, if in sports, or on the festive green, 
Their destined glance some fated youth descry, 

Who now, perhaps, in lusty vigour seen, 
And rosy health, shall soon lamented die. 

For them the viewless forms of air obey; 
Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair. 

7'hey know what spirit brews the stormful day, 
And heartless, oft like moody madness, stare 
To see the phantom train their secret work 
prepai-e. 

To monarchs dear.* some hundred miles astray, 

Oft have they seen Fate give the fatal blow ! 

The seer, in Sky, shriek'd as the blood did flow. 
When headless Charles warm on the scaffold lay! 
As Boreas threw his young Aurora forth,t 

In the first year of the first George's reign, 
And battles raged in welkin of the North, 

They mourn'd in air, fell, fell Rebellion slain ! 
And as, of late, they joy'd in Preston's 'fight. 

Saw at sad Falkirk all their hopes near crown'd ! 
They raved ! divining through their second sight,;]; 

Pale, red Culloden, where these hopes were 
drown'd ! 
Illustrious William !§ Britain's guardian name! 

One William saved us from a tyrant's stroke ; 
He, for a sceptre, gain'd heroic fame. 

But thou, more glorious. Slavery's chain hast 
broke, , 
To reign a private man, and bow to Freedom's 
yoke ! 

These, too, thou'lt sing I for well thy magic muse 
Can to the topmost heaven of grandeur soar; 
Or stoop to wail the swain that is no more ! 

Ah, homely swains ! your homeward steps ne'er 
lose: 
Let not dank Will|| mislead you to the heath: 

Dancing in mirky night, o'er fen and lake, 

* SUPPLEMENTAL LINES BY MR. MACKENZIE. 

" Or on some bellying rack that shades the deep, 

Tliey view the Iiiiid si^'ns that cross the sky, 

Wlieve in the wi'st, the brooding tempests lie; 
And lie \r the tirst faint rustling pennons sweep. 
Or in the arched cave, where, deip anddiirk, 

Ihu broad unbroken billows heave and swell. 
In iHir.id musings rapt, they .•'it to mark 

The hi,b"ring moon ; or li.-t the nightly yell 
Of that dread spirit, whose gigantic form 

The seer's entranced eye can well survey. 
Through the dim air who jjuides the driving storm, 

And points the wretched bark, its destined prey. 
Or him who hoveis on his llagging wing, 

Oer the dire whir.pool, that, in ocean's waste, 
Draws instant down whate'er devoted thing 

The falling breeze within its reach hath placed — 
The distant teaman hears, and tiies with trembling haste. 

Or, if on land the fiend exerts his sway. 
Silciii, ho brnoils o'er qnicksand, bog. or fen, 

iar from the sheltering roof and haunts of men, 



He glows, to draw you downward to your death, 
In his bewitch'd low, marshy, willow brake ! 
What though far oflf, from some dark dell espied, 

Hisglimmcring mazes cheer the excursive sight, 
Yet turn, ye wanderers, turn your steps aside. 

Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light; 
For watchful, lurking mid th' unrustling reed, 

At those mirk hours the wily monster lies, 
And listens oft to hear the passing steed. 

And frequent round him rolls his sullen eyes, 
If chance his savage wrath may some weak 
wretch surprise. 

Ah, luckless swain, o'er all unblest, indeed ! 

Whom late bewilder'd in the dank, dark fen, 

Far from his flocks, and smoking hamlet, then ! 
To that sad spot where hums the sedgy weed: 

On him, enraged, the fiend, in angry mood. 
Shall never look with pity's kind concern. 

But instant, furious, raise the whelming flood 
O'er its drown'd banks, forbidding all return! 

Or, if he meditate his wish'd escape. 
To some dim hill that seems uprising near. 

To his faint eye, the griip and grisly shape, 
In all its terrors clad, shall wild appear. 

Meantime the watery surge shall round him 
rise, 
Pour'd sudden forth from every swelling source ! 

What now remains but tears and hopeless 
sighs? 
His fierce-shook limbs have lost their youthly 

force, 
And down the waves he floats a pale and breath- 
less corse ! 

For him in vain his anxious wife shall wait. 

Or wander forth to meet him on his way; 
For him in vain at to-fell of the day 

His babes shall linger at th' unclosing gate ! 
Ah, ne'er shall he return ! Alone, if night, 

Her travell'd lin)bs in broken slumbers steep! 
With drooping willows dress'd, his mournful sprite 

Shall visit sad, perchance, her silent sleep : 
Then he, perhaps, with moist and watery hand, 

Shall fondly seem to press her shuddering 
cheek, 
And with his blue-swoln face before her stand, 

And shivering cold, these piteous accents speak: 



When witched darkness shuts the eye of day. 

And shrouds each star that wont to cheer the night;- 

Or, if the drifted snow perplex the way. 
With treacherous gleam he lures the fated wight. 

And leads him floundering on and quite astray." 

[Other versos were written by the late Lord Kinnedder, 
which Sir Walter Scott, in all the partiality of friendship, 
thought equal to the original. To add to an unfinished 
poem one must write with the same genius whi<h the au- 
thor wrote : and Collins, as Pope said of Akenside, was no 
every day-writer.] 

[t The Northern Lights.] 

t Second sight is the term that is used for the divination 
of the Highlanders. 

? The Duke of Cumberland, who defeated the Pretender 
at the battle of Culloden. 

II A fiery meteor, called by various names, such as Will 
with the Wisp, .Tack with the Lanthnrn, &c It hovers in 
the air over marshy and fenny places. 



478 



WILLIAM COLLINS. 



<' Pursue, dear wife, thy Jaily toils pursue. 
At dawn or dusk, industrious as before; 

Nor e'er of me one helpless thought renew. 
While I lie weltering on the osier'd shore, 

Drovvn'd by the Kelpie's* wrath, nor e'er shall 
aid thee more !" 

Unbonnded is thy range ; with varied skill 

Thy Muse may, like those feathery tribes which 

spring 
From their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing 
Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle. 
To that hoar pilef which still its ruins shows; 
In whose small vaults a pigmy-folk is found, 
Whose bones the delver with his spade up- 
throws. 
And culls them, wond'ring, from the hallow'd 

ground ! 
Or thither,f where beneath the show'ry west 

The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid: 
Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest, 

No slaves revere them, and no wars invade: 
Yet frequent now, at midnight solemn hour. 

The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold, 

And forth the monarchs stalk with sovereign 

power. 

In pageant robes, and wreath'd with sheeny 

gold. 

And on their twilight tombs aerial council hold. 

But, oh, o'er all, forget not Kilda's race, 

On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting 
tides, 

Fair Nature's daughter. Virtue, yet abides. 
Go ! just, as they, their blameless manners trace ! 

Then to my ear transmit some gentle song, 
Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain, 

Their bounded walks the rugged clifts along. 
And all their prospect but the wintery main. 

With sparing temperance at the needful time 
They drain the scented spring; or, hunger-prest. 

Along th' Atlantic rock undreading climb. 
And of its eggs despoil the solan's§ nest. 

Thus blest in primal innocence they live. 
Sufficed, and happy with that frugal fare 

Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give. 
Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak and bare ; 
Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur 
there ! 

Nor need'st thou blush that such false themes 
engage 
Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possest; 
For not alone they touch the village breast, 
But fiU'd, in elder time, th' historic page. 

There, Shakspeare's self, with every garland 
crown'd. 
Flew to those fairy climes his fancy sheen, 

« The water fiend. 

tOnc I if the Hebrides is railed the Tsle of Pigmies; 
where it is reported, that several miniature 1 ones of the 
human species have been dug up in the ruins of a Lhapel 
there. 

J IcoImUill.one of the Ilebridos. where near sixty of the 
undent 8colti>h, Irish, and .Norwegian Itings are interred. 

g An aquatic bird like a goose, on the eggs of which the 



In musing hour ; his wayward sisters found, 
And with their terrors drest the magic scene. 

From them he sung, when, mid his bold design, 
Before the Scot, afflicted and aghast, 

The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line. 
Through the dark cave in gleamy pageant past. 

Proceed ! nor quit the tales which, simply told. 
Could once so well my answering bosom pierce; 

Proceed, in forceful sounds, and colours bold, 
The native legends of thy land rehearse ; 
To such adapt thy lyre, and suit thy powerful 
verse. 

In scenes like these, which, daring to depart 

From sober truth, are still to nature true, 
And call forth fresh delight to Fancy's view, 
Th' heroic Muse employ'd her Tasso's art! 

How have I trembled, when, at Tancred's 
stroke, 
Its gushing blood the gaping cypress pour'd ! 

When each live plant with mortal accents 
spoke. 
And the wild blast upheaved the vanish 'd sword ! 

How have I sat, when piped the pensive wind, 
To hear his harp by British Fairfax strung ! 

Prevailing poet ! whose undoubting mind 
Believed the magic wonders which he sung ! 

Hence, at each sound, imagination glows ! 
Hence, at each picture, vivid life starts here! 

Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows! 
Melting it flows, pure, murmuring, strong and 

clear. 
And fills th' impassiond heart, and wins th' har- 
monious ear! 

All hail, ye scenes that o'er my soul prevail ! 
Ye splendid friths and lakes, which, far away, 
Are by smooth Annan || fill d, or past'ral Tay,|| 
Or Don s|l romantic springs, at distance hail! 
The time shall come, when I, perhaps, may tread 
Your lowly glens,1I o'erhung with spreading 
broom ; 
Or o'er your stretching heaths, by Fancy led ; 

Or o'er your mountains creep, in awful gloom! 
Then will I dress once more the faded bower, 
Where Jonson** sat in Drummond's classic 
shade ; 
Or crop, from Tiviotdale, each lyric flower, 
And mourn on Yarrow's banks, where Willy's 
laid ! 
Meantime, ye powers that on the plains which bore 
The cordial youth, on Lothian's plains,tt at- 
tend !— 
Where'er Home dwells, on hill, or lowly moor. 

To him I lose, your kind protection lend. 
And, touch'd with love like mine, preserve my 
absent friend! 



inhabitants of St.Kilda, another of the Hebrides, chiefly 
subsist. 

II 'three rivers in Scotland. 1| » alleys. 

** Ten .Tnmon paid a vi^it on fort, in 1619, to the Scotch 
poet Driimm(ii:d, at his seat of Ilawthornden, wi.hin four 
miles of I dilibnrfih. 

ft Barrow, it feems, was at the Edinburgh university, 
which is in the county of Lothian. 



COLLEY GIBBER. 



[Born, 1671, Died, 17570 



SOXO. THE BLIND BOY. 

SAT ! what is that thing call'd light, 
Which I must ne'er enjoy 7 

What are the blessings of the sightl 
tell your poor blind boy ! 

You talk of wondrous things you see, 
You say the sun shines bright ; 

1 feel him warm, but how can he 
Or make it day or night] 

My day or night myself I make, 
Whene'er I sleep or play ; 



And could I ever keep awake, 
With me 'twere always day. 

With heavy sighs I often hear 
You mourn my hapless woe ; 

But sure with patience I can bear 
A loss I ne'er can know. 

Then let not what I cannot have 
My cheer of mind destroy ; 

Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, 
Although a poor blind boy. 



EDWARD MOORE. 



[Born, 1712. Died, 1757.] 



Edward Moore was the son of a dissenting 
clergyman at x\bingdon, in Berkshire, and was 
bred to the business of a linen-draper, which he 
pursued, however, both in London and Ireland, 
with so little success, that he embraced the lite- 
rary life (according to his own account) more 
from necessity than inclination. His Fables (in 
1744) first brought him into notice. The Right 
Honourable Mr. Pelham was one of his earliest 
friends; and his Trial of Selim gained him the 
friendship of Lord Lyttelton. Of three works 
which he produced for the stage, his two come- 
dies, the "Foundling" and "Gil Bias," were 
unsuccessful ; but he was fully indemnified by 
the profits and reputation of the " Gamester." 
Moore himself acknowledges that he owed to 
Garrick many popular passages of his drama; 
and Davies, the biographer of Garrick, ascribes 



to the great actor the whole scene between Lew- 
son and Stukely, in the fourth act; but Davies's 
authority is not oracular. About the year 1751, 
Lord Lyttelton, in concert with Dodsley, pro- 
jected the paper of the « World," of which it 
was agreed that Moore should enjoy the jirofits, 
whether the numbers were written by himself or 
by volunteer contributors. Lyttelton's interest 
soon enlisted many accomplished coadjutors, such 
as Cambridge, Jenyns, Lord Chesterfield, and H. 
Walpole. Moore himself wrote sixty-one of the 
papers. In the last number of the "World" 
the conclusion is made to depend on a fictitious 
incident which had occasioned the death of the 
autlior. When the papers were collected into 
volumes, Moore, who superintended the publica- 
tion, realized this jocular fiction by his own death, 
whilst the last number was in the press.* 



THE DISCOVERY. AN ODE. 
Vir bonus est quisf — IIor. 
Take wing, my muse ! from shore to shore 
Fly, and that happy place explore 
Where Virtue deigns to dwell; 
If yet she treads on British ground, 
Where can the fugitive be found. 
In city, court, or cell ] 

Not there, where wine and frantic mirth 
Unite the sensual sons of Earth 

In Pleasure's thoughtless train : 
Nor yet where sanctity's a show. 
Where souls nor joy nor pity know 

For human bliss or pain. 



[* Mr. Moore was a post who never had justice done him 
while living. There are few of the moderns who have a 
more correct taste, or a more pleasing manner of express- 



Her social heart alike disowns 

The race, who, shunning crowds and thrones, 

In shades sequester'd doze ; 
Whose sloth no generous care can wake. 
Who rot, like weeds on Lethe's lake, 

In senseless, vile repose. 

With these she shuns the factious tribe, 
Who spurn the yet unoffer'd bribe. 

And at corruption lour; 
Waiting till Discord Havoc cries, 
In hopes, like Catiline, to rise 

On anarchy to power ! 

Ye wits, who boast from ancient times 
A right divine to scourge our crimes. 



ing their thoughts. It was upon his Fables he chi(^fly 
founded his reputation ; yet they are by no means his liPst 
production. — Goldsmith.] 

479 



480 EDWARD MOORE. 


Is it with you she rests 1 


Thy voice expiring Credit heard. 


No. Int'rest, slander are your views, 


And raised her languid head. 


And Virtue now, with every Muse, 




Flies your unhallow'd breasts. 


Now by thy strong assisting hand, 




Fix'd on a rock I see her stand. 


There was a time, I heard her say, 
Ere females were seduced by play. 

When beauty was her throne ; 
But now, where dwelt the soft Desires, 
The furies light forbidden fires. 


Against whose solid feet. 
In vain, through every future age, 
The loudest most tempestuous rage 

Of angry war shall beat. 


To Love and her unknown. 


And grieve not if the sons of Strife 


From these th' indignant goddess flies. 


Attempt to cloud thy spotless life, 


And where the spires of Science rise. 


And shade its brightest scenes ; 


A while suspends her wing; 


Wretches by kindness unsubdued. 


But pedant Pride and Rage are there. 


Who see, who share the common good, 


And Faction tainting all the air. 


Yet cavil at the means. 


And pois'ning every spring. 


Like these, the metaphysic crew, 


Long through the sky's wide pathless way 


Proud to be singular and new, 


The 'Muse observed the wand'rer stray. 


Think all they see deceit; 


And mark'd her last retreat; 


Are warm'd and cherish'd by the day, 


O'er Surrey's barren heaths she flew, 


Feel and enjoy the heavenly ray, 


Descending like the silent dew 


Yet doubt of light and heat. 


On Esher's peaceful seat. 
There she beholds the gentle Mole 






His pensive waters calmly roll. 


THE HAPPY MARRIAGE. 


Amidst Elysian ground : 


How blest has my time been! what joys have I 


There through the winding of the grove 


known, 


She leads her family of Love, 


Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jessy my own ! 


And strews her sweets around. 


So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain, 




That freedom is tasteless and roving a pain. 


I hear her bid the daughters fair 


Oft to yon gloomy grot repair. 


Through walks grown with woodbines, as often 


Her secret steps to meet : 


we stray, 


" Nor thou," she cries, '< these shades forsake, 


Around us our boys and girls frolic and play : 


But come, loved consort, come and make 


How pleasing their sport is ! the wanton ones see. 


The husband's bliss complete." 


And borrow their looks from my Jessy and me. 


Yet not too much the soothing ease 


To try her sweet temper, ofttimes am I seen. 


Of rural indolence shall please 


In revels all day with the nymphs on the green : 


My Pelhaui's ardent breast; 


Though painful my absence, my doubts she be- 


The man whom Virtue calls her own 


guiles. 


Mast stand the pillar of a throne, 


And meets me at night with complacence and 


And make a nation bless'd. 


smiles. 


Pelham ! 'tis thine with temp'rate zeal 


What though on her cheeks the rose loses its hue. 


To guard Britannia's public weal, 


Her wit and good humour bloom all flie year 


Attack'd on every part: 


through ; 


Her fatal discords to compose. 


Time still, as he flies, adds increase to her truth. 


Unite her friends, disarm her foes, 


And gives to her mind what he steals from her 


Demands thy head and heart. 


youth. 


When bold Rebellion shook the land, 


Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare, 


Ere yet from William's dauntless hand 


And cheat, with false vows, the loo credulous fair; 


Her barbarous army fled ; 


In search of true pleasure, how vainly you roam ! 


When Valour droop'd, and Wisdom fear'd. 


To hold it for life, you must find it at home. 



JOHN DYER. 



[Bora, 1700. Died, 1758.] 



Dyer was the son of a solicitor at Aberglasney, 
ill Caermarthenshire. He was educated at West- 
minster school, and returned from thence to be 
instructed in his father's profession, but left it for 
poetry and painting; and, having studied the 
arts of design under a master, was for some time, 
as he says, an itinerant painter in Wales. Di- 
viding his affections, however, between the sister 
Muses he indited (1726) his Grongar Hill amidst 
those excursions. It was published ahout his 
twenty-seventh year.* He afterward made the 
tour of Italy in the spirit both of an artist and 



poet, and, besides studying pictures and prospects, 
composed a poem on the Ruins of Rome. On 
his return to England he married a lady of the 
name of Ensor, a descendant of Shakspeare, re- 
tired into the country, and entered into orders. 
His last preferment was to the living of Kirkely 
on Bane. The witticism on his " Fleece," related 
by Dr. Johnson, that its author, if he was an old 
man, would be buried in woollen, has, perhaps, 
been oftener repeated than any passage in the 
poem itself 



GRONGAR HILL. 

Silent nymph, with curious eye ! 
Who, the purple evening, lie 
On the mountain's lonely van. 
Beyond the noise of busy man ; 
Painting fair the form of things. 
While the yellow linnet sings; 
Or the tuneful nightingale 
Charms the forest whh her tale; 
Come, with all thy various hues, 
Come, and aid thy sister Muse ; 
Now, while Phcebus riding high 
Gives lubtre to the land and sky ! 
Grongar Hill invites my song. 
Draw the landscape bright and strong; 
Grongar, in whose mossy cells, 
Sweetly musinfi-, Quiet dwells; 
Grongar, in whose silent shade, 
For the modest Muses made. 
So oft I have, the evening still, 
At the fountain of a rill. 
Sat upon a flow'ry bed, 
With my hand beneath my head; 
While stray'd my eyes o'er T owy's flood, 
Over mead, and over wood. 
From house to house, from hill to hill. 
Till contemplation had her fill. 

About his chequer'd sides I wind. 
And leave his brooks and meads behind. 
And groves, and grottos where I lay, 
And vistas shooting beams of day : 
Wide and wider spreads the vale ; 
As circles on a smooth canal: 
The mountains round, unhappy fate. 
Sooner or later, of all height. 
Withdraw their summits from the skies. 
And lessen as the others rise : 
Still the prospect wider spreads. 
Adds a thousand woods and meads ; 
Still it widens, widens still. 
And sinks the newly-risen hill. 

[* In Lewis' Miscellanieg, 1726.] 
61 



Now I gain the mountain's brow. 
What a landscape lies below! 
No clouds, no vapours intervene 
But the gay, the open scene, 
Does the face of nature show, 
In all the hues of heaven's bow; 
And, swelling to embrace the light, 
Spreads around, beneath the sight. 

Old castles on the cliffs arise, 
Proudly towering in the skies ! 
Rushing from the woods, the spires 
Seem from hence ascending fires ! 
Half his beams Apollo sheds 
On the yellow mountain-heads! 
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks. 
And glitters on the broken rocks ! 

Below me trees unnumber'd rise, 
Beautiful in various dyes : 
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue, 
The yellow beech, the sable yew, 
The slender fir, that taper grows. 
The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs 
And beyond the purple grove. 
Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love! 
Gaudy as the opening dawn. 
Lies a long and level lawn. 
On which a dark hill, steep and high. 
Holds and charms the wandering eye ! 
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood. 
His sides are clothed with waving wood. 
And ancient towers crown his brow, 
That cast an awful look below ; 
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps. 
And with her arms from falling keeps : 
So both a safety from the wind 
On mutal dependence find. 
'Tis now the raven's bleak abode; 
'Tis now th' apartment of the toad ; 
And there the fox securely feeds; 
And there the poisonous adder breeds, 
Conceal'd in ruins, moss, and weeds; 
While, ever and anon, there falls 
Huge heaps of hoary moulder'd walls. 
2q 481 



482 



ALLAN RAMSAY. 



Yet time has seen, that lifts the low, 
And level lays the lofty brow, 
Has seen this broken pile complete, 
Big with the vanity of state ; 
But transient is the smile of fate ! 
A little rule, a little sway, 
A sunbeam in a winter's day, 
Is all the proud and mighty have 
Between the cradle and the grave. 

And see the rivers how they run. 
Through woods and meads, in shade and sun, 
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, 
Wave succeeding wave, they go 
A various journey to the deep, 
Like human life, to endless sleep ! 
Thus is nature's vesture wrought. 
To instruct our wandering thought; 
Thus she dresses green and gay, 
To disperse our cares away.* 

Ever charming, ever new, 
When will the landscape tire the view ! 
The fountain's fell, the river's flow. 
The woody valleys, warm and low ; 
The windy summit, wild and high, 
Roughly rushing on the sky ! 
The pleasant seat, the ruin'd tower, 
The naked rock, the shady bower ; 
The town and village, dome and farm, 
Each give each a double charm, 
As pearls upon an -.^thiop's arm. 

See on the mountain's southern side, 
Where the prospect opens wide, 
Where the evening gilds the tide ; 
How close and small the hedges lie ! 
What streaks of meadows cross the eye ! 
A step methinks may pass the stream, 
So httle distant dangers seem ; 



So we mistake the future's face, 
Eyed through hope's deluding glass; 
As yon summits soft and fair. 
Clad in colours of the air, 
Which, to those who journey near, 
Barren, brown, and rough appear ; 
Still we tread the same coarse way, 
The present's still a cloudy day.j" 

O may I with myself agree, 
And never covet what I see : 
Content me with an humble shade. 
My passions tamed, my wishes laid ; 
For, while our wishes wildly roll, 
We banish quiet from the soul : 
'Tis thus the busy beat the air, 
And misers gather wealth and care. 

Now, ev'n now, my joys run high. 
As on the mountain-turf I lie; 
While the wanton zephyr sings. 
And in the vale perfumes his wings: 
While the waters murmur deep; 
While the shepherd charms his sheep; 
While the birds unbounded fly. 
And with music fill the sky, 
Now, even now, my joys run high. 

Be full, ye courts ; be great who will ; 
Search for peace with all your skill ; 
Open wide the lofty door. 
Seek her on the marble floor ; 
In vain you search, she is not there; 
In vain ye search the, domes of care ! 
Grass and flowers Quiet treads. 
On the meads and mountain-heads, 
Along with Pleasure, close allied. 
Ever by each other's side : 
And often, by the murmuring rill, 
Hears the thrush, while all is still, 
Within the groves of Grongar Hill. 



ALLAN RAMSAY 



[Born, 1686. Died, 1757.) 



The personal history of Allan Ramsay is 
marked by few circumstances of striking inte- 
rest; yet, independently of his poetry, he can- 
not be reckoned an insignificant individual who 
gave Scotland her first circulating library, and 
who established her first regular theatre. He 
was born in the parish of Crawford Moor, in 
Lanarkshire, where his father had the charge of 
Lord Hopeton's lead-mines. His mother, Alice 
B.iwer, was the daughter of an Englishman who 
had emigrated to that place from Derbyshire. 
By his paternal descent the poet boasts of having 

[* See Byron's remark on this passage. Life, and WorVi, 
vol. vi. p. 3l5.] 

[t Lord Byron asks, (vol. vi. p. 366,) "Is not this the 
oriijiual of Mr. Campbell's far-famed, 

'Tis distance lends enrhanlment to the view, 
And robes the mountain in its azure hue?" 

We answer fjr Mr. Campbell, decidid;y not I] 
X Apropos to this delicate distinction of the Scottish 

biograjher may be mentioned the advertisement of a 



sprung from "a Douglas loin ;" but, owing to the 
early death of his father, his education was con- 
fined to a parish-school, and at the age of fifteen 
he was bound apprentice to the humble business 
of a wig-maker. On this subject one of his 
Scottish biographers refutes, with some indigna- 
tion, a report which had gone abroad, that our 
poet was bred a barber, and carefully instructs 
the reader, that in those good times, when a 
fashionable wig cost twenty guineas, the employ- 
ment of manufacturing them was both lucrative 
and creditable.^ Ramsay, however, seems to have 

French perruquier in the Pa'.ais Koyal, who ranks his 
business amou}: the "imitative artt:." A Luudou arlist 
in the same piofes^ion bad a pimilar jealousy wi h the 
historian of ]ianis,\y's iif.%-at the idea of mere ■' trimmers 
of the human fate"' beinj; confounded with "genuine 
perruquiers." In i.dverti.'ing his [To(,-wigs lie alli ded to 
some wig-weaving competitors, whom he deiiomiui ted 
"mere hair-dres.-ers and barbers;" and -shall a barber 
(he exclaims) iiffuct to rival thes« crops?" '• Barbaras has 
Begetes."— Vii,a.u 



ALLAN RAMSAY. 



4B3 



felt no ambition either for the honours or profits 
of the vocation, as he left' it on finishing his 
apprenticeship. In his twenty-fourth year he 
married the daughter of a writer, or attorney, in 
Edinburgh. His eldest son* rose to well-known 
eminence as a painter. Our poet's first means of 
subsistence after his marriage, were to publish 
small poetical productions in a cheap form, which 
became so popular, that even in this hum!)le sale 
he was obliged to call upon the magistrates to 
protect his literary property from the piracy of 
the hawkers. He afterward set up as a book- 
seller, and publ shed, at his own shop, a new 
edition jf "Cbiist's Kirk on the Green," with 
two cantos of his own subjoined to the ancient 
original, which is asir.bed to James I. of Scot- 
land. A passage in one of those modern cantos 
of Ramsay's descr.bing a husband fascinated 
homewards from a scene of drunkenness by the 
gentle persuasions of his wife, has been tastefully 
selecteii by Wilkie, and been made the subject of 
his admirable pencil. 

In 1724 he published a col'ection of popular 
Scottish songs, called the Tea-Table Miscellany, 
which speedily ran through twelve impressions. 
Ruddiman assisted him in the glossary, and Hamil- 
ton of Baiigoor, Crawl'urd,and Mallet were among 
the contributors to his modern songs. In the 
same year appeared his Evergreen, a collection 
of pieces from the Bannalyne MSS. written be- 
fore the year 1600. Here the vanity of adorning 
what it was his duty to have faithfully transcribed 
led him to take many liberties with tbe originals ; 
and it is pretty clear that one poem, viz. the 
Vision, which he pretended to have found in 
ancient manuscript, was the friait of his own 
bran. But the Vision, considered as his own, 
adds a plume to his poetical character which may 
overshale his defects ;is an editor. 

In 1726 he published his Gentle Shepherd. 
The first rudiments of that pleasing drama had 
been given to tbepulilic in two pastoral dialogues, 
which were so much liked that his friends ex- 
horted him to extend them into a regular play. 
The reception of this piece soon extended hs le- 
putatioii beyond Scotland. His works were re- 
printed at Dublin, and became popular in the 
colonies. Pope was known to admire The Gentle 
Shepherd; and Gay, when he was in Scotland, 



* This Fon cf the poet "as a man cf ;iter;itu;-e 
US wniuF. 'ihj f .) owii g wliiiiifical fp'iiinen 
poetry is >u'j >iiu(l .a< a lU i s ty. The humorous 
t tioii of the kiik treiisii -v m ii fir lloia o s »o'f. 
third .st'.iiza. wi 1 oiilv be re . gn> d hy ihos'' who 
stiiiKl the import HKi' of t! at ecclcsia- tical officer i 
land, .iiul th.; p .wcrs w.th ihxh h : is invi s el fii 
mo ing d.> i.i<iucn s before the cle-ity and eldjrs, 1 
01 iilegit.mite love. 

HORACE'S "INTEGH'R VIT^," Ac. 

BY ALLAN RAMsAY, JUN. 

A man of no br.sc (John) life or convers tion, 
NeeJ.* not tj tru^t in, i-oat of in lii lOr balTskin, 
Nor need he vapjur, with the .•^wo.d and r, pier, 

Pistol, or great gun. 
VVhetherhe ranges, ea.=twar.l to the Ganjres, 
Or if he bei.ds his course to ihe West Indies", 
Or .lail the tiea l.eJ, which so many .^^trai ge odd 

Stories are tuld uf. 



; 8 wei] 

cf his 
sul sti- 
HI t e 
uni er- 
1 Soot- 
r sum- 
a ciies 



sought for explanations of its phrases, that he 
might communicate them to his friend at 
Twickenham. Ramsay's shop was a great resort 
of the congenial fabulist whde he remained in 
Edinburgh ; and from its windows, which over- 
looked the Exchange, the Scottish poet used to 
point out to Gay the most remarkable characters 
of the place. 

A second volume of his poems appeared in 
1728; and in 1730 he published a collection of 
fables. His epistles in the former volume are 
generally indillerent ; but there is one addressed 
to the poet Somervile, which contains some easy 
lines. Professing to write from nature more 
than art, he compares, with some beauty, the rude 
style which he loved and practised, to a neglected 
orchard. 

I love the garden wl'd and wide, 

AVhere oaks have plum-trees by their side, 

Where woodbines and the twisting vine 

Clip round the pear tree and the pine; 

Where mi.\t jonquils and g waiisf grow, 

And roses midst rank clover blow, 

Upon a liaiik of a clear strand, 

Its wiaip iiig-i .ed by nature's hand; 

Though doi ks and brambles here and there, 

Way sometimes cheat the gard'ner's care. 

Yet ihis 1 1 m^s a I'aradise, 

Comiiared to prime cut plots and nice, 

Where nature h is to art resigu'd. 

And a.l looks stiff, mean, and confined. 



Of original poets he says, 
couplet : 



in 



one expressivi 



The native hards first plunged the deep, 
Uefuie ihe anful d.ircd to leap. 

About the age of forty-five he ceased to write 
for the public. The most remarkable circum- 
stance of his life was an attempt which he made 
to establish a theatre in Edinl>urgh. Our poet 
had been always fond of the drama, and had 
occasionally supplied prologues to the players 
who visited the northern capital. But tliough the 
age of fanaticism was wearing away, it had not 
yet suffered the drama to have a settled place of 
exhibition in Scotland; and when Ramsay had, 
with great expense, in the year 1736, fitted up a 
theatre in Carubber's Close, the act for licensing 
the stage, which was passed in the following year, 
gave the magistrates of Edinburgh a power of 
shutting it up, which they exerted with gloomy 
severity. Such was the popular hatred of play- 
houses in Scotland at this period, that, some tijne 

For but last Monday, walking at noon-day, 
couiiiuir a di.ty to d.ven my i^e.ty. 
By mo that son's Turk {I not frig.ited) our Kirk- 
Treasurer's man pass'd, 

And sure more horrid monster in the torrid- 
Zone ne'er was found, tir, though fur si, al.es renown'd Si\, 
Sov can greai Jfeter's empi.e b a t u h creatuies, 

Tli'of be.as ihe wet nurse 

Should I bry h p land on the to.vt of La;dand, 
Wliere theie no i,r i . mui h ess pea:-s and i herrii'S, 
^Vhel•e ^tOi■my we,.ther s to.d by hag-i, whose lou. her- 
facus noaid fr.ght one. ' 

Place me where tea grows, or where soity negroes, 
Shcepsg its round tie hem, lest the .-uii should fry them, 
Still while my bet.y smiles and talks so pj'etty, 
1 will adore her. 
t Daisies. 



484 



ALLAN RAMSAY. 



afterward, ihe mob of Glasgow demolished the 
first playhouse that was erected in their city; 
and though the work of destruction was accom- 
plished in daylight by many hundreds, it was 
reckoned so godly, that no reward could bribe 
any witness to appear or inform against the 
rioters. Ten years from the date of this disap- 
pointment, Ramsay had the satisfaction of seeing 
dramatic entertainments freely enjoyed by his 
fellow-citizens; but in the mean time he was not 
only left without legal. relief for his own loss in 
the speculation (having suffered what the Scotch 
law denominated a -^damnum sine injuiia,") but 
he was assailed with libels on his moral character, 
for having endeavoured to introduce the " hell- 
bred playhouse comedians." 

He spent some of the last years of his life in a 
house of whimsical construction, on the north 
side of the Castle-hill of Edinburgh, where the 
place of his residence is still distinguished by the 
name of Ramsay garden. 

A scurvy in his gums put a period to his 
life in his seventy-second year. He died at 
Edinburgh, and was interred in Grey Friars 
church-yard. Ramsay was small in stature, with 
dark but expressive and pleasant features. He 
seems to have possessed the constitutional philo- 
sophy of good-humour. His genius gave him 
access to the society of those who were most dis- 
tinguished for rank and talents in his native 
country ; but his intercourse with thein was 
marked by no servility, and never seduced him 
from the quiet attention to trade by which he 
ultimately secured a moderate independence. 
His vanity in speaking of himself is often exces- 
sive, but it is always gay and good-natured. On 
one occasion he modestly takes precedence of 
Peter the Great, in estimating their comparative 
importance with the public. — "But ha'd,* proud 
Czar (he says) I wad no nifferf fame." Much 
of his poetry breathes the subdued aspirations of 
Jacobitism. He was one of those Scotsmen who 
for a long time would not extend their patriotism 
to the empire in which their country was merged, 
and who hated the cause of the Whigs in Scot- 
land, from remembering its ancient connection 
with the leaven of fanaticism. The Tory cause 
had also found its way to their enthusiasm by 
being associated with the pathos and romance of 
the lost independence of their country. 'I'he 
business of Darien was still " alta mente repos- 
tum." Fletcher's eloquence on the subject of 
the Union was not forgotten, nor that of Belhaven, 
who had apostrophised the Genius of Caledonia 
in the last meeting of her senate, and who died of 
grief at the supposed degradation of his country. 
Visionary as the idea of Scotland's independence 
a"* a kingdom might be, we must most of all ex- 
cuse it in a poet whose foncy was expressed, and 
whose reputation was bound up, in a dialect 
from which the Union took away the last chance 
of perpetuity. 

* Hold. t Exchange. 



Our poets miscellaneous pieces, though some 
of them are very ingenious.^ are upon the whole 
of a much coarser grain than his pastoral drama. 
The admirers of the Gentle Shepherd must per- 
haps be contented to share some suspicion of na- 
tional partiality, while they do justice to their 
own feeling of its merit. Yet as this drama is a 
picture of rustic Scotland, it would perhaps be 
saying little for its fidelity, if it yielded no more 
agreeableness to the breast of a native than he 
could expound to a stranger by the strict letter 
of criticism. We should think the painter had 
finished the likeness of a mother very inditi'er- 
ently, if it did not bring home to her children 
traits of indefinable expression which had escaped 
every eye but that of familiar affection. Ramsay 
had not the force of Burns; but neither, in just 
proportion to his merits, is he likely to be felt by 
an Ehglish reader. The fire of Burns' wit and 
passion glows through an obscure dialect by its 
confinement to short and concentrated bursts. 
The interest which Ramsay excites is spread over 
a long poem, delineating manners more than pas- 
sions; and the mind must be at home both in the 
language and manners, to appreciate the skill 
and comic archness with which he has heightened 
the display of rustic character without giving it 
vulgarity, and refined the view of peasant life by 
situations of sweetness and tenderness, without 
departing in the least degree from its simplicity. 
The Gentle Shepherd stands quite apart from the 
general pastoral poetry of modern Europe. It 
has no satyrs, nor featureless simpletons, nor 
drowsy and still landscapes of nature, but distinct 
characters and amusing incidents. The principal 
shepherd never speaks out of consistency with 
the habits of a peasant; but he moves in that 
sphere with such a manly spirit, with so much 
cheerful sensibility to its humble joys, with maxims 
of life so rational and independent, and with an 
ascendancy over his fellow swains so well main- 
tained by his force of character, that if we could 
suppose the pacific scenes of the drama to be sud- 
denly changed into situations of trouble and 
danger, we should, in exact consistency with our 
former idea of him, expect him to become the 
leader of the peasants, and the Tell of his native 
hamlet. Nor is the character of his mistress less 
beautifully conceived. She is represented, like 
himself, as elevated, by a fortunate discovery, 
from obscure to opulent life, yet as equally capable 
of being the ornament of cither. A Richardson 
or a D'Arblay, had ihey, continued her history, 
might have heightened the portrait, but they 
would not have altered its outline. Like the 
poetry of Tasso and Ariosto, that of the Gentle 
Shepherd is engraven on the memory of its na- 
tive country. Its verses have passed into pro- 
verbs; and it continues to be the delight and 
solace of the peasantry whom it describes. 

X Particularly the tale of the Monk and the Miller's 
■\Vife. This story i.x, uiihnppiiy, unfit for a popular rol- 
leition like tlie present, but it is well told. It is borrowed 
from an old poem attributed to Dunbar. 



ALLAN RAMSAY. 



485 



FKOJI "THE GENTLE SlIEl'IIERD." 

ACT I. SCE>'E II. 
PROLOGUE. 

A flowrie hnwm'* hetWRen twii verdant braes, 
Where la^'se'! use to w ish and spreml their claiths,* 
A trotting burnie wimpling throw tlie ground. 
Its channel peebles shining smioth ami round: 
Here view twa barcf ot beautie ■ clean ai'd clear; 
First please your eve. then gratify your ear ; 
Whi'e Jennv what -he wi hesdi-icommends. 
And Meg with better sense true love defends. 

Peggy and Jknnt. 
Jenny. Come, Meg, let 's fa' to work upon this 
green, 
This shining day will bleach our linen clean; 
The water 's clear, the lift-'' unclouded blue, 
Will make them like a lily wet with dew. 

Pep^gy. Gaefarreruptheburn to Habhie's How, 
Where a' that's sweet in spring and simmer grow : 
Between twa birks out o'er a little linn," 
I'he water fa's, and makes a singin' din: 
A pool breast-deep, beneath as clear as glass, 
Kisses with easy whirls the bord'ring grass. 
We'll end our washing while the morning's cool, 
And when the day grows het we'll to the pool. 
There wash oursells ; 'tis healthfu' now in May, 
And sweetly caller on sae warm a day. 

Jenny. Daft lassie, when we're naked, what'll 
we say, 
Giff our twa herds come brattling down the brae, 
And see us sae? — that jeering fellow, Pate, 
Wad taunting say, "Haith, lasses, ye're no 
blate."* 
Peggy. We're far frae ony road, and out of 
sight ; 
The lads they're feeding far beyont the hight; 
But tell me now. dear Jenny, we're our lane, 
What gars ye plague your wooer with disdain 1 
The neighbours a' tent this as well as I ; 
That Roger lo'es ye, yet ye care na by. 
What ails ye at him ? Troth, between us twa, 
He's wordy you the best day e'er ye saw. 

Jenny. I dinna like him, Peggy, there's an end; 
A herd mair sheepish yet I never ken'd. 
He kames his hair, indeed, and gaes right snug, 
With ribhon-knots at his blue bonnet lug; 
Whilk pensylie' he wears a thought a-jee/ 
And spreads his garters diced beneath his knee. 
He falds his owrelay* down his breast with care, 
And few gangs trigger to the kirk or fair; 
For a' that, he can neither sing nor say, 
Except, "How d'ye!" — or, "There's a bonny 
day." 
Peggy. Ye dash the lad with constant slighting 
pride. 
Hatred for love is unco sair to bide : 
But ye'll repent ye, if his love grow cauld, 
Wha likes a dorty' maiden when she's auldl 
Like dawted wean™ that rarrows at its meat," 
That for some feckless" whim will orp^ and 
greet: 

dTlie level Iw erronnd on the hnnks rf a s're- m. — 
• C'othes.— /-Uy.— rA poolbeneatha waterf ill. — " Mcdtst.— 
'Sivucelv.— jfo one side— » i rav;.t.-' I'et'bh.— msjoilt 
vhild.—n Pettishly refuses ils food.— o iiily.— J> breU 



The lave laugh at it till the dinner's past, 
And syne the fool thing is obliged to fast. 
Or scart anither's leavings at the last. 
Fy, Jenny ! think, and dinna sit yonr time. 

Jenny. I never thought a gingle life a crime. 

Peggy. Nor I: but love in whispers lets us ken 
That men were made for us, and we for men. 

Jenny. If Roger is my jo, he kens himsell. 
For sic a tale I never heard him tell. 
He glowrs' and sighs, and I can guess the cause: 
But wha's obliged to spell his hums and haws! 
Whene'er he likes to tell his mind mair plain, 
I'se tell him frankly ne'er to do't again. 
They're fools that slav'ry like, and may be free ; 
The chiels may a' knit up themselves for me. 

Peggy. Be doing your ways : for me, I have a 
mind 
To be as yielding as my Patie's kind. 

Jenny. Heh ! lass, how can ye lo'e that rattle- 
skull? 
A very deil, that ay maim have his will ! 
We soon will hear what a poor feightan life 
You twa will lead, sae soon s ye're man and wife. 

Peggy. I'll rin the risk ; nor have I ony fear, 
But rather think ilk langsome day a year, 
'Till I with pleasure mount my bridal-bed. 
Where on my Patie's breast I'll lay my head. 
There he may kiss as lang as kissing 's good, 
And what we do there's none dare call it rude. 
He's get his will; why no! 'tis good my part 
To give him that, and he'll give me his heart. 

Jenny. He may indeed for ten or fifteen days 
Mak meikle o' ye, with an unco fraise. 
And daut ye baith afore fowk and your lane : 
But soon as your newfangleness is gane. 
He'll look upon you as his tether-stake, 
And think he's tint his freedom for your sake, 
Instead then of lang days of sweet delyte, 
Ae day be dumb, and a' the neist he'll flyte : 
And may be in his barchoods,"" ne'er stick 
To lend his loving wife a loundering lick. 

Peggy. Sic coarse-spun thoughts as that want 
pith to move 
My settled mind ; I'm o'er far gane in love. 
Palie to me is dearer than my breath. 
But want of him I dread nae other skaith.' 
There's nane af a' the herds that tread the green 
Has sic a smile, or sic twa glancing een. 
.\nd then he speaks with sic a taking art. 
His words they thirli- like music through my heart. 
How blythly can he sport, and gentle rave. 
And jest at littb- fears that fright the lave. 
Ilk day that he's alane upon the hill. 
He reads feil' books that teach him meikle skm, 
He is — but what need I say that or this, 
I'd spend a month to tell you what he is! 
In a' he says or does there's sic a gate. 
The rest seem coos compared with my dear Pate 
His better sense will lang his love secure: 
Ill-nature hefts in sauls are weak and poor. 
Jen.y. Hey, "bonny lass of Branksome !" oi 
't be lang. 
Your witty Pate will put you in a sang. 

I 1 Stares. — rCross-mn d . — ' Harm. — ' Many. 



48G 



ALLAN RAMSAY. 



O 'lis a pleasant thing to l>e a bride! 

Syne whinging gets about your ingle-side, 

Yelping for this or that with fasheous" din: 

To make them brats then ye maun toil and spin. 

Ae wean fa's sick, and scads itself wi' brue," 

Ane breaks his shin, anither ties his shoe: 

The "Dei! gaes o'er John Wabster:""' hame 

grows hell, 
When Pate misca's ye waur than tongue can tell. 
Peggy.. Yes, it's a heartsome thing to be a wife, 
When round the ingle-edge young sprouts are 

rife. 
Gif I'm sae happy, I shall have delight 
To hear their little plaints, and keep them right. 
Wow, Jenny ! can there greater pleasure be, 
Than see sic wee tots toolying at your knee; 
When a' they ettle at, their greatest wish, 
Is to be made of, and obtain a kiss? 
Can there be toil in tenting day and night 
The like of them, when love makes care delight 1 
Jeiuiy. But poortith, Peggy, is the warst of a', 
Gif o'er your heads ill chance should begg'ry 

draw : 
There little love or canty cheer can come 
Frae duddy doublets, and a pantry tooni.'' 
Your nowt may die; the speat" may bear away 
Frae aff the howms your dainty rocks of hay ; 
The thick-blawn wreaths of snaw, or blashy 

thows, 
May smoor your wethers, and may rot your ewes ; 
A dyvour^ buys your butter, woo', and cheese, 
But or the day of payment breaks and flees ; 
With gloomin' brow the laird seeks in his rent, 
'Tis no to gie, your merchant's to the bent; 
His honour maunna want, he poinds your gear: 
Syne driven frae house and hald, where will ye 

steer 1 — 
Dear Meg, be wise, and lead a single life; 
Troth, it's nae mows" to be a married wife. 

Peggy. May sic ill luck befa' that silly she, 
Wha has sic fears, for that was never me. 
Let fowk bode wecl. and strive to do their best ; 
Nae mair's required — let heaven make out the 

rest. 
I've heard my honest uncle aften say. 
That lads should a' for wives that's vertuous 

pray; 
For the maist thrifty man could never get 
A well-stored room, unless his wife wad let: 
Wherefore nocht shall be wanting on my part 
To gather wealth to raise my shepherd's heart. 
Whate'er he wins I'll guide with canny care, 
And win the vogue at market, tron, or fair. 
For healsome, clean, cheap, and sutHcient ware. 
A flock of lambs, cheese, butter, and some woo', 
Shall first be said to pay the laird his due ; 
Syne a' behind 's our ain. — Thus without fear. 
With love and rowth* we thro' the warid will 

steer ; 
And when my Pate in bairns and gear grows rife, 
He'll bless the day he gat me for his wife. 



*'L'roab'efioine—'>Soalda itself with br( 
iriivcrb when all yoe'' wroti'^. — « Kmpty. 
l.aukrupt.— olt is no blight calamity. — ' 



til— "jA Scotch 
-V Land-flood.— 
fienty. 



Jenny. But what if some young giglet on the 
green, 
With dimpled cheeks, and two bewitching een. 
Should gar your Patie think his half-worn Meg, 
And her ken'd kisses, hardly worth a fegl 

Peggy. Nae mair of that: — dear Jenny, to be 
free. 
There's some men constanter in love than we : 
Nor is the ferly great, when nature kind 
Has blest them with solidity of mind ; 
They'll reason caulmly, and with kindness smile, 
When our short passions wad our peace beguile: 
Sae, whensoe'er they slight their maiks" at hame, 
'Tis ten to ane their wives are maist to blame. 
Then I'll employ with pleasure a' my art 
To keep him cheerfu', and secure his beart. 
At ev'n, when he comes weary frae the hill, 
I'll have a' things made ready to his will : 
In winter, when he toils thro' wind and rain, 
A bleezing ingle, and a clean hearth-stane : 
And soon as he flings by his plaid and staff, 
The seelhing'-pot 's be ready to take aff; 
Clean hag-abag^ I'll spread upon his bi>ard. 
And serve him with the best we can afl'ord: 
Good-humour, and white begonets" shall be 
Guards to my face, to keep his love for me. 
Jenny. A dish of married love right soon grows 
cauld. 
And dozins-'^ down to nane, as fowk grow auld. 
Peggy. But we'll grow auld together, and ne'er 
find 
The loss of youth, when love grows on the mind, 
Bairns and their bairns make sure a firmer tie, 
Thau aught in love the like of us can spy. 
See yon twa elms that grow up side by side. 
Suppose them some ears syne bridegroom and 

bride ; 
Nearer and nearer ilka year they've prest, 
Till wide their spreading branches are increased, 
And in their mixture now are fully blest: 
This shields the other frae the eastlin blast; 
That in return defends it frae the wast. 
Sic as stand single, (a state sae liked by you,) 
Beneath ilk storm frae every airt" maun bow. 
Jenny. I've done, — I yield, dear lassie ; I maun 
yield. 
Your better sense has fairly won the field. 
With the assistance of a little fae 
Lies dern'd within my breast this mony a day. 
Peggy. Alake, poor pris'ner ! — Jenny, that's no 
fair, 
That ye'U no let the wee thing take the air: 
Haste, lot hiro out; we'll tent as well's we can, 
Gif he be Bauldy's or poor Roger's man. 

Jen)iy. Anither time's as good ; for see the sun 
Is right far up, and we're not yet begun 
To freath the graith ; if canker'd Madge, our aunt. 
Come up the burn, she'll gie us a wicked rant; 
But when we've done, I'll tell you a" my mind ; 
For this seems true — nae lass can be unkind. 

[Jixrunt. 



c Mates. — <* Hunchback.- 
dies. — s Quarter. 



(Linen caps or coifs.— /Dwin- 



SIR CHARLES IIANBURY WILLIAMS. 



SONG. 
Farewell to Lochaber, farewell to my Jean, 
Where heartsome with thee I have niony a day 

been: 
To l/ochaber no more, to Lochaber no more, 
"We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more. 
These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear, 
And not for the dangers attendnig on weir; 
Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, 
Maybe to return to Lochaber no more ! 

Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind, 
No tempest can equal the storm in my mind : 
Though loudest of thunders on louder waves roar. 
That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. 



To leave thee behind me my heart is sair p<ain'd. 
But by ease that's inglorious no fame ^can bo 

gain'd: ^J 

And beauty and love's the reward of the^bravt 

And I maun deserve it before I can crave 3. 

t> 

Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse 
Since honour commands me, how can I refuse] 
Without it I ne'er can have merit for th ee ; 
And losing thy favour I'd better not be. , 
I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame. 
And, if I should chance to come glorioJis hame, 
I'll bring a heart to thee with love/ runnir.g 

o'er. 
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber/ no more 



SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS. 



[Born, 1709. Died, 1759.] 



Sir Charles Hanbury Williams was the son 
of John Hanbury, Esq.. a South Sea Director. 
He sat in several parliaments, was, in 1744, in- 



stalled a knight of the Bath, and wais afterward 
minister at the courts of Berlin /and Peters- 
burgh.* 



ODE. 

TO A GREAT NUMBER OF GREAT MEN, NEWLY MADE. 

See, a new progeny descends 

From Heaven, of Britain's truest friends : 

O Aluse ! attend my call ! 
To one of these direct thy flight. 
Or, to be sure that we are right, 

Direct it to them all. 

Clio ! these are golden times ! 

1 shall get money for my rhymes; 

And thou no more go tatter'd : 
Make haste then, lead the way, begin, 
For here are people just come in. 

Who never yet were flatter'd. 

But first to Carteret fain you'd sing; 
Indeed he's nearest to the King, 

Yet careless how you use him ; 
Give him, I beg, no labour'd lays ; 
He will but promise if you praise. 

And laugh if you abuse him. 

Then (but there's a vast space betwixt) 
The new-made Earl of Bath comes next, 

Stiff in his popular pride: 
His step, his gait, describes the man ; 
They paint him better than I can. 

Waddling from side to side. 

Each hour a different face he wears, 
Now in a fury, now in tears. 



[* Since tbis was written, an edition of Sir Charles II. 
Willijims's works, in 3 vols. 8vo, has been printed, of which 
a properly bitter critique appeamd in the 5:'.th number of 
the Uuai'lerly Keview, — it is said from the pen of Mr. 
Croker.] 



Now laughing, now in sorrow ; 
Now he'll command, and now otiey, 
Bellows for liberty to-day. 

And roars for power to-morroV' 

At noon the Tories had him tiglit. 

With staunchest Whigs he supfl>'d at night, 

Each party tried to 'ave won !him ; 
But he himself did so divide, I 
Shuffled and cut from side to sitlle, 

That now both parties shun hitn. 

See yon old, dull, important Lord, 
Who at the long'd-for money-bc/ard 

Sits first, but does not lead: 
His younger brethren all thin:gs make; 
So that the Treasury's like a «nake. 

And the tail moves the head. 

Why did you cross God's goofd intent 1 
He made you for a President|; 

Back to that station go ; 
Nor longer act this farce of power. 
We know you niiss'd the thing before. 

And have not got it now. 

See valiant Cobham, valorous Stair, 
Britain's two thunderbolts of war, 

Now strike my ravish'd eye: 
But oh ! their strength and spirits flown. 
They, like their conquering iswords, are grown 

Rusty with lying by. ) 

Dear Bat, I'm glad you've ffot a place. 
And since things thus havelchanged their fac 

You'll give opposing o'er! 
'Tis comfortable to he in, / 
And think what a damn'd yVhile you've been. 

Like Peter, at the door. 



488 



ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE. 



S' who comes next — I kiss thj' hanJs, 
Binot in flattery, Samuel Sandys; 

^r since you are in power, 
Thtgives you knowledge, judgment, parts, 
ThiQurtier's wiles, the statesman's arts, 

O^ihich you'd none before. 

Wh' great impending dangers shook 
I'^ ^ve, old Rome dictators took 

•Ji^ciously from plough : 
So \ (i;,ut at a pinch thou knowest) 
To n-e the highest of the lowest, 

TiGxchequer gave to you. 

When your hands the seals you found, 
Did t\ not make your brains go round 1 

Di<^iey not turn your head 7 
I fancbutyou hate a joke) 
lou fas Nell did when she woke 

In ly Loverule's bed. 

See Hy Vane in pomp appear, 
And, te he's made Vice Treasurer, 
"'^'^'taller by some inches ; 



See Tweedale follow Carteret's call; 
See Hanoverian Gower, and all 
The black funereal Finches. 

And see with that important face 
Berenger's clerk, to take his place, 

Into the Treasury come: 
With pride and meanness act thy part, 
Thou look'st the very thing thou art. 

Thou Bourgeois Gentilhomme. 

Oh, my poor Country, is this all 
You've gain'd by the long labour'd fall 

Of Walpole and his tools ] 
He %vas a knave indeed — what then? 
He'd parts — but this new set of men 

A'nt only knaves, but fools. 

More changes, better times this isle 
Demands : Oh ! Chesterfield, Argyll, 

To bleeding Britain bring 'em: 
Unite all hearts, appease each storm ; 
'Tis yours such actions to perforin, 

My pride shall be to sing 'em.* 



ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE. 



Isaac ^Kiug Browne was born at Burton- 
upon-Trerjycated at Westminster and Cam- 
bridge, an.mjjej ^^e law at Lincoln's Inn; 



but his fortune enabled him to decline the pur- 
suit of business long before his death. He sat in. 
two parliaments for Wenlocke, in Shropshire.! 



A. PIPE OF TOBACCO. 

^ ,TION OP SIX SEVERAL AUTHORS^ 

I^riON I.— COLLEY CIBBER. 

A NEW TE.\R'S ode. 

ies egregii Cassaris 



a deterere iugeni. 



noR. 



REClTATiro. 

Old Battljjy^ |,ig ^^5,^ horror, is fled. 
And olive- J pg^ce again lifts up her head. 

Sing, ye Mupohaeco, the blessing of peace; 

Was ever a ,„ so blessed as this ? 



When sur, g^^s grow red with heat, 

TobaccCpers PhcEbus' ire ; 

When wirtorms around us beat, 

Tobaccors ^nh gentle fire. 

\ello^mnn, youthful spring; 

In "^iises jointly sing. 

[* This is sory ,,yj Williams did not alwav,"! write 
this way. » iti^ famous quatrain on Pulteney : 
A nd \ "^^^"^° y°h on his Lordship. &c. 

He'll b H^''^ "' ^ere and there in eac h page, 
To enrc,,i^ ^„g^,g ^f ,,;, y^^ ^i 

'^^ li**n y°tion the acts cf his ai:e— 

Leave :. j;,^ j^j^ jjouour and truth !] 
t Browne wajgj.j^jjjjj,^, companion when he had 
1' dniiik his bolt „^j before: tliis proved a snare to 
him, and he woi^4ij^yg,^,j^^ ,00 much; but 1 know 



Like Neptune. Caesar guards Virginian fleets. 
Fraught with Tobacco's balmy sweets; 
Old Ocean trembles at Britannia's power. 
And Boreas is afraid to roar. 



Happy mortal ! he who knows 
Pleasures which a Pipe bestows; 
Curling eddies climb the room, 
Wafting round a mild perfume. 

recitativo. 
Let foreign climes the wine and orange boast. 
While wastes of war deform the teeming co^vst; 
Britannia, distant from each hostile sound. 
Enjoys a Pipe, with ease and freedom crown'd: 
E'en restless faction finds itself most free. 
Or if a slave, a slave to liberty. 

not that he was charireable with any other irregularities. 
lie had those among his intimates, wlio would not have 
been such had lie been otlierwise vicii usly inclined;— the 
Duncombes. in parti( ular, father and son, wlio were of un- 
blemished morals. — Cowper, Lrttrr ti Rose. 20 >Jay, 1"S9.] 
[t Mr. Hiiwkins Browne, the author of these, hid no 
good oririnal manner of his own, yet we see how well he 
succeeds when he turns an imitator; fin- the following 
are rather imitations, than ridiculous j/*'i'wlies. — Goia 

SMITH.! 



ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE. 



489 



Smiling years that gaily run 
Round the zodiac with the sun, 
Tell if ever you have seen 
Realms so quiet and serene. 
British sons no longer now 
Hurl the bar or twang the bow, 
Nor of crimson combat think, 
But securely smoke and drink. 

CHORUS. 

Smiling years, that gaily run 
Round the zodiac with the sun. 
Tell if ever you have seen 
Realms so quiet and serene. 



nilTATION 11.— AMB. PIHITPS. 
■^enues fu^it ceu fumus in auras. — Virg. 
Little tube of mighty power, 
Charmer of an idle hour, 
Object of my warm desire, 
1/ip of wax and eye of fire ; 
And thy snowy taper waist, 
"With my finger gently bracoJ; 
And thy pretty swelling crest. 
With my little stopper prest. 
Ami the sweetest bliss of blisses, 
Breathing from thy balmy kisses. 
Happy thrice, and thrice agen, 
Happ;est he of happy men ; 
Who when again the night returns, 
When again the taper burns, 
When agaia the cricket 's gay, 
(Little cricket full of play.) 
Can afford his tube to feed 
With the fragrant Indian weed: 
Pleasure for a nose divine, 
Incense of the god of wine. 
Happy thrice, and thrice again, 
Happiest be of happy men. 



IMITATIOX III.*— JAMES THOMSON. 

■ Prorumi it ad a^theranulem 

Turbine, lumai tim ikeo. Virq. 

THOTi, matured by glad Hesperian suns, 
Tobacco, fountain pure of Imipid (ruth, 
That looks the very soul ; whence pouring thought 
Saarrns all the nnud ; absorpt is yellow care, 



[» " Browne," said Pope to Spenoe," i-t an excellent copy- 
ist, and tlio e who take it i.l of him are very mu h in the 
wrorg" T; i* appe.irs to liave teen raid wilh an eye to 
Tliom on, who, .=oon after the •' l%e" : ppe .r> d, published 
in the papers of the day what Armi-trong ha-s called "a 
warm copy of verses ' by way of reply 1 These we h:ive 
the good iiiik to recover: they are altogether unnoti ed 
and unknown, and as such, not from their merit, may find 
a plate here. 

THE SMOKER SMOKED.f 

■?ti'l f om thy pipe, as from dull Tophet. say, 
Ascends the .moke for ever and for aye? 
^o ei.d of nai-ty impoetic breath? 
Foil! dost thou moa)i to stink the town to death? 
hou (0!if)und the poets, in ihiiie ire, 
^'m n o.' mighty smoke but little fire! 
^oilo bid tliee frcm I'ari.a sus f y, 
\\ here nut o; e cloud e'er stalnd his purest sky 
Ueu'e! and oer fat Buotia roll thy streams; 
Nors, it and sp.iwl about the Muxes' streams, 
rbe.-e ui; id> (elestial, like our earthly fair, 
Could never yet a tUthy sm ker bear. 
6.: 



J 11(1 at each puff imagination burns : 

Flash on thy bard, and with exalting fires 

Touch the mysterious lip that chaunts thy praise 

In strains to mortal sons of earth unknown. 

Behold an engine, wrought from tawny mines 

Of ductile clay, with plastic virtue form'd, 

And glazed magnific o'er, I grasp, I fill. 

From Psetotheke with pungent powers perfumed, 

Ii self one lor oise all, where stiines imbibed 

Each parent ray ; then rudely ramm'd illume, 

With the red touch of zeal-enkindling sheet. 

Marked tvith Gibsottian lore ; forth issue clouds, 

Thought-thrilling, thirst-inciting clouds around. 

And many-mining fires ; I all the while. 

Lolling at ease, inhale the breezy balin. 

But chief, when Bacchus wont with thee to join, 

111 genial s rife and orthodoxal ale, 

S!7cam life and Joy into the ilii(se's 601^?. 

Oh be thou still my great inspirer, thou 

3Jy Muse ,■ oh fan me with thy zephyrs boon, 

While I, in clouded tabernacle shrined. 

Burst forth all oracle and mystic song. 



IMITATION IV.— DR. YOUNG. 

Bullatis mihi nugis 

Pagina turgescat — dare pondus idonea fumo. — P£RS. 

Critics avaunt! Tobacco is my theme; 
Tremble like hornets at the blasting steam. 
And you, court-insects, flutter not too near 
Its light, nor buzz within the scorching sphere. 
Pollio, with flame like thine my verse inspire, 
So shall the Muse from smoke elicit fire. 
Coxcombs prefer the tickling sting of snuff; 

Yet all their claim to wisdom is a puff: 

Lord Foplin smokes not — for his teeth afraid 
Sir Tawdry smokes not — for he wears brocade. 
Ladies, when pipes are brought, affect to swoon; 
They love no smoke, except the smoke of town; 
But courtiers hate the puffing tribe, — no matter. 
Strange if they love the breath that cannot flatter! 
Its foes but show their ignorance ; can he 
Who scorns the leaf of knowledge, love the tree 1 
The tainted Templar (more prodigious yet) 

Rails at Tobacco, though it makes him spit. 

Citronia vows it has an odious stink; 

She will not smoke (ye gods!) — but she will drink: 

Were to the dusky tribe Parnassus free, 

Vt h it clamb'iing up, what crowding should we see? 

Against ihe tuneful gtd what mortal sin? 

Goud lord : what parsons wo aid tome bustling in? 

What f g;y poliliiians, templars, cit;s! 

What-coifie hou.-e, what ale- house mud ly wits ? 

Take this pliin le son. imitating Zany! 
First learn to wiiie. lef re you write like any. 
Be cauiiiu-t. m a-tid! whom you imitate, 
Aiid wise, rcmjuil er vniu Salmontus' fate; 
Through Grecian cities he, ihrou-h Kli-i, drove; 
Aid, liasbiug tor.-hes. djem d himself a Jove: 
Mi dinan! 10 think for tht.nd.T thus to pass 
Ills ch riot ra t>in;j; o"er a bridge of brass. 
Wraliiful at this, from deep surrounding gloom, 
Th a miibtv f ther seized the forky doom; 
(.No tirelira.id that emit ing smoky light, 
But with knpalie.,t ven;j.ean(e tieruely bright;) 
He seized, and hurl d it on the thundering elf,. 
Who Btiai^ht vi.e a^shes fall, his thunders and himself.) 



Lt Qent.'8 Mag. for 1736, p. 74S.] 



490 



JOHN BYROM. 



And clia.3te Prudella (blame her if you can) 
Says. pi()es are used by that vile creature Man: 
V^et crowds remain, who still its worth proclaim, 
While some for pleasure smoke, and some for 

fame: 
Fame, of our actions universal spring, 
For which we drink, eat, sleep, smoke — every- 
thing. 



IMITATION v.— MR POPE. 

■Vanescitfumus. 

Blest leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense 
To Templars modesty, to parsons sense ; 
So raptured priests, at famed Dodona's shrine, 
Drank insjiiration from the steam divine. 
Poison that cures, a vapour that aflbrds 
Content, move solid than the smile of lords: 
Rest to the weary, to the hungry food, 
The last kind refuge of the wise and good. 
Inspired by thee, dull cits adjust the scale 
Of Europe's peace, when other statesmen fail. 
By thee protected, and thy sister beer. 
Poets rejoice, nor think the bailiff near. 
Nor less the critic own thy genial aid. 
While supperless he plies the i)iddiing trade. 
"U^hat though to love and soft delights a foe, 
By ladies hated, hated by the l)eau. 
Yet social freedom, long to courts unknown. 
Fair health, fair truth, and virtue are thy own. 
Come to thy poet, come with healing wings, 
And let me taste thee unexcised by kings. 



IMITATION VI.— DEAN SWIFT. 
Ex fumo dare lucem. — HoR. 
BoT ! bring an ounce of Freeman's best. 
And bid the vicar be my guest: 
Let all be placed in manner due, 
A pot wherein to spit or sjjew. 
And Ivondon Journal, and Free-Briton 
Of use to light a pipe or * * 



This village, unmolested yet 
By troopers, shall be my retreat : 
Who cannot flatter, bribe, betray ; 
Who cannot write or vote for * * * 
Far from the vermin of the town, 
Here let me rather live my own, 
Doze o'er a pipe, whose vapour bland 
In sweet oblivion lulls the land; 
Of all which at Vienna passes, 
As ignorant as * * Brass is: 
And scorning rascals to caress, 
Extol the (lays of good Queen Bess, 
When first Tobacco blest our isle, 
Then think of other queens — and smile. 

Come, jovial pipe, and bring along 
Midnight revelry and song; 
The merry catch, the madrigal, 
That echoes sweet in City Hall ; 
The parson's pun, the smutty tale 
Of country justice o'er his ale. 
I ask not what the French are doing, 
Or Spain, to compass Britain's ruin : 
Brifons, if undone, can go 
Where Tobacco loves to grow. 



JOHN BYROM. 



[Born, 1691. Died, 1763.] 



John Byrom was the son of a linen-draper at 
Manihester. He was bprn at Kersal, and was 
educated at Merchant Tailors' School, and at 
Cambridge. Dr. Bentley.the fatherof the Phoebe 
of his pastoral poem, procured him a fellowship 
at the University, which he was obliged, however, 



to vacate, as he declined to go into the church. 
He afterwards supported himself by teaching 
short-hand writing in London, till by the death 
of an elder brother, he inherited the family 
estate, and spent the close of his life in ea«y 
circumstances.* 



A PASTORAL. 
My time, ye Muses, was happily spent, 
When Plicebe went with me wherever I went; 
Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast : 
Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest! 
But now she is gone, and has left me behind. 
What a marvellous change on a sudden I find ! 
When things were as fine as could possibly be, 
I thought 'twas the Spring ; but alas ! it was she. 

With such a companion to tend a few sheep, 
To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep; 
I was so good-liumour'd, so cheerful and gay. 
My heart was as light as a feather all day, 



But now I so cross and so peevish am grown, 

So strangely uneasy, as never was known. 

My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drown'd. 

And my heart 1 am sure it weighs more than 

a pound. 

The fountain, that wont to run sweetly along. 
And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among; 
Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phcebe was there, 
'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear: 

[* The poems of this ingenious and singular good man 
are pioj^-erly incUdeU in Clia"mers"8 GeuiTal Collection" 
pri'ipfrly, Lecaiise they liave the great and rare merit oi 
orijiinaiity. — Southhy. Cuwper, vol. vU. p. 301.] 



WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 



491 



But now she is absent, I walk by its side, 
And still, as it nuirmura, do nothing- but cbid^ ; 
Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain I 
Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me 
complain. 

My lambkins around me would oftentimes play, 
And Phoebe and I were as joyful as they; 
How |)leasant their sporting, how happy their time, 
When Spring, Love, and Beauty, were all in their 

prime; 
But now, in their frolics when by me they pass, 
I fling at their fleeces an handful of grass ; 
Be stdl then, I cry, for it makes me qu.te mad, 
To see you so merry while I am so sad. 

My dog I was ever well pleased to see 
Coine wagging his tail to my fair one and me; 
And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said, 
" Come hither, poor fellow;" and patted his head. 
But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look 
Cry "Sirrah;" and give him a blow with my 

crook : 
And I'll give him another; for why should not 

Tray 
Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe's away 1 

When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I 

seen, 
How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green ! 
What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade, 
The corn fields and hedges, and ev'ry thing made ! 
But now she has left me, though all are st.ll there, 
They none of them now so delightful appear: 
'Twas nought but the magic, I find, of her eyes, 
Made so many beautiful prospects arise. 

Sweet music went with us both all the wood 

through. 
The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too : 



Winds over us whisper'd, flocks by us did bleat. 
And chirp went the grassho|)per under our feet. 
But now she is absent, though still tboy sing on, 
The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone : 
Her voice in the concert, as now I have found. 
Gave ev'ry thing else its agreeable sound. 

Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue? 
And where is the violet's beautiful blue? 
Does ought of its sweetness the blossom beguile ] 
That meadow, those daisies, why do they not 

smile ? 
Ah ! rivals, I see what it was that you drest. 
And made yourselves fine for — a place in her 

breast : 
You put on your colours to pleasure her eye, 
To be pluck'd by her hand, on her bosom to die. 

How slowly Time creeps till my Phcebe re- 
turn ! 
While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn: 
Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he woulil tread, 
I could breathe on his wings, and 'twould melt 

down the lead. 
Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear. 
And rest so much longer for 't when she is here. 
Ah Colin! old Time is full of delay. 
Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst 
say. 

Will no pitying pow'r. that hears me complain. 
Or cure my disquiet or soften my pain ? 
To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion re- 
move ; 
But what swain is so silly to live without love ■• 
No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return. 
For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn. 
Ah ! what shall I do ? I shall die with despair; 
Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your 
fair.* 



WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 



[Born, nU. Died, 1763.] 



WiLLt AW SHENSTONE was born at the Leasowes, 
in Hales Owen. He was bred at Pembroke Col- 
lege, Oxford, where he applied himself to poetry, 
and published a small miscellany in 1737, with- 
out his name. He had entertained thoughts, at 
one period, of studying medicine; but on coming 
of age he retired to a property at Harborough, 
left him by his mother, where, in an old romantic 
hal)itation, haunted by rooks, and shaded by oaks 
and elms, he gave himself up to indolence and 
tiie Muses. He came to London for the first 
time in 1740, and published his ".ludgment of 
Hercules." A year after appeared his "School- 
mistress." For several years he led a wander- 
ing life of amusement, and was occasionally at 
Bath, London, and (Jheltenham ; at the last of 
which places he met with the Phyllis of his pas- 
toral ballad, 'i'he first sketch of that ballad had 



been written under a former attachment to a lady 
of the name of Graves; but it was resumed and 
finished in compliment to his new flame. Dr. 
Johnson informs us that he might have obtained 
Phyllis, whoever the lady was, if he had chosen 
to ask her. 

In the year 1745 the death of his indulgent 
uncle, Mr. Dolman, who had hitherto managed 
his affairs, threw the care of them upon himself 
and he fixed his residence at the Leasowes, which 
he brought, by improvements, to its far-famed 
beauty. In these improvements his affectif^nate 
apologist, Mr. Greaves, acknowledges that he 
spent the whole of his income, but denies the 
alleged poverty of his latter days, as well as the 
rumour that his landscapes were haunted by 

[* This Goldsmith justly preferied to any of Shenstonu's 
pastorals.] 



i02 



WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 



duns and bailiffs. He states, on the contrary, 
that he left considerable legacies to his servants. 
The Frenchman who dedicated a stone in his 
garden to the memory of Shenstoiie,* was not 
wholly wrong in ascribing to him a "/r/s/e «o?m- 
ral," for there is a freshness and distinctness in 
his rural images, like those of a man who had 
enjoyed the country with his own senses, and 
very unlike the descriptions of 

" A pastoral poet from Leadenhall street," 
who may have never heard a lamb bleat but on 
its way to the slaughter-house. At the same 
time there is a certain air of masquerade in his 
pastoral character as applied to the man himself; 
and he is most natural in those pieces where he 
is least Arcadian. It may seem invidious, per- 
haps, to object to Shenstone making his appear- 
ance in poetry with his pipe and his crook, while 
custom has so much inured us to the idea of 
Spenser feigning himself to be Colin Clout, and 
to his styling Sir Walter Raleigh the " Shepherd 
of the Ocean" — an expression, by the way, which 
is not remarkably intelligible, and which, perhaps, 
might not unfairly be placed under Miss Edge- 
worlh's description of English bulls. Gabriel 
Harvey used also to designate himself Hobbinol 
in his poetry; and Browne, Lodge, Drayton, 
Milton, and many others, describe themselves as 
surrounded by their flocks, though none of them 
probably ever possessed a live sheep in the course 
of their lives. But with respect to the poets of 
Elizabeth's reign, their distance from us appears 
to soften the romantic license of the fiction, and 
we regard them as beings in some degree cha- 
racterized by their vicinity to the ages of romance. 
Milton, though coming later, invests his pastoral 
disguise (in Lycidas) with such enchanting pic- 
turesquesness as wholly to divert our attention 
from the unreal shepherd to the real poet. But 
from the end of the seventeenth century pastoral 
poetry became gradually more and more unpro- 
fitable in South Britain, and the figure of the 
genuine shepherd swain began to be chiefly con- 
fined to pictures on china, and to opera ballets. 
Shenstone was one of the last of our respectable 
poets who aflected this Arcadianism, but he was 



too modern to sustain it in perfect keeping. His 
entire poetry, therefore, presents us with a double 
image of his character ; one impression which it 
leaves is that of an agreeable, indolent gentle- 
man, of cultivated taste and refined sentiments; 
the other that of Corydon, a purely amatory and 
ideal swain. It would have been so far well, if 
those characters had been kept distinct, like two 
impressions on the opposite sides of a medal. 
But he has another pastoral name, that of Damon, 
in which the swain and the gentletnan are rather 
incongruously blended together. Damon has 
also his festive garlands and dances at wakes and 
may-poles, but he is moreover a disciple of vertu . 

"his bosom burns 
TVith statue.s, paintings, coins, and urns." 

" He sighs to call one Titian stroke his own;" 
expends his fortune on building domes and obe- 
lisks, is occasionally delighted to share his vintage 
with an old college acquaintance, and dreams of 
inviting Delia to a mansion with Venitian win- 
dows. 

Apart from those ambiguities, Shenstone is a 
pleasing writer, both in his lighter and graver 
vein. His genius is not forcible, but it settles in 
mediocrity without meanness. His pieces of 
levity correspond not disagreeably with their title. 
His "Ode to Memory" is worthy of protection 
from the power which it invokes. Some of the 
stanzas of his " Ode to Rural Elegance" seem to 
recall to us the country-loving spirit of Cowley, 
subdued in wit, but harmonized in expression. 
From the commencement of the stanza in that 
ode, "0 sweet disposer of the rural hour," he 
sustains an agreeable and peculiarly refined strain 
of poetical feeling. The ballad of "Jemmy 
Dawson," and the elegy on "Jessy," are written 
with genuine feeling. With all the beauties of 
the Leasowes in our minds, it may be still re- 
gretted, that instead of devoting his whole soul 
to clumping beeches, and projecting mottos for 
summer-houses, he had not gone more into living 
nature for subjects, and described her interesting 
realities with the siime fond and nu'ioe touches 
which give so much delightfulness to his portrait 
of the " School-mistress." 



THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS.f 

IN IMITATION OF SPENSER. 

Ah me ! full sorely is my heart forlorn. 
To think how modest worth neglected lies: 
While partial fame doth with her blasts adorn 
Such deeds alone as pride and pomp disguise; 

* Mens. Oirardin at his eftafe of ErmcnonvlUe, formed 
a garden in some decree on the Knglish model, with in- 
scri] tions after the manner of SheiiBtoiie, one of which, 
dodicatod to Shenstone himself, ran thus: 

This p'aln stone 

To Williiim Shenstone. 

In his writings he display'd 

A miud natural ; 

At heasowes he laid 

Arcadian greens ruraL 



Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprize : 
Lend me thy clarion, goddess ! let me try 
To sound the praise of merit ere it dies; 
Such as I oft have chaunced to espy; 
Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity. 
In every village mark'd with little spire, 
Embower'd in trees, and hardly known to fiinie, 

[t This poem is one of those happinesses in which a pnoi 
exiels himself, as there is nothing in all Shenstone wiiich 
any way npjiroaihes it in merit; and though I dislike the 
imitations of our Knglii-h poets in general, yet, on this 
minute ^ulJjl.■ct, the antiiiuiiy of the siy.e produces a very 
luu'icroiis absurJiiy.— GoLD.-MiTH. 

The Schoolmi^t «ss is excellent of its kind and masterly 
~Gka! to H^/jiob.] 



WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 



493 



There dwells, in lowly shed, and mean attire, 
A matron old, whom we school-mistress name; 
Who boasts unruly hrats with birch to tame; 
They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, 
Awed by the pow'r of this relentless dame : 
And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent. 
For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely 
shent. 

And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree. 
Which learning near her little dome did stowe; 
Whilom a twig of small regard to see. 
Though now so wide its waving branches flow; 
And work the simple vassals mickle woe; 
For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew. 
But their limbs shudder'd, and their pulse beat 

low; 
And as they look'd they found their horror grew, 
And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the view. 

So have I seen (who has not, may conceive,) 
A lifeless phantom near a garden placed ; 
So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave. 
Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast; 
They start, they stare, they wheel, they look 

aghast; 
Sad servitude ! such comfortless annoy 
May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste ! 
Ne superstition clog his dance of joy, 
Ne vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy. 

Near to this dome is found a patch so green. 
On which the tribe their gambols do display ; 
And at the door imprisoning board is seen. 
Lest weakly wights of smaller size should 

stray ; 
Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day ! 
The noises intermix'd, which thence resound. 
Do learning's little tenement betray; 
Where sits the dame, disguised in look profound. 
And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel 
around. 

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow. 
Emblem right meet of decency does yield : 
Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trowe, 
As is the hnre-bell that adorns the field : 
And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield 
Tway birchen sprays ; with anxious fear en- 
twined. 
With dark distrust, and sad repentance fiU'd ; 
And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction join'd. 
And fury uncontroU'd, and chastisement unkind. 

Few but have ken'd, in semblance meet pour- 

tray'd. 
The childish faces of old Eol's train ; 
Libs, Notus, Auster: these in frowns array'd. 
How then would fare or earth, or sky, or main. 
Were the stern god to give his slaves the reinl 
And were not she rebellious breasts to quell. 
And were not she her statutes to maintain, 
/ The cot no more, I ween, were deem'd the cell, 
Where comely peace of mind, and decent order 

dwell. 



A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown • 
A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air; 
'Twas simple russet, but it was her own; 
'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair ! 
'Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare ; 
And, sooth to say, her pupils, ranged around. 
Through pious awe, did term it passing rare; 
For they in gaping wonderment abound. 
And think, ne doubt, she been the greatest wight 
on ground. 

Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth, 
Ne pompous title did debauch her ear; 
Goody, good-woman, gossip, n'aunt, forsooth, 
Or dame, the sole additions she did hear; 
Yet these she challenged, these she held right 

dear: 
Ne would esteem him act as mought behove. 
Who should nothonourd eld with these revere: 
For never title yet so mean could prove. 
But there was eke a mind which did that title 

love. 

One ancient hen she took delight to ieea, 
The plodding pattern of the busy dame ; 
Which, ever and anon, impell'd by need. 
Into her school, begirt with chickens, came ; 
Such favour did her past deportment claim; 
And, if neglect had lavish'd on the ground 
Fragment of bread, she would collect the same; 
For well .she knew, and quaintly could expound, 
What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb 
she found. 

Herbs too she knew, and well of each could 

speak. 
That in her garden sipp'd the silvery dew; 
Where no vain flower disclosed a gaudy streak; 
But herbs for use, and physic, not a few 
Of gray renown, within those borders grew: 
The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme. 
Fresh baum, and marygold of cheerful hue: 
The lowly gill, that never dares to climb; 
And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to 
rhyme. 

Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung. 
That gives dim eyes to wander leagues around ; 
And pungent radish, biting infant's tongue; 
And plantain ribb'd, that heals the reaper's 

wound; 
And marj'ram sweet, in shepherd's posie found ; 
And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom 
Shall be, erewhile, in arid bundles bound, 
To lurk amidst the labours of her loom, 
And crown her kerchiefs clean, with mickle rare 
perfume. 

And her trim rosemarine, that whilom crown'd 
The daintiest garden of the proudest peer ; 
Ere, driven from its envied site, it found 
A sacred shelter for its branches here ; 
Where, edged with gold, its glittering skirt" 

appear. 
Oh wassel days ! customs meet and well ! 
2R 



494 



WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 



Ere this was banish'd from its lofty sphere 
feimplicity then sought this humhie cell, 
Nor ever would she more with thane and lord- 
ling dwell. 

Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent eve, 
Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did 

mete ; 
If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did cleave, 
But in her garden found a summer-seat: 
Sweet melody! to hear her then repeat 
IL'W Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king, 
While taunting foe-men did a song entreat, 
All, for the nonoe, untuning every string, 
Uphung their useless lyres — small heart had they 
to sing. 

For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore, 
And pass'd much time in truly virtuous deed; 
And, in those elfins' ears would oft deplore 
Tlie times, when truth by popish rage did 

bleed ; 
And tortuous death was true devotion's meed; 
And simple faith in iron chains did mourn, 
That nould on wooden image place her creed ; 
And lawny saints in smouldering flames did 

burn : 
Ah ! dearest Lord, forfend thilk days should e'er 

return. 

In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem, 
By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defaced, 
In which, when he receives his diadem. 
Our sovereign prince and liefest liege is placed, 
The matron sate; and some with rank she graced, 
(The source of children's and of courtiers' 

pride !) 
Redress'd affronts, for vile affronts there pass'd; 
And warn d them not the fretful to deride. 
But love each other dear, whatever them betide. 

Right well she knew each temper to descry; 
To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise; 
Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high, 
And some entice with |)ittiince small of praise; 
And other some with baleful sprig she 'frays: 
Ev'n absent, she the reins of power doth hold. 
While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she 

sways ; 
Forewarn d, if little bird their pranks behold, 
Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold. 

Lo now with state she utters the command! 
Kftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair; 
Their books of stature small they take in hand, 
Which with pellucid born secured are ; 
To save from finger wet the letters fiiir: 
The work so gay, that on their back is seen, 
St. George's high achievements does declare; 
On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been, 
Kens the lorlhcoming rod, unpleasing sight, I 
ween ! 

Ah luckless he, and born beneath the beam 
Of evil star ! it irks me whilst I write ' 



As erst the bard by Mulla's silver stream, 
Oft, as he told of deadly dolorous plight. 
Sigh d as he sung, and did in tears indite. 
For brandishing the rod, she doth begin 
To loose the iirogues, the stripling's late delight! 
And down they drop; appears his dainty skin, 
Fair as the furry-coat of whitest ermilin. 

O ruthful scene ! when from a nook obscure, 
His little sister doth his peril see : 
All playful as she sate, she grows demure; 
She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee; 
She meditates a prayer to set him free: 
Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny, 
(If gentle pardon could with dames agree,) 
To her sad grief that swells in either eye. 
And wrings her so that all for pity she could die. 

No longer can she now her shrieks command ; 
And hardly she forbears, through awful fear. 
To rushen forth, and, with presumptuous hand, 
'J'o stay harsh justice in its mid career. 
On thee she calls, on thee her parent dear^ 
(Ah ! too remote to ward the shameful blow !) 
She sees no kind domestic visage near. 
And soon a flood of tears begins to flow ; 
And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe. 

But ah ! what pen his piteous plight may trace 1 
Or what device his loud laments explain 1 
The form uncouth of his disguised face? 
The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain 1 
The plenteous shower that does his cheek distaini 
When he, in abject wise, implores the dame, 
Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain ; 
Or when from high she levels well her aim, 
And, through the thatch, his cries each falling 
stroke proclaim. 

The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay, 
Attend, and conn their tasks with mickle care: 
By turns, astony'd, every twig survey. 
And, from their fellow's hateful wounds beware; 
Knowing, I wist, how each the same may share; 
Till fear has taught them a performance meet, 
And to the well-known chest the dame repair; 
Whence oft with sugar'd cates she doth them 

greet, 
And gingerbread y-rare; now, certes, doubly 

sweet. 

See to their seats they bye with merry glee 
Ai.d in beseemly order sitten there; 
All but the wight of burn y-galled, he 
Abhorreth bench and stool, and fourm, and 

chair: 
(This hand in mouth y-fix'd,that rends h'shair;> 
And eke with snubs profound, and heaving breast, 
Convulsions intermitting, does declare 
His grievous wrong; his dame's unjust behest; 
And scorns her ofler'd love, and shuns to be 

caress'd 

His eyes besprent with liquid crystal shines, 
H' ' 'ooming face that seems a purple flower. 



WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 



495 



Wliich low to earth its drooping head declines, 
All sniearM and sully'd by a vernal shower. 
O the hard bosoms of despotic power! 
All, all, but she, the author of his shame, 
All, all, but she, regret this mournful hour: 
Yet hence the youth, and hence the flower, 
shall claim, 
If so I deem aright, transcending worth and fame. 

Behind some door, in melancholy thought, 
Mindless of food, he, dreary caitiff! pines; 
Ke for his ftliows' joyaunce careth aught, 
But to the wind all merriment resigns; 
And deems it shame if he to peace inclines; 
And many a sullen look askance is sent. 
Which f<)r his dame's annoyance he designs; 
And still the more to pleasure him she's bent. 
The more doth he, perverse, her 'haviour past 
resent. 

Ah me ! how much I fear lest pride it be! 
But if that pride it be which thus inspires. 
Beware, ye dames, with nice discernment see, 
Ye quench not too the sparks of nobler fires: 
Ah! better far than all the Muses' lyres, 
All coward arts, is valour's generous heat; 
The firm fixt breast which fit and ri^iit requires, 
Ijike Vernon's patriot soul: more justly great 
Than craft that pimps for ill, or fiowery false 
deceit : 

Yet, nursed with skill, what dazzling fruits ap- 
pear! 
Even now sagacious foresight points to show 
A little bench of heedless bishops here. 
Ami there a chancellor in embryo. 
Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so. 
As Milton, Shakspeare, names that ne'er shall 

die! 
Though now he crawl along the ground so low. 
Nor weeting how the Muse should soar on high, 
Wisheth, poor starveling elf! his paper kite 
may fly. 

And this perhaps, who, censuring the design, 
Lowlaysthe house which that of cardsdoth build, 
Shall Dennis be ! if rigid fate incline. 
And many an epic to liis rage shall yield; 
And many a poet quit the Aoniaii field: 
And, sour'd by age, profound he shall appear. 
As he who now with 'sdainful fury thrill'd. 
Surveys mine work: and levels many a sneer. 
And fur's his wrinkly front, and cr.es, " What 
stuff is here]" 

But now Dan Phoebus gains the middle skie, 
And liberty unbars her prison-door: 
And like a rushing torrent out they fly, 
And now the grassy cirque han cover'd o'er 
With lioi>terous revel-rout and wild uprnar; 
A thousand ways in wanton rings they run, 
Heaven shield their short-lived pastimes, I im- 
plore ! 
For well may freedom erst so dearly won. 
Appear to British elf more gladsome than the sun. 



Enjoy, poor imps! enjoy your sportive trade. 
And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest flowers; 
For when my bones in grass-green sods are laid ; 
For never may ye taste more careless hours 
In knightly castles or in ladies' bowers. 
O vain to seek delight in earthly thing ! 
But most in courts where proud ambition towers; 
Deluded wight! who weens fair peace can 
spring 
Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king. 

See in each sprite some various bent apptar ! 
These rudely carol most incondite lay ; 
Those sauntering on the green, with jocund leer 
Salute the stranger passing on his way ; 
Some builden fragile tenements of clay; 
Some to the standing lake their courses bend. 
With pebbles smooth at duok-and-drake to play ; 
Thilk to the huckster's savory cottage tend. 
In pastry kings and queens th' allotted mite to 
spend. 

Here, as each season yields a different store. 
Each season's stores in order ranged been ; 
Apples with cabbage-net y-cover'd o'er. 
Galling full sore th' unmoney'd wight, are seen ; 
And goose-'brie clad in livery red or green ; 
And here of lovely dye, the Catharine pear. 
Fine pear ! as lovely for thy juice, I ween : 
O n)ay no wight e'er pennyless come there, 
Lest smit with ardent love he pine with hopeless 
care! 

See ! cherries here, ere cherries yet abound, 
With thread so white in tempting posies ty'd, 
Scattering, like blooming maid, their glances 

round. 
With pamper'd look draw little eyes aside; 
And must be bought, though penury betide. 
The plum all azure and the nut all brown. 
And here each season do those cakes abide. 
Whose honour'd names th' inventive city own. 
Rendering through Britain's isle Salopia's praises 

known. 

Admired Snlopia! that with venial pride 

Eyes her bright form in Severn's ambient wave, 

Famed for her loyal cares in perils try'd, 

Her daughters lovely, and her striplings brave: 

Ah ! 'midst the rest, may flowers adorn his 

grave, 
Whose art did first these dulcet cates display ! 
A motive fair to learning's imps he gave. 
Who cheerless o'er her darkling region stray ; 
Till reason's morn arise, and light them on their 

way.* 



[* " When T binght gpcnser first," says Shenstone, " 1 
re.uJ a pau'e or two of ' Ihe Fairi« Quceiie,' and ( an^cl not 
to pre end. Afcr that, Pope's 'Alley,' male me cnnsiilcr 
him luilirously; and in that li-'ht, I tliink one may read 
iiim with pleasure." We owe the Srho ilmistress to this 
ill-tasto and this complete misconception of Spensar. 

Sir. Disrae'i has an entcrtaininjr raper on Shens'one, hu* 
has omit'oil to mention that the fir^t sketch of tlie School 
mispress, in t.velve stanzas, is in Shenstoue's first pubb 
cation.] 



496 



WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 



ELEGY, 

DBSCTIBIXG THE SORROW OF AX I.VGEJTOOUS MIND ON THE 
MELAXCHOLT EVENT OF A LICENTIOUS AMOCR. 

Why mourns my friend ? why weeps his down- 
cast eye 1 [shine ? 

That eye where mirth, where fancy used to 
Thy cheerful meads reprove that swelling sigh ; 

Spring ne'er enamell'd fairer meads than thine. 

Art thou not lodged in fortune's warm embrace 1 
Wert thou not form'd by nature's partial care? 

Blest in thy song, and blest in every grace 

That wins the friend, or that enchants the fair? 

Damon, said he, thy partial praise restrain ; 

Not Damon's friendship can my peace restore ; 
Alas ! his very praise awakes my pain. 

And my poor wounded bosom bleeds the more. 

For oh that nature on my birth had frown'd, 
Or fortune fix'd me to some lowly cell ! 

Then had my bosom 'scaped this fatal wound, 
Nor had I bid these vernal sweets farewell. 

But led by Fortune's hand, her darling child. 
My youth her vain licentious bliss admired; 

In Fortune's train the syren Flattery smiled. 
And rashly hallow'd all her queen inspired. 

Of folly studious, even of vices vain, 
Ah vices ! gilded by the rich and gay ! 

I chased the guileless daughters of the plain, 
Nor dropp'd the chase till Jessy was my prey. 

Poor artless maid ! to stain thy spotless name, 
Expense, and art, and toil, united strove; 

7'o lure a breast that felt the purest flame, 
Sustain'd by virtue, but betray'd by love. 

School'd in the science of love's mazy wiles, 
I clothed each feature with affected scorn ; 

I spoke of jealous doubts, and fickle smiles. 
And, feigning, left her anxious and forlorn. 

Then, while the fancied rage alarm'd her care, 
Warm to deny, and zealous to disprove ; 

I bade my words the wonted softness wear, 
And seized the minute of returning love. 

To thee, my Damon, dare I paint the rest? 

Will yet thy love a candid ear incline ! 
Assured that virtue, by misfortune prest. 

Feels not the sharpness of a pang like mine. 

Nine envious moons matured her growing shame : 
Erewhile to flaunt it in the face of day ; 

When, scorn'd of virtue, stigmatized by fame, 
Low at my feet desponding Jessy lay. 

•Heniy," she said, "by thy dear form subdued, 
See the sad relics of a nymph undone ! 

I find, I find, this rising sob renew 'd : 
I sigh in shades, and sicken at the sun. 

Amid the dreary gloom of night I cry, [turn ? 

When will the morn's once pleasing scenes re- 
Yet what can moirn's returning ray supply. 

But foes that triumph, or but friends that mourn! 



Alas ! no more that joyous morn appears 
That led the tranquil hours of spotless fame; 

For I have steep'd a father's couch in tears, 
And tinged a mother's glowing cheek with 
shame. 

The vocal birds that raise their matin strain. 
The sportive lambs, increase my pensive moan ; 

All seem to chase me from the cheerful plain. 
And talk of truth and innocence alone. 

If through the garden's flowery tribes I stray, 
Where bloom thejasminesthat could once allure, 

Hope not to find delight in us, they say, 
For we are spotless, Jessy, we are pure. 

Ye flowers that well reproach a nymph so frail ; 

Say, could ye with my virgin fame compare 1 
The brightest bud that scents the vernal gale 

Was not so fragrant, and was not so fair. 

Now the grave old alarm the gentler young ; 

And all my fame's abhorr'd contagion flee : 
Trembles each lip, and falters every tongue, 

That bids the morn propitious smile on me. 

Thus for your sake I shun each human eye; 

I bid the sweets of blooming youth adieu: 
To die I languish, but I dread to die. 

Lest my sad fate should nourish pangs for you. 

Raise me from earth ; the pains of want remove, 
And let me silent seek some friendly shore ; 

There only, banish'd from the form I love, 
My weeping virtue shall relapse no more. 

Be but my friend ; I ask no dearer name ; 

Be such the meed of some more artful fair; 
Nor could it heal my peace, or chase my shame, 

That pity gave what love refused to share. 

Force not my tongue to ask its scanty bread ; 

Nor hurl thy Jessy to the vulgar crew; 
Not such the parent's board at which J fed ! 

Not such the precepts from his lips I drew ! 

Haply, when age has silver'd o'er my hair, 
Malice may learn to scorn so mean a spoil; 

Envy may slight a face no longer fair ; 
And pity welcome to my native soil.*' 

She spoke — nor was I born of savage race; 

Nor could these hands a niggard boon assign , 
Grateful she clasp'd me in a last embrace. 

And vow'd to waste her life in prayers for mine. 

I saw her foot the lofty bark ascend ; 

I saw her breast with every passion heave : 
I left her — torn from every earthly friend ; 

Oh ! my hard bosom, which could bear to leave! 

Brief let me be; the fatal storm arose; 

The billows raged, the pilot's art was vain; 
O'er the tall mast the circling surges close; 

My Jessy — floats upon the watery plain ! 

And see my youth's impetuous fires decay ; 

Seek not to stop reflection's bitter tear; 
But warn the frolic, and instruct the gay, 

From Jessy floating on her watery bier ! 



WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 



497 



FROM "RURAL ELEGANCE." 

AN ODE TO THE DUCHESS OP SOMERSET.* 

While orient skies restore the day, 
And dew-drops catch the lucid ray ; 

AmiiJ the sprightly scenes of morn, 
Will aught the muse inspire ! 

Oh ! peace to yonder clamorous horn 
That drowns the sacred lyre ! 

Ye rural thanes, that o'er the mossy down 

Some panting, timorous hare pursue ; 
Does nature mean your joys alone to crown T 

Say, does she smooth her lawns for you 1 
For you does Echo bid the rocks reply, 
And, urged by rude constraint, resound the jovial 
cry ! 
See from the neighbouring hill, forlorn, 

The wretched swain your sport survey : 
He finds his faithful fences torn. 

He finds his labour'd crops a prey ; 
He sees his flock — no more in circles feed ; 
Haply beneath your ravage bleed, 
And with no random curses loads the deed. 

Nor yet, ye swains, conclude 

That nature smiles for you al(5ne; 
Four hounded souls, and your conceptions crude, 
The proud, the selfish boast disown; 
Yours be the produce of the soil : 
O may it still reward your toil ! 
Nor ever the defenceless train 
Of clinging infants ask support in vain ! 

But though the various harvest gild your plains, 

Does the mere landscape feast your eye 1 
Or the warm hope of distant gains 
Far other cause of glee supply ? 
Is not the red-streak's future juice 

The source of your delight profound, 
Where Ariconium pours her gems profuse. 

Purpling a whole horizon round 1 
Athirst ye praise the limpid stream, 'tis true: 

But though, the pebbled shores among, 

It mimic no unpleasing song, 
The limpid fountain murmurs not for you. 

Un pleased ye see the thickets bloom, 
Unpleased the spring her flowery robe resume : 
Unmoved the mountain's airy pile. 
The dappled mead without a smile. 
let a rural conscious Muse, 
For well she knows, your froward sense accuse; 
Forth to the solemn oak you bring the square. 
And span the massy trunk, before you cry, 'tis 
fair. 

Nor yet, ye learn'd, nor yet, ye courtly train, 
If haply from your haunts ye stray 
To waste with us a summer's day, 
Exclude the taste of every swain, 
Nor our untutor'd sense disdain : 

'Tis Nature only gives exclusive right 
To relish her supreme delight; 
She, where she pleases kind or coy, 
Who furnishes the scene and forms us to enjoy. 

[* The Lady Hertford of Thomson's Spring.] 



Then hither bring the fair ingenuous mind. 
By her auspicious aid refined ; 

Lo ! not a hedge-row hawthorn blows, 
Or humble hare-bell paints the plain, 
Or valley winds, or fountain flows, 

Or purpled heath is tinged, in vain : 
For such the rivers dash the foaming tides, 
The mountain swells, the dale subsides; 
Even thriftless furze detains their wandering 
sight. 
And the rough barren rock grows pregnant with 
delight. 



Why brand these pleasures with the name 
Of soft, unsocial toils, of indolence and shame 1 
Search but the garden, or the wood, 
Let yon admired carnation own. 
Not all was meant for raiment or for food. 

Not all for needful use alone ; 
There while the seeds of future blossoms dwell, 
'Tis colour'd for the sight, perfumed to please the 
smell. 

Why knows the nightingale to sing ? 

Why flows the pine's nectareous juice? 
Why shines with paint the linnet's wing ? 

For sustenance alone 1 For use I 
For preservation ? Every sphere 
Shall bid fair pleasure's rightful claim appear. 
And sure there seem, of humankind. 

Some born to shun the solemn strife, 
Some for amusive tasks design'd. 

To soothe the certain ills of life ; 
Grace its lone vales with many a budding rose, 

New founts of bliss disclose. 
Call forth refreshing shailes, and decorate repose. 



ODE TO MEMORY. 
MEMORT ! celestial maid ! 

Who glean'st the flowerets cropt by Time , 
And suffering not a leaf to fade, 

Preservest the blossoms of our prime ; 
Bring, bring those moments to my mind 
When life was new, and Lesbia kind. 

And bring that garland to my sight. 

With which my favour'd crook she bound , 

And bring that wreath of roses bright 

Which then my festive temples crown'd , 

And to my raptured ear convey 

The gentle things she deign'd to say. 

And sketch with care the Muse's bower, 

Where Isis rolls her silver tide; 
Nor yet omit one reed or flower 

That shines on Cherwell's verdant side ; 
If so thou may'st those hours prolong, 
When polish'd Lycon join'd my song. 

The song it 'vails not to recite — • 

But sure, to soothe our youthful dreams, 

Those banks and streams appear'd more bright 
Than other banks, than other streams : 

2b2 



498 HENRY CAREY. 


Or, by thy softening pencil shown, 
Assume thy beauties not their own ! 

And paint that sweetly vacant scene, 

When, all beneath the poplar bough, 
My spirits light, my soul serene, 

I breathed in verse one cordial vow : 
That nothing should my soul inspire. 
But friendship warm, and love entire. 
Dull to the sense of new delight, 

On thee the drooping Muse attends; 
As some fond lover, robb'd of sight, 

On thy expressive power depends; 
Nor would exchange thy glowing lines, 
To live the lord of all that shines. 
But let me chase those vows away 

Which at ambition's shrine I made ; 


Nor ever let thy skill display 

Those anxious moments, ill repaid : 
Oh ! from my breast that season raze, 
And bring my childhood in its place. 

Bring me the bells, the rattle bring. 
And bring the hobby I bestrode ; 

When, pleased, in many a sportive ring, 
Around the room I jovial rode : 

Ev'n let lYie bid my lyre adieu, 

And bring the whistle that I blew. 

Then will I muse, and pensive say, 
Why did not these enjoyments last; 

How sweetly wasted I the day. 

While innocence allow'd to waste ! 

Ambition's toils alike are vain. 

But, ah ! for pleasure yield us pain. 


HENRY CAREY. 

[Died, Oct. 1743.] 

Henry Carey was a musician by profession, pleasing song of « Sally in our Alley." He came 
and author both of the words and melody of the to an untimely death by his own hands. 


SALLY IN OUR ALLEY* 
Of all the girls that are so smart, 

There's none like pretty Sally ; 
She is t-hc darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 
There is no lady in the land, 

Is half so sweet as Sally : 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

Her father he makes cabbage-nets. 

And through the streets does cry 'em ; 
Her mother she sells laces long. 

To such as please to buy 'em : 
But sure such folks could neer beget 

So sweet a girl as Sally ! 
She is the darling of my heart. 

And she lives in our alley. 

When she is by, I leave my work, 

(I love her so sincerely,) 
My master comes like any Turk, 

And bangs me most severely : 


But, let him bang his belly full, 

I'll bear-it all for Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart. 

And she lives in our alley. 

Of all the days that's in the week, 

I dearly love but one day ; 
And that's .the day that conies betwixt 

A Saturday and Monday ; 
For then I'm dress'd all in my best. 

To walk abroad with Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

My master carries me to church, 

And often am I blamed. 
Because I leave him in the lurch, 

As soon as text is named : 
I leave the church in sermon time 

And slink away to Sally; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 


[* Carey in the third Edition of his Poems, published in 
1729. before "the Ballad of Sally in our Alley," has placed 
ttiis note :— 

THE ARGUMENT. 

" A vulgar error having long prevailed among many 
persons, who ima^'ine Sally Salisbury the subject of this 
ballad, the Author begs leave to undeceive and assure 
them it ha« not the least allusion to her, he being a 
stranger to her very name at the time this Song was com- 
posed. For as innocenre and virtue were ever the bound- 
aries to his Muse, so in this little poem he had no other 
view than to .et forth the beauty of a chaste and di.-in- 
terested passion, even in the lowest class of human life. 
The real occasion was this : a Shoemaker's 'Prentice making 
holidiiy with his Sweetheart, treated her with a sight of 
Jfedlam, the puppet-shows, the flying-chairs, and all the 


elegancies of Moorfields : from whence proceeding to the 
Farthingpie-house, he gave her a collation of buns, cheese- 
cakes, gammon of tacon, stuff d beef, and bottled ale; 
through all which stenes the Author dodged them, (charmed 
with the jimpli( ity of their courtship,) from whence he 
drew this little sketch of nature; but being then young 
and obscure, he was very much ridiculed by some of his 
acquaintance for this performance : which nevertheless 
made its way into the polite world, and amply recom- 
pensed him by the applaufe of the divine Addison, who 
was pleafcd (more than once) to mention it with approba- 
tion," p. 127. 1 here was some attempt to rob Carey of his 
right to his ballad, as there was to rob Denham, Garth, 
and Akenside, but it did not succeed then, though it occar 
sioned uneasiness to the author, nor will it now, when it 
can affect him no more.] 



CHARLES CHURCHILL. 



When Christmas comes about again, 

Oh then I shall have money ; 
I'll hoard it up, and hox it all, 

I'll give it to my honey: 
I would it were ten thousand pounds, 

I'd give it all to Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 



My master, and the neighbours all, 

Make game of me and Siilly ; 
And (but for her) I'd better be 

A slave, and row a gaU"" 
But when my seven long years art! out, 

O then I'll marry Sally, 
then we'll wed, and then we'll bed. 

But not in our alley. 



CHARLES CHURCHILL. 



[Born, 1731. Died, 1764.] 



He was the son of a respectable clergyman, 
who was curate and lecturer of St. John's, West- 
minster. He was educated at Westminster 
school, and entered of Trinity College, Cambridge, 
but not being disposed 

"O'er crabbed authors lifi's gny prime to wnste, 
Or cramp wild genius in the chains of ta-te," 

he left the university abruptly, and coming to 
London made a clandestine marriage in the 
Fleet.* His father, though much displeased at 
the proceeding, became reconciled to what could 
not be remedied, and received the imprudent 
couple for about a year under his roof. After 
this young Churchill went for some time to study 
theology at Sunderland, in the north of England, 
and having taken orders, officiated at Cadbury, 
in Somersetshire, and at Rainham, a living of his 
father's in Essex, till upon the death of his father, 
he succeeded in 1758 to the curacy anil lecture- 
ship of St. John's, Westminster. Here he con- 
ducted himself for some time with a decorum 
suitable to his profession, and increased his narrow 
income by undertaking private tuition. He got 
into debt, it is true ; and Dr. Lloyd, of Westmin- 
ster, the father of his friend the poet, was ohliged 
to mediate with his creditors for their acceptance 
of a composition; but when fortune put it into 
his power, Churchill honourably discharged all 
his obligations. His Rosciad appeared at first 
anonymously, in 1761, and was ascribed to one 
or other of half the wits in town; but his ac- 
knowledgment of it, and his poetical " .\pology," 
in which he retaliated upon the critical reviewers 
of his poem, (not fearing to aflront even Fielding 
and Smollett,) made him at once famous and 
formidable. The players, at least, felt him to be 
so. Garrick himself who though extoiled in the 
Rosciad was sarcastically alluded to in the Apo- 



[* Mr. Southey believes that his marriage tock pl.ace 
previous to his entering the university of C;imbrid;,e. 
—Life "/ C wp'-r, vol. i. p. TO.] 

t Nicl.olK, iu his Litirary Anecdotes of the Eighteenth 
Century, vol. vi. p. 421, gives tliis informa'ion of Tom 
Davies's being driven o.T the .stage by CbuichiU's satire 



logy, courted him like a suppliant; and his satire 
had the effect of driving poor Tom Davies, the 
biographer of Garrick, though he was a tolerable 
performer, from the ^tage.f A letter from another 
actor, of the name of Davis, who seems rather 
to have dreaded than experienced his severity, is 
preserved in Nichols's Literary .\necdotcs of the 
Eighteenth Century, in which the poor comedian 
deprecates the poet's censure in an expected pub- 
lication, as likely to deprive him of bread. What 
was mean in Garrick might have been an object 
of compassion in this humble man ; but Churchill 
answered him with surly contempt, and holding 
to the plea of justice, treated his fears with the 
apparent satisfaction of a hangman. His moral 
character, in the mean time, did not keep pace 
with his literary reputation. As he got above 
neglect he seems to have thought himself above 
censure. His superior, the Dean of Westmin- 
ster, having had occasion to rebuke him for some 
irregularities, he threw aside at once the clerical 
habit and profession, and arrayed his ungainly 
form in the splendour of fashion. Amidst the 
remarks of his enemies, and what he pronounces 
the still more insulting advice of his prudent 
friends upon his irregular Ife, he published his 
epistle to Lloyd, entitled Night, a sort of mani- 
festo of the impulses, for they could not be called 
principles, by which he professed his conduct to 
be influenced. The leading maxims of this 
epistle are, that prudence and hypocrisy in these 
times are the same thing! that good hours are 
but fine words; and that it is better to avow 
faults than to conceal them. Speaking of his 
convivial enjoyments he says 

"Ni.'ht's liiurhinr hour.<i unheeded slip away, 
Nor one dall thought foieulls a.)pioach ot' day." 
In the same description he somewhat awkwardly 
introduces 



on the authority of Dr. Johnson. This Davies w:is the 
editor of Drama.,ic Mi.-cc,lanie.s,and of the Life and Worl<3 
of Li lo. The nvvn.'. of the ether p lor player wlio im- 
plored Chun hill's mercy was T.Davis, liis nsimo being 
(liflfeiently .•<pe.l f -om thai of Garrick'.-' biographer. Chur 
chill's answer to him is also preserved by Kichols. 



CHARLES CHURCHILL. 



" Wine's giy God. with Temperance by his side, 
Whilst Health attends." 

How would Churchill have belabourerl any fool 
or hypocrite who had pretended to boast of health 
and temperance in the midst of orgies that turned 
night into day. 

By his connexion with Wilkes he added poli- 
tical to personal causes of animosity, and did not 
diminish the number of unfavourable eyes that 
were turned upon his private character. He had 
certainly, with all his faults, some strong and 
good qualities of the heart ; but the particular 
proofs of these were not likely to be sedulously 
collected as materials of his biography, for he 
had now placed himself in that light of reputa- 
tion when a man's likeness is taken by its shadow 
and darkness. Accordingly, the most prominent 
circumstances that we afterward learn respecting 
liini are, that he separated from his wife, and se- 
ilured the daughter of a tradesman in Westmin- 
sier. At the end of a fortnight, either from his 
sntiety or repentance, be advised this unfortunate 
woman to return to her friends ; but took her 
Imck again upon her finding her home made in- 
tolerable by the reproaches of a sister.* .His 
reputation for inebriety also received some public 
acknowledgments. Hogarth gave as much ce- 
lebrity as he could to his love of porter, by repre- 
senting him in the act of drinking a mug of that 
liquor in the shape of a bear;t but the painter 
had no great reason to congratulate himself ulti- 
mately on the effects of his caricature. Our poet 
was included in the general warrant that was is- 
sued for apprehending Wilkes. He hid himself, 
however, and avoided imprisonment. In the au- 
tumn of 1764 he paid a visit to Mr. Wilkes at 
Boulogne, where he caught a miliary fever, and 
expired in his thirty-third year.J 

Churchill may be ranked as a satirist immedi- 
ately after Pope and Dryden, with perhaps a 
greater share of humour than either. He has 
the bitterness of Pope, with less wit to atone for 
it ; but no mean share of the free manner and 
energetic plainness of Dryden. § After the Ros- 
ci jd and Apology he began his poem of the Ghost, 



[* The only laudable part of Churchill's conduct during 
liis f^hort career of popularity was, that he carefully laid 
liy a provision for those who wure dependent on him. This 
w 8 his meritorious motive for that greediness of gain 
with which he was reproaihcd: as if it were any reproach 
til a succes.-^ful author, that he doled out his writings in 
ti.i- way mos-t advantageous for himself, and fixed upon 
tlieui as high a price as his admirers were willing to pay! 
Ho thus enabled himself to hi-queath an annuity of sixty 
pounds to his widow, and of fifty to the more unhappy 
woman, who, after they h;:d both repented of their guilty 
int<rcou-e, had fled to him again for the protertion, which 
^hl; knew not where else to seek. And when these duties 
had been provided for, there remaided some surplus for 
liis two sons. Well would it be if he mii;ht be as fairly 
vindicated on other points. — Southet, Cowper, vol. ii. p. 
luu.j 

[t sir. Campbell has missed the point of the picture. 
Chun hill is represented as a bear in clerical bands that 
are torn, and ruffled paws.] 
I J " (Inly a day before that event took place," says .Southey, 
"he ma'Ie his will, wherein it is mournful to observe there 
ii* not the sijijhtest expression of religious faith or hope." 



(founded on the well-known story of Cocklane.) 
many parts of which tradition reports him to 
have composed when scarce recovered frotn his 
fits of drunkenness. It is certainly a rambling 
and scandalous production, with a few such 
original gleams as might have crossed the brain 
of genius amidst the bile and lassitude of dissi- 
pation. The novelty of political warfare seems 
to have given a new impulse to his powers in the 
Prophecy of Famine, a satire on Scotland, which 
even to Scotchmen must seem to sheath its sting 
in its laughable extravagance. His poetical 
Epistle to Hogarth is remarkable, amidst its 
savage ferocity, for one of the best panegyrics 
that was ever bestowed on that painter's works. 
He scalps indeed even barbarously the infirmities 
of the man, but, on the whole, spares the laurels 
of the artist. The following is his description of 
Hogarth's powers. 

" In walks of humour, in that oast of style, 
Wliii h. probin;; to the quick, yet makes us smile; 
Tn comedy, his natral road to fime, 
Nor let me call it by a meaner name, 
Where a beginning, middle, and an end 
Are aptly join'd ; where parts on parts depend, 
Each mcde for each, as bodies for their soul, 
So as to form one true and perfect whole, 
Where a plain story to the eye is told. 
Which we conceive the moment we behold, 
Hogarth unrivall'd .-tands. and shall enga'.;e 
Unrivall'd praise to the most distant age." 

i There arc two peculiarly interesting passages 
in his Conference. One of them, expressive of 
remorse for his crime of seduction, has been often 
quoted. The other i.s a touching description of 
a man of independent spirit reduced by despair 
and poverty to accept of the means of sustaining 
life on humiliating terms. 

" What proof might do, what hunger might effect, 
What famish 'd nature, looking with neglect 
On all she once held dear, what fear, at strife 
With fainting virtue for the means of life. 
Slight make this coward flesh, in love with breath, 
Shudd'ring at pain, and shrinking back from death, 
In treason to my soul, descend to bear. 
Trusting to fate, I neither know nor care. 

Once, — at this hour those wounds afresh I feel, 
Which nor prosperity nor time can heal. 
****** 
Those wounds, which humbled all that pride of man, 
Which brings such mighty aid to virtue's plan: ' 



His body was brought from Boulogne to Dover, and in- 
terred in the church of St. Martin, where his grave is dis- 
tinguished by what Mr. Southey calls an epicurean line 
from one of his own poems: 

Life to the last enjoy'd, here Churchill lies. 

See also Byron's poem entitled "Churchill's Grave:" 

I stood before the grave of him who blazed 
The comet of a season. 

(Wnrls, vol. X. p. 287) and Scott's note.] 

[g Is he not rather an excellent Oldham ? His poetical 
chanicter, however, has been given by Cowper, in a few 
sententious lines, — see his Table Talk. Churchill, with hia 
many excellencies, never rises to the poetical heights of 
Pope and Dryden. He is coarse, vigorous, surly, and 
slovenly : 

full of gall 

Wormwood and sulphur, sharp and toothed withal. 
Ben Johnson. 
And has a swing of versification pccu'virly his own.] 



CHARLES CHURCHILL. 



501 



Once, awed by fortune's mo^t. oppressive frown, 
By lejifil rapine to thi; eartli bow d down. 
My credit at last gasp, my st;ite umlone, 
Trembling to meet the sliock 1 (Ould not shun, 
Virtue gave ground, and black (lesunir prevail'd: 
Sinkins; beneath tlie storm, my spirits fail'd, 
Like Peters faith." 
But without enumerating similar passages, 
which may form an exception to the Temarii, the 
general tenor of his later works fell beneath his 



first reputation. His DueUisl is positively dull 
and his Go'hnni, the imaginary realm of which 
he feigns himself the sovereign, is calculated to 
remind us of the proverbial wisdom of its sages.* 
It was justly complained that he became too 
much an echo of himself, and that before his 
short literary career was closed, his originality 
appeared to be exhausted. 



INTRODUCTION TO "THE ROSOIAD." 

Roscius deceased, each high aspiring player 
Push'd all his interest for the vacant chair. 
The buskin'd heroes of the mimic st.ige 
No longer whine in love, and rant in rage ! 
The monarch quits his throne, and condescends 
Humble to court the favour of his friends; 
For pity's sake tells undeserved mishaps. 
And their applause to gain, recounts his claps. 
Thus the victorious chiefs of ancient Rome, 
To win the mob, a suppliant's form assume. 
In pompous strain fight o'er th' extinguish'd war, 
And show where honour bled in every scar. 

But though bare merit might in Rome appear 
The strongest plea for favour, 'tis not here; 
We form our judgment in another way; 
And they will best succeed who best can pay : 
Those, who would gain the votes of British tribes, 
Must add to force of merit force of bribes. 

What can an actor give ! In every age 
Cash hath been rudely banish'd from the stage; 
Monarchs themselves, to grief of every player, 
Appear as often as their image there: 
They can't, like candidate for other seat, 
Pour seas of wine, and mountains raise of meat. 
Wine! they could bribe you with the world as 

soon. 
And of roast beef they only know the tune: 
But what they have they give: could Olive do 

more. 
Though for each million he had brought home 
four] 

Shuter keeps open house at Southwark fair, 
And hopes the friends of humour will be there ; 
In Smithfield, Yates prepares the rival treat 
For those who laughter love instead of meat; 
Foote, at Old House, for even Foote will be 
In self-conceit an actor, bribes with tea; 
Which Wilkinson at second hand receives. 
And at the New, pours water on the leaves. 

The town divided, each runs several ways, 
As passion, humour, interest, party sways. 
Things of no moment, colour of the hair, 
Shape of a leg, complexion brown or fair, 
A dress well-chosen, or a patch misplaced. 
Conciliate favour, or create distaste. 

From galleries loud peals of laughter roll, 
And thunder Shuter's praises — he's so droll. 



[* Cowper was of another opinion. " Gothnm," he says, 
"is a noble and beautiful poem: makinL' allowance (and 
Dry Icn perhaps, in bis Absalom and Achitophel, stands in 



Embox'd, the ladies must have something smart, 
Palmer! Oh! Palmer tops the janty part. 
Seated in pit, the dwarf, with aching eyes, 
Looks up, and vows that Barry's out of size; 
Whilst to six feet the vig'rous stripling grown, 
Declares that Garrick is another Coan. 

When place of judgment is by whim supplied, 
And our opinions have their rise in pride ; 
When, in discoursing on each mimic elf. 
We praise and censure with an eye to self; 
All must meet friends, and Ackman bids as fair 
In such a court as Garrick for the chair. 

At length agreed, all squabbles to decide. 
By some one judge the cause was to be tried ; 
But this their squabbles did afresh renew, 
Who should be judge in such a trial: — Who ? 

For Johnson some, but Johnson, it was fear'd. 
Would be too grave: and Sterne too gay appear'd: 
Others for Francklin voted ; but 'twas known, 
He sicken'd at all triumphs but his own: 
For Colman many, but the peevish tongue 
Of prudent age found out that he was young: 
For Murphy some few pilfering wits declared. 
Whilst Folly clapp'd her hands, and Wisdom 
stared. 



CHAflACTKR OP A CRITICAL FRIBBLE. 

FROM THE SAME. 

With that low cunning, which in fools supplies. 
And amply too, the place of being wise, 
Which Nature, kind, indulgent parent, gave 
To qualify the blockhead for a knave; 
With that smooth falsehood, whose appearance 

charms. 
And reason of each wholesome doubt disarms. 
Which to the lowest depths of guile descends, 
By vilest means [lursues the vilest ends. 
Wears friendship's tnask for purposes of spite. 
Fawns in the day, and butchers in the night; 
With that malignant envy, which turns pale, 
And sickens, even if a friend prevail. 
Which merit and success pursues with hate, 
And damns the worth it cannot imitate; 
With the cold caution of a coward's spleen, 
Which fears not guilt, but always seeks a screen. 
Which keeps this maxim ever in her view — 
What's basely done, should be done safely too; 



need of the same indulgi-ncel fir an unwarrantable u^eof 
Scripture, it npi'ca-s to mn lo 1 e a masterly (.eifjrmauce." 
— Southey's Cuwper, vol. i. p. yl.] 



With that dull, rooted, callous impudence, 
Which, dead to shaine, and every nicer sense, 
Ne'er blush'd, unless, in spreading vice's snares, 
She hlunder'd on some virtue unawares: 
With all these blessings, which we seldom find 
Lavish'd by nature on one happy mind, 
A motley figure, of the fribble tribe, 
Which heart can scarce conceive, or pen describe, 
Came simp'ring on: to ascertain whose sex 
Twelve sage impannel'd matrons would perplex. 
Nor male, nor female, neither and yet both ; 
Of neuter gender, though of Irish growth; 
A six-foot suckling, mincing in its gait; 
AflTected, peevish, prim, and delicate ; 
Fearful it seem'd, though of athletic make, 
Lest brutal breezes should too roughly shake 
Its tender form, and savage motion spread 
O'er its pale cheeks the horrid manly red. 

Much did it talk, in its own pretty phrase. 
Of genius and of taste, of play'rs and plays ; 
Much too of writings, which itself had wrote, 
Of special merit, though of little note ; 
For fate, in a strange humour, had decreed 
That what it wrote, none but itself should read ; 
Much too it chatter'd of dramatic laws, 
Misju«lging critics, and misplaced applause, 
Then with a self-complacent jutting air. 
It smiled, it smirk'd, it wriggled to the chair; 
And, with an awkward briskness not its own. 
Looking around, and perking on the throne. 
Triumphant seem'd, when that strange savage 

dame, 
Known but to few, or only known by name. 
Plain Common Sense, appear'd, by nature there 
Appointed, with plain truth, to guard the chair. 
The pageant saw, and blasted with her frown. 
To its first state of nothing melted down. 

Nor shall the Muse (for even there the pride 
Of this vain nothing shall be mortified) 
Nor shall the Muse (should fate qrdain her 

rhymes. 
Fond, pleasing thought! to live in after times) 
With such a trifler's name her pages blot; 
Known be the character, the thing forgot; 
Let it, to disappoint each future aim. 
Live without sex, and die without a name ! 



CHARACTERS OF QUTN, TOM SHERIDAN, AND 
GARRICK. 

FROM THE SAME. 

QuiN, from afar, lured by the scent of fame, 
A stage leviathan, put in his claim. 
Pupil of Betterton and Booth. Alone, 
Sullen he walk'd. and deem'd the chair his own. 
For how should moderns, mushrooms of the day, 
Who ne'er those masters knew, know how to 

playl 
Grey-bearded vet'rans, who, with partial tongue. 
Extol the times when they themselves were young; 
Who having lost all relish for the stage. 
See not their own defects, but lash the age, 
Ueceived with joyful murmurs of applause 
Their darling chief, and lined his favourite cause. 



Far be it from the candid Muse to tread 
Insulting o'er the ashes of the dead, 
But, just to living merit, she rnainlains, 
And dares the test, whilst Garrick's genius reigns; 
Ancients in vain endeavour to excel. 
Happily praised, if they could act as well. 
But though prescription's force we disallow, 
Nor to antiquity submissive bow; 
Though we deny imaginary grace. 
Founded on accident of time and place ; 
Yet real worth of every growth shall bear 
Due praise, nor must we, Quin, forget thee there. 
His words bore sterling weight, nervous and 
In manly tides of sense they roll'd along, [strong 
Happy in art, he chiefly had pretence 
To keep up numbers, yet not forfeit sense. 
No actor ever greater heights could reach 
In all the labour'd artifice of speech. 

Speech! Is that all] — And shall an actor found 
A universal fame on partial ground ] 
Parrots themselves speak properly by rote. 
And, in six months, my dog shall howl by note. 
I laufih at those, who when the stage they tread 
Neglect the heart to co<npliment the head ; 
With strict propriety their care's confined 
To weigh out words, while passion halts behind. 
To syllable-dissectors they appeal. 
Allow them accent, cadence, — 'fools may feel; 
But, spite of all the criticising elves. 
Those who would make us feel, must feel them- 
selves. 
His eyes, in gloomy socket taught to roll, 
Proclaim'd the sullen habit of his soul. 
Heavy and phlegmatic he trod the stage. 
Too proud for tenderness, too dull for rage. 
When Hector's lovely widow shines in tears. 
Or Rowe's gay rake dependent virtue jeers, 
With the same cast of features he is seen 
To chide the libertine, and court the queen. 
From the tame scene, which without passion 

fiows, 
With just desert his reputation rose; 
Nor less he pleased, when, on some surly plan. 
He was, at once, the actor and the man. 

In Brute he shone unequall'd: all agree 
Garrick's not half so great a brute as he. 
When Cato's labour'd scenes are brought to view, 
With equal praise the actor labour'd too; 
For still you'll find, trace passions to their root. 
Small difference 'twixt the stoic and the brute. 
In fancied scenes, as in life's real plan, 
I He could not, for a moment, sink the man. 
1 In whate'er cast his character was laid. 

Self stdl, like oil, upon the surface play'd. 
! Nature, in spite of all his skill, crept in : 

Horatio, Dorax, Falstaff. — still 'twas Quin. 
i Next follows Sheridan — a doubtful name, 
i As yet unsettled in the rank of fame. 
This, fondly lavish in his praises grown. 
Gives him all merit; that allows him none. 
Between them both we'll steer the middle course, 
j Nor, loving praise, rob judgment of her force. 
! Just his conceptions, natural and great: 
His feelings strong, his words enforced with 
weight. 



CHARLES CHURCHILL. 



503 



Was speech-famed Quin himself to hear him 

speak, 
Envy would drive the colour from his cheek : 
But step-dame nature, niggard of her grace, 
Denied the social powers of voice and face. 
Fix'd in one frame of features, glare of eye, 
Passions, like chaos, in confusion lie; 
In vain the wonders of his skill are tried 
To form distinctions nature hath denied. 
His voice no touch of harmony admits, 
Irregularly deep and shrill by fits : 
The two extremes appear like man and wife, 
Coupled together for the sake of strife. 

His action's always strong, but sometimes such, 
That candour must declare he acts too much. 
Why must impatience fall three paces back 1 
Why paces three return to the attack? 
Why is the right-leg too forbid to stir, 
Unless in motion semicircular 1 
Why must the hero with the nailor vie, 
And hurl the close-clench'd fist at nose or eyel 
In royal John, with Philip angry grown, 
I thought he would have knock'd poor Davies 

down. 
Inhuman tyrant! was it not a shame. 
To fright a king so harmless and so tame! 
But spite of all defects, his glories rise; 
And art, by judgment form'd, with nature vies: 
Behold him sound the depth of Hubert's soul, 
Whilst in his own contending passions roll: 
View the whole scene, with critic judgment scan, 
And then deny him merit if you can. ' 
Where he falls short, 'tis nature's fault alone ; 
Where he succeeds, the merit 's all his own. 

Last Garrick came. — Behind him throng a train 
Of snarling critics, ignorant as vain. 

One finds out — "He's of stature somewhat 
low — 
Your hero always should be tall, you know. — 
True nat'ral greatness all consists in height." 
Produce your voucher, critic — " Sergeant Kite." 

Another can't forgive the paltry arts 
By which he makes his way to shallow hearts; 
Mere pieces of finesse, traps for applause — 
" Avaunt, unnat'ral start, aflfected pause " 

For me, by nature form'd to judge with phlegm, 
I can't acquit hy wholesale, nor condemn. 
The best things carried to excess are wrong: 
The start may be too frequent, pause too long; 
But, only used in proper time and place, 
Severest judgment must allow them grace. 

If bunglers, form'd on imitation's plan. 
Just in the way that monkeys mimic man. 
Their copied scene with mangled arts disgrace. 
And pause and start with the same vacant face. 
We join the critic laugh ; those tricks we scorn. 
Which spoil the scenes they mean them to adorn. 
But when, from nature's pure and genuine source, 
These strokes of acting flow with gen'rous force, 
When in the features all the soul 's portray 'd. 
And passions, such as Garrick's, are display'd, 
f o me they seem from quickest feelings caught : 
Each start is nature; and each pause is thought. 

When reason yields to passion's wild alarms. 
And the whole state of man is up in arms ; 



What but a critic could condemn the play'r. 
For pausing here, when cool sense pauses there ? 
Whilst, working from the heart, the fire I trace. 
And mark it strongly flaming to the face ; 
Whilst, in each sound, I hear the very man ; 
I can't catch words, and pity those who can. 

Let wits, like spiders, from the tortured brain 
Fine-draw the critic-web with curious pain ; 
The gods, — a kindness I with thanks must pay, — 
Have form'd me of a coarser kind of clay ; 
Nor stung with envy, nor with spleen diseased, 
A poor dull creature, still with nature pleased ; 
Hence to thy praises, Garrick, I agree. 
And, pleased with nature, must be pleased with 
thee. 

Now might I tell, how silence reign'd throughout. 
And deep attention hush'd the rabble rout! 
How ev'ry claimant, tortured with desire, 
Was pale as ashes, or as red as fire : 
But, loose to fame, the Muse more simply acts, 
Rejects all flourish, and relates mere facts. 

The judges, as the several parties came. 
With temper heard, with judgment weigh'd each 

claim. 
And, in their sentence happily agreed. 
In name of both, great Shakspeare thus decreed. 

"If manly sense; if nature link'd with art; 
If thorough knowledge of the human heart ; 
If pow'rs of acting vast and unconfined ; 
If fewest faults with greatest beauties join'd; 
If strong expression, and strange pow'rs which lie 
Within the magic circle of the eye; 
If feelings which few hearts, like his, can know. 
And which no face so well as his can show ; 
Deserve the prefrence; — Garrick, take the chair; 
Nor quit it — till thou place an equal there." 



FROM THE PROPHECY OF FAMINE.* 

A SCOTS PASTORAL. 

Two boys, whose birth beyond all question springs 
From great and glorious, though forgotten, kings. 
Shepherds of Scottish lineage, born and bred 
On the same bleak and barren mountain's head. 
By niggard nature doom'd on the same rocks 
To spin out life, and starve themselves and flocks, 
Fresh as the morning, which, enrobed in mist. 
The mountain's top with usual dulness kiss'd, 
Jockey and Sawney to their labours rose ; 
Soon clad, I ween, where nature needs no clothes. 
Where, from their youth, inured to winter skies, 
Dress and her vain refinements they despise. 

Jockey, whose manly high-boned cheeks to crown 
With freckles spotted flamed the golden down. 
With mickle art could on the bagpipes play, 
E'en from the rising to the setting day ; 
Sawney as long without remorse could bawl 
Home's madrigals, and ditties from Fingal. 



[* Heartily as Churchill hated the Soctch, he was him 
self of the half-blood. This appears from a passage in 
The Prophecy of Fiimine, remarltable also for containini^ 
an equivOL-al intimation that he had renounced not onljr 
his orders, but his belief, v. 217-234.— Souihey's X(/(! o/ 
Cotvper, vol. ii. p. 358.] 



504 



CHARLES CHURCHILL. 



Oft at his strains, all natural though rude, 
The Highland lass forgot her want of food, 
And, whilst she scratch'd her lover into rest, 
Sunk pleased, though hungry, on her Sawney's 
breast. 
Far as the eye could reach, no tree was seen. 
Earth, clad in russet, scorn'd the lively green. 
The plague of locusts they secure defy, 
For in three hours a grasshopper must die. 
No living 'thing, whate'er its food, feasts there, 
But the cameleon, who can feast on air. 
No birds, except as birds of passage, flew, 
No bee was known to hum, no dove to coo. 
No streams as amber smooth, as amber clear. 
Were seen to glide, or heard to warble here.* 
Rebellion's spring, which through the country ran, 
Furnish'd, with bitter draughts, the steady clan. 
No flovv'rs embahn'd the air but one white rose. 
Which on the tenth of June by instinct blows. 
By instinct blows at morn, and when the shades 
Of drizzly eve prevail, by instinct fades. 
One, and but one poor solitary cave. 
Too sparing of her favours, nature gave; 
That one alone (hard tax on Scottish pride!) 
Shelter at once for man and beast supplied. 
Their snares without entangling briars spread. 
And thistles, arm'd against th' invader's head. 
Stood in close ranks all entrance to oppose. 
Thistles now held more precious than the rose. 
All creatures which, on nature's earliest plan. 
Were form'd to loathe, and to be loathed by man. 
Which owed their birth to nastiness and spite, 
Deadly to touch and hateful to the sight. 
Creatures, which when admitted in the ark. 
Their saviour shunn'd, and rankled in the dark, 
Found place within : marking her noisome road 
With poison's trail, here crawl'd the bloated toad; 
There webs were spread of more than common 

size. 
And half-starved spiders prey'd on half-starved 

flies ; 
In quest of food, efts strove in vain to crawl; 
Slugs, pinch'd with hunger, smear'd the slimy wall ; 
The cave around with hissing serpents rung; 
On the damp roof unhealthy vapour hung ; 
And Famine, by her children always known. 
As proud as poor, here fix'd her native throne. 

Here, — for the sullen sky was overcast, 
And summer shrunk beneath a wint'ry blast, 
A native blast, which arm'd with hail and rain, 
Bent unrelenting on the naked swain, — 
The boys for shelter made; behind, the sheep. 
Of which those shepherds every day take keep. 
Sickly crept on, and with complainings rude, 
On nature seem'd to call, and bleat for food. 
Jock. Sith to this cave, by tempest we're con- 
fined. 
And within ken our flocks, under the wind. 
Safe from the pelting of this perilous storm. 
Are iaid among yon thistles, dry and warm. 



[* The severity of satire is in its truth ; and however 
treeless her clime may he, or colj her hills, or nuked her 
inhabitants — her streams are as clear as crystal, and dance, 
Bnd bicker to a music all their own.] 

1 1 'J-'liB Pretender's birth-day.] 



What, Sawney, if by Shepherd's art we try 
To mock the rigour of this cruel sky ? 
What if we tune some merry roundelay 1 
Well dost thou sing, nor ill doth Jockey play. 

Saw. Ah, Jockey, ill advisest thou, I wis. 
To think of songs at such a time as this. 
Sooner shall herbage crown these barren rocks. 
Sooner shall fleeces clothe these ragged flocks. 
Sooner shall want seize shepherds of the south, 
And we forget to live from hand to mouth, 
Than Sawney, out of season, shall impart 
The songs of gladness with an aching heart. 

Jock. Still have I known thee for a silly swain : 
Of things past help, what boots it to complain 1 
Nothing but mirth can conquer fortune's spite; 
No sky is heavy, if the heart be light : 
Patience is sorrow's salve; what can't be cured. 
So Donald right areeds, must be endured. 

Saw. Full silly swain, I wot, is Jockey now j 
How didst thou bear thy Maggy's falsehood 1 how, 
When with a foreign loon she stole away, 
Didst thou forswear thy pipe and shepherd's lay 7 
Where was thy boasted wisdom then, when I 
Applied those proverbs, which you now apply ] 

Jock. O she was bonny ! All the Highlands 
Was there a rival to my Maggy found ! [round 
Nore precious (thjough that precious is to all) 
Than the rare med'cine which we brimstone call, 
Or that choice plant, so grateful to the nose, 
Which in I know not what far country grows, 
Was Maggy unto me; dear do I rue, 
A lass so fair should ever prove untrue. [ear, 

Saw. Whether with pipe or song to charm the 
Through all the land did Jamie And a peer] 
Cursed be that year by ev'ry honest Scot, 
And in the shepherd's calendar forgot, 
That fatal year, when Jamie, hapless swain. 
In evil hour forsook the peaceful plain. 
Jamie, when our young laird discreetly fled. 
Was seized and hang'd till he was dead, dead, 
dead. 

Jock. Full sorely may we all lament that day ; 
For all were losers in the deadly fray, 
Five brothers had I on the Scottish plains, 
Weil dost thou know were none more hopeful 

swains ; 
Five brothers there I lost, in manhood's pride. 
Two in the tield, and three on gibbets died : 
Ah ! silly swains, to follow war's alarms ! 
Ah ! what hath shepherds' life to do with arms ! 

Saw. Mention it not — There saw I strangers 
In all the honours of our ravish'd j)laid, [clad 
Saw the ferrara too, our nation's pride, . 
Unwilling grace the awkward victor's side. 
There fell our choicest youth, from that day 
Mote never Sawney tune the merry lay ; 
Bless'd those which fell ! cursed those which still 
To mourn fifteen renew'd in forty-five, [survive, 

Thus plain'd the boys, when from her throne 
of turf. 
With boils emboss'd, and overgrown with scurf. 
Vile humours, which, in life's corrupted well, 
Mix'd at the birth, not abstinence could quell, 
Pale Famine rear'd the head : her eager eyes. 
Where hunger ev'n to madness seem'd to rise, 



ROBERT DODSLEY. 



505 



Speaking aloud her throes and pangs of heart, 
Strain'd to get loose, and from their orbs to start ; 
Her hollow cheeks were ea(»h a deep-sunk cell, 
Where wretchedness and horror loved to dwell ; 
With double rows of useless teeth supplied, 
Her mouth, from ear to ear, extended wide. 
Which, when for want of food her entrails pined, 
She oped, and, cursing, si^allow'd naught but 

wind ; 
All shrivell'd was her skin, and here and there 
Making their way by force, her bones lay bare: 
Such filthy sight to hide from human view, 
O'er her foul limbs a tatter'd plaid she threw. 
Cease, cried the goddess, cease despairing 

swains. 
And from a parent hear what Jove ordains ! 

Pent in this barren corner of the isle. 
Where partial fortune never deign'd to smile; 
Like Nature's bastards, reaping for our share 
What was rejected by the lawful heir; 
Unknown among the nations of the earth, 
Or only known to raise contempt and mirth ; 
Long free, because the race of Roman braves 
Thought it not worth their while to make us 

slaves. 
Then into bondage by that nation brought, 
Whose ruin we for ages vainly sought; 
Whom still with unslack'd hate we view, and 

still, 
The pow'r of mischief lost, retain the will ; 
Consider'd as the refuse of mankind, 
A mass till the last moment left behind, 
Which frugal nature doubted, as it lay. 
Whether to stamp with life, or throw away; 
Which, form'd in haste, was [)lanted in this nook, 
But never enter'd in creation's book ; 
Branded as traitors, who for love of gold 
Would sell their God, as once their king they 

sold ; 
Long have we born this mighty weight of ill, 
These vile injurious taunts, and bear them still. 
But times of happier note are now at hand. 
And the full promise of a better land : 



There, like the sons of Israel, having trod. 
For the fix'd term of years ordain'd by God, 
A barren desert, we shall seize rich plains, 
Where milk with honey flows, and plenty reigns. 
With some few natives join'd, some pliant few, 
Who worship int'rest and our track pursue. 
There shall we, though the wretched people 

grieve, 
Ravage at large, nor ask the owner's leave. 

For us, the earth shall bring forth her increase 
For us, the flocks shall wear a golden fleece ; 
Fat beeves shall yield us dainties not our own. 
And the grl^e bleed a nectar yet unknown ; 
For our advantage shall their harvests grow, 
And Scotsmen reap what they disdain'd to sow ; 
For us, the sun shall climb the eastern hill ; 
For us, the rain shall fall, the dew distil ; 
When to our wishes nature cannot rise. 
Art shall be task'd to grant us fresh supplies. 
His brawny arm shall drudging labour strain. 
And for our pleasure suffer daily pain ; 
Trade shall for us exert her utmost pow'rs, 
Hers all the toil, and all the profit ours; 
For us, the oak shall from his native steep 
Descend, and fearless travel through the deep ; 
The sail of commerce, for our use unfurl'd. 
Shall waft the treasures of each distant world; 
For us, sublimer heights shall science reach. 
For us their statesmen plot, their churchmen 

preach ; 
Their noblest limbs of counsel we'll disjoint. 
And, mocking, new ones of our own appoint; 
Devouring War, imprison'd in the north. 
Shall, at our call, in horrid pomp break forth, 
And when, his chariot wheels with thunder 

hung. 
Fell Discord braying with her brazen tongue. 
Death in the van, with Anger, Hate and Fear, 
And Desolation stalking in the rear, 
Revenge, by Justice guided, in his train. 
He drives impetuous o'er the trembling plain. 
Shall at our bidding, quit his lawful prey, 
And to meek, gentle, geri'rous Peace give way. 



ROBERT DODSLEY. 



[Born, 1703. Dial, 1764.] 



It is creditable to the memory of Pope to have 
been the encourager of this ingenious man, who 
ro.se from the situation of a footman to be a very 
eminent bookseller. His plan of republishing 



" Old English Plays" is said to have been sug- 
gested to him by the literary amateur Coxeter" 
but the execution of it leaves us still indebted to 
Dodsley's enterprise. 



SONG. 
Man's a poor deluded bubble,, 
Wand'ring in a mist of lies. 
Seeing false, or seeing double ; 

Who would trust to such weak eyesi 
&1 



Yet presuming on his senses. 

On he goes, most wondrous wiee. 

Doubts of truth, believes pretence.« 
Lost in error, lives and die«. 

2S 



506 



ROBERT LLOYD. 



SONG. 

PARTINO 



One kind kiss before we part, 
Drop a tear and bid adieu: 

Though we sever, my fond heart 
Till we meet shall pant for you. 



Yet, yet weep not so, my love, 
Let me kiss that falling tear, 

Though my bo^^y must remove, 
All my soul will still be here. 

All my soul, and all my heart, 

And every wish shall pant for you; 

One kind kiss then ere we part, 
Drop a tear and bid adieu. 



ROBERT LLOYD. 



[Born, 1733. 

Robert Lloyd was the son of one of the 
masters of Westminster school. H» studied at 
Cambridge, and was for some time usher at West- 
minster, but forsook that employment for the life 
of an author and the habits of a man of plea- 
sure. His first publication that attracted any 
notice was the " Actor," the reputation of which 
stimulated Churchill to his " Rosciad." He con- 
tributed to several periodical works; but was 
unable by his literary efforts to support the dis- 
sipated life which he led with Colman, Thornton, 
and other gay associates. His debts brought him 
to the Fleet ; and those companions left him to 



Died, 1764 ] 

moralize on the instability of convivial friend- 
ships. Churchill, however, adhered to him, and 
gave him pecuniary relief to prevent him from 
starving in prison. During his confinement he 
published a volume of his poems ; wrote a comic 
opera, " The Capricious Lovers ;" and took a 
share in translating the Contes Moraux of Mar- 
montel. When the death of Churchill was an- 
nounced to him, he exclaimed, " I shall follow 
poor Charles !" fell into despondency, and died 
within a few weeks. Churchill's sister, to whom 
he was betrothed, died of a broken heart for hia 



CHIT CHAT. AN IMITATION OF THEOCRITUS. 

Idyll. XV. 'EvSot npafjcrfa, &c. 
Mrs. B. Is Mistress Scot at home, my dearl 
Serv. Ma'am, is it you 1 I'm glad you're here. 
My missess, though resolved to wait, 
Is quite unpatient — 'tis so late. 
She fancied you would not come down, 
— But pray walk in, ma'am — Mrs. Brown. 

Mrs. S. Your servant, madam. Well, I swear 
I'd given you over. — Child, a chair. 
Pray, ma'am, be seated. 

Mis. B. Lard ! my dear, 

I vow I'm almost dead with fear. 
There is such a scrouging and such squeeging, 
The folks are all so disobliging ; 
And then the wagons, carts, and drays 
So clog up all these narrow ways, 
What with the bustle and the throng, 
I wonder how I got along. 
Besides, the walk is so immense — 
Not that I grudge a coach expense, 
But then it jumbles me to death, 
■ — And I was always short of breath- 
How can you live so far, my dear? 
Its quite a journey to come here. 

Mrs, S. Lard! ma'am, I left it all to him, 
Husbands, you know, will have their whim. 
He took this house. — This house ! this den — 
See but thr temper of some men. 
And I, forsooth, am hither hurl d. 
To live quite out of all the world. 
Husband, nideed ! 



Mrs. B. Hist! lower, pray, 

The child hears every word you say. 
See how he looks — 

Mrs. S. Jacky, come here, 

There s a good boy, look up, my dear. 
'Twas not papa we talk'd about. 
— Surely he cannot find it out. 

Mrs. B. See how the urchin holds his hands ! 
Upon my life he understands. 
— There's a sweet child, come, kiss me, come. 
Will Jacky have a sugar-plum 1 

Mrs. S. This person, madam, (call him so 
And then the child will never know,) 
From house to house would ramble out, 
And every night a drunken-bout. 
For at a tavern he will spend 
His twenty shillings with a friend. 
Your rabbits fricasseed and chicken. 
With curious choice of dainty picking. 
Each night got ready at the Crown, 
With port and punch to wash 'em down, 
Would scarcely serve this belly-glutton, 
Whilst we must starve on mutton, mutton. 

Mrs. B. My good man, too — Lord bless us . 
Are born to lead unhappy lives, [wives 

Although his profits bring him clear 
Almost two hundred pounds a year, 



[* To Lloyd and Churchill, Mr. Southey has given, in 
I bis Life of Cowper, an undue though interesting im- 
I portance. 
1 Lloyd's best productions are his two Odes, to Obscurity 

and Oblivion, written in ridicule of Uray; and in which 

the elder Colman had an uncertain share.] 



ROBERT LLOYD. 



507 



Keeps me of cash so short and bare, 

That I have not a gown to wear ; 

Except my robe, and yellow sack. 

And this old lutestring on my back. 

— But we've no time, my dear, to waste. 

Come, where's your cardinal] make haste. 

The king. God bless his majesty, I say, 

Goes to the house of lords to-day, 

In a fine painted coach-and-eight, 

And rides along in all his state. 

And then the queen — 

Mrs. S. Ay, ay, you know, 

Great folks can always make a show. 
But tell me, do — I've never seen 
Her present majesty, the queen. 

Mrs. B. Lard ! we've no time for talking now, 
Hark ! — one — two — three — 'tis twelve I vow. 

Mrs. S. Khty,my things, — I'll soon have done; 
It's time enough, you know, at one. 
— Why, girl! see how the creature stands! 
Some water here to wash my han<ls. 
— Be quick — -why sure the gipsy sleeps! 
— Look how the drawling dawdle creeps. 
That basin there— why don't you pour? 
Go on, I say — stop, stop — no more — 
Lud ! I could beat the hussy down. 
She's pour'd it all upon my gown, 
— Bring me my ruffles — canst not mindl 
And pin my handkerchief behind. 
Sure thou hast awkwardness enough, 
Go — fetch ray gloves, and fan, and muff. 
— Well, heaven be praised — this work is done, 
I'm ready now, my dear — let's run. 
Girl, — put that bottle on the shelf. 
And bring me back the key yourself. 

Mrs. B. That clouded silk becomes you much, 
I wonder how you meet with such. 
But you've a charming taste in dress. 
What might it cost you, madam ? 

Mrs. S. Guess. 

Mrs. B. Oh! that's impossible — for I 
Am in the world the worst to buy. 

Mrs. S. I never love to bargain hard, 
Five shillings, as I think, a yard. 
— I was afraid it should be gone — 
'Twas what I'd set my heart upon. 

Mrs. B. Indeed you bargain'd with success. 
For it's a most delightful dress. 
Besides, it fits you to a hair, 
And then 'tis sloped with such an air. 

Airs. S. I'm glad you think so, — Kitty, here, 
Bring me my cardinal, my dear. 
Jacky, my love, nay don't you cry. 
Take you abroad! Indeed not I; 
For all the bugaboes to fright ye — 
Besides, the naughty horse will bite ye; 
With such a mob about the street. 
Bless me, they'll tread you under fuel! 
Whine as you please. 111 have no blame, 
You'd belter blubber than be lame. 
Kitty, I say, here, take the boy. 
And fetch him down the last new toy, 
Make him as merry as you can, 
There, go to Kitty — there's a man. 



Call in the dog, and shut the door. 
Now, ma'am. 

Mrs. B. Oh lard ! 

Mrs. S. Pray go before. 

Mrs. B. I can't indeed, now. 

Mrs. S. Madam, pray. 

Mrs. B. Well then, for once, I'll lead the way. 

Mrs. S. Lard! what an uproar! what a throng! 
How shall we do to get along] 
What will become of us ] — look here, 
Here's all the king's horse-guards, my dear. 
Let us cross over — haste, be quick, 
— Pray, sir, take care — your horse will kick. 
He'll kill his rider — he's so wild. 
— I'm glad I did not brin? the child. 

Mrs. B. Don't be afraid, my dear, come on; 
Why don't you see the guards are gone ] 

Mrs. S. Well, I begin to draw my breath; 
But I was almost scared to death; 
For where a horse rears up and capers. 
It always puts me in the vapours. 
For as I live, — nay, don't you laugh, 
Fd rather see a toad by half; 
They kick and prance, and look so bold, 
It makes my very blood run cold. 
But let's go forward — come, be quick, 
The crowd again grows vastly thick. 

Mrs. B. Come you from Palace-yard, old dame 1 

Old Woman. Troth, do I, my young ladies, why] 

Mrs. B. Was it much crowded when you came] 

Mrs. S. And is his Majesty gone by ] 

Mrs. B. Can we get in, old lady, pray. 
To see him robe himself to-day ] 
) rs. S. Can you direct us, dame] 

Old Woman. Endeavour. 

Troy could not stand a siege for ever. 
By frequent trying, Troy, was won, 
All things, by trying, may be done. 

Mrs. B. Go thy ways. Proverbs — well, she'? 
Shall we turn back, or venture on] [gone-- 

Look how the folks press on before. 
And throng impatient at the door. 

Mrs. S. Perdigious ! I can hardly stand, 
Lord bless me, Mrs. Brown, your hand; 
And you, my dear, take hold of hers, 
For we must stick as close as burrs. 
Or in this racket, noise, and pother, 
We certainly shall lose each other. 

Good God ! my cardinal and sack 

Are almost torn from off my l)ack. 
Lard, I shall faint — O lud — my breast — 
I'm crush'd to atoms, I protest. 
God bless me — I have dropp'd my fan, 
Pray, did you see it, honest man ] 

Man. I, madam, no! — indeed, I fear 
You'll meet with some misfortune here. 
— Stand back, I say — pray, sir, forbear- 
Why, don't you see the ladies there] 
Put yourselves under my direction, 
Ladies, I'll be your safe protection. 

Mrs. S. You're very kind, sir; truly f«7.» 
Are half so complaisant as you. 
We shall be glad at any day 
This obligation to repay, 



508 



DAVID MALLET. 



Ami you'll be always sure to meet 
A welcouie, sir, in — liard ! the street 
B«ars such d name, I can't tell how 
To tell him where I live, I vow. 
— Mercy ! what's all this noise and stirl 
Pray is 'he king a coming, sirl 

Man. JVo — don't you hear the people shout 1 
'Tis Mr. Pitt, just going out. 

Mrs. B. Ay, there he goes, pray heaven bless 
Well may the people all caress him. [him 1 

—Lord, how my husband used to sit, 
And drink success to honest Pitt, 
And happy, o'er his evening cheer, 
Cry, " you shall pledge this toast, my dear." 

Man. Hist — silence — don't you hear the drum- 
Now, ladies, now, the king's a coming, [mingi 
There, don't you see the guards approach ] 

Mrs. B. Which is the king] 

Mrs. S. Which is the coach ] 

Sco! climan. Which is the noble earl of Bute 1 
Geud-faith, I'll gi him a salute. 
For he's the Laird of aw our clan, 
Troth he's a bonny miirkle man. 

Man. Here comes the coach so very slow 
As if it ne'er was made to go, 
In all the gingerbread of state, 
And staggering under its own weight. 

Mrs. S. Upon my word, its monstrous fine ! 
Would half the gold upon 't were mine ! 
How gaudy all the gilding shows ! 
It puts one's eyes out as it goes. 
What a rich glare of various hues. 
What shining yellows, scarlets, blues ! 
It must have cost a heavy price; 
'Tis like a mountain drawn by mice. 

Mrs. B. So painted, gilded, and so large. 
Bless me ! 'tis like my lord mayor's barge. 
And so it is — look how it reels ! 
'Tis nothing else — a barge on wheels. 

31aii. Large! it can't pass St. James's gate. 
So big the coach, the arch so strait, 
It might be made to rumble through 
And pass as other coaches do, 



Could they a 6or/y-coachmen get 
So most preposterously fit. 
Who'd undertake (and no rare thing) 
Without a lieuil to drive the king. 

Mrs. S. Lard ! what are those two ugly things 
There — with their hands upon the springs, 
Filthy, as ever eyes beheld. 
With naked breasts, and faces swell'd? 
What could the saucy maker mean. 
To put such things to fright the queen 1 

Man. Oh ! they are gods, ma'am, which you see, 
Of the Marine -"^ociety, 
Tritons, which in the ocean dwell. 
And only rise to blow their shell. 

3Irs. S. Gods d'ye call those filthy men ' 
Why don't they go to sea again 1 
Pray, tell me, sir, you understand. 
What do these Tritons do on landl 

Mrs. B. And what are they'? those hindmost 
things. 
Men, fish, and birds, with flesh, scales, wings'? 

Man. Oh, they are gods too, like the others, 
All of one fomily and brothers; 
Creatures, which seldom come ashore. 
Nor seen about the king before. 
For show, they wear the yellow hue. 
Their proper colour is true-blue. 

Mrs. S. Lord bless us ! what's this noise about 1 
Lord, what a tumult and a rout ! 
How the folks hollow, hiss, and hoot! 
Well — Heaven preserve the Earl of Bute ! 
I cannot stay, indeed, not I, 
If there's a riot I shall die. 
Let's make for any house we can. 
Do — give us shelter, honest man. 

Mrs. B. I wonder'd where you was, my dear 
I thought I should have died with fear. 
This noise and racketing and hurry 
Has put my nerves in such a flurry ! 
I could not think where you was got, 
I thought I'd lost you, Mrs. Scgt; 
Where's Mrs. Tape, and Mr. Grini 
Lard, I'm so glad we're all got in. 



DAVID MALLET. 



[Born, 1700. Died, 1765.: 



Of Mallet's birth-place and family nothing is 
certainly known; but Dr. Johnson's account of 
his descent from the sanguinary clan of Mac 
Gregor is probably not much better founded 
than what he tells us of his being janitor to 
the High-School of Edinburgh. 'J hat otficer has, 
from time immemorial, lived in a small house at 
the gate of the school, of which he sweeps the 
floors, and rings the bell.* Mallet, at the 



[* And is an ofifice always intrusted, we believe, to men 
teihnii all.v called up in }e:.rs.J 

[t lie had no fixed salary at Mr. Home's; at the Duke 
of Montro e's his eccoiirii|;ement wa.'* v.u al oiviaice yearly 
of thirty i ounds. He wis edmated i.t Abuideen under 
Pi'ofessoi Ker, through whose iuLueuce Mr. bcott so suo 



alleged time of his being thus employed, was 
private tutor in the family of Mr. Home, of Dreg- 
horn, near Edinburgh. By a Mr. Scott he was 
recommended to be tutor to the sons of the Duke 
of Montrose, and after travelling on the Conti- 
nent whh his pupils, and returning to London, 
made his way, according to Dr. Johnson, into 
the society of wits, nobles, and statesmen, by the 
influence of the family in which he had lived-t 



cessfuUy interested himself alout him. Mallet left Edin- 
burgh fir Loncon in August, 17'2:), aiid did not po abioad 
with the Montiose C mily. He hail gaiutd the fiiendi-l.ip 
of Young in 1725, and in 1726 had changed his n; me from 
Malloc h to MalleW for he found no KnglisLmen who could 
pronounce the original.] 



DAVID MALLET. 



509 



Perhaps the mere situation of a nobleman's tutor 
would not have gained such access to a diffi- 
dent man; but Mallet's manners and talents 
were peculiarly fitted to make their way in the 
world. His ballad of " William and Margaret," 
in 1724, first brought him into notice. He be- 
came intimate with Pope, and had so much 
celebrity in his day as to be praised in rhyme 
both by Savage and Lord Chesterfield. In time 
[June,' 1742] he was appointed under-secretary 
to the Prince of Wales. Some of his letters in 
the earlier part of his life express an interest and 



friendship for the poet Thomson, which do honour 
to his heart; but it cannot be disguised that his 
general history exhibits more address than prin- 
ciple, and his literary career is unimportant. 
Some years before his death he was appointed 
keeper of the book of entries for the port of 
London, and enjoyed a pension for an address 
to the public, which contributed to hasten the 
execution of Byng — a foct for which, if true, 
his supposed ancestors, the MacGregors, might 
have been ashamed to acknowledge him.* 



WILLIAM AND MARGARET. 

'TwAS at the silent, solemn hour 
When night and morning meet;t 

In glided Margaret's grimly ghost, 
And stood at Wdliam's feet. 

Her face was like an April-morn, 

Clad in a wintry cloud ; 
And clay-cold was her lily hand, 

That held her sable shroud. 

So shall the fairest face appear, 

When youth and years are flown : 

Such is the robe that kings must wear, 
When death has reft their crown. 

Her bloom was like the springing flower, 

That sips the silver dew ; 
The rose was budded in her cheek, 

Just opening to the view. 

But love had, like the canker-worm. 

Consumed her early prime : 
The rose grew pale, and left her cheek ; 

She died before her time. 

" Awake !" she cried, " thy true love calls, 
Come from her midnight-grave ; 

Now let thy pity hear the maid. 
Thy love refused to save. 

" This is the dumb and dreary hour. 
When injured ghosts complain ; 

When yawning graves give up their dead. 
To haunt the faithless swain. 

"Bethink thee, William, of thy fault. 
Thy pledge and broken oath ! 

And give me back my maiden-vow. 
And give me back my troth. 

" Why did you promise love to me, 
And not that promise keep 1 



[* This account is very meagre, and 51allct's life deserves 
to be written at some length ; for it would afford a curious 
histiiry, such as literary lives too seldom offer. The mate- 
rials. thou^'h scattered, are various and ample. It was 
to Mallei's house that Gibbon the historian went after his 
removal from College. 

Mallet is the only instance of an author who has written 
80 much and so variedly, and at surh different periods of 
life, whose first productions are still considered his best. 
William and Margaret is indeed a beautiful ballad, and 



Why did you swear my eyes were bright, 
Yet leave those eyes to weep ] 

" How could you say my face was fair, 

And yet that face forsake 1 
How could you win my virgin-heart. 

Yet leave that heart to break ? 

" Why did you say my lip was sweet. 

And made the scarlet pale 1 
And why did I, young witless maid! 

Believe the flattering tale 1 

« That face, alas ! no more is fair, 

Those lips no linger red : 
Dark are my eyes, now closed in death, 

And every charm is fled. 

" The hungry worm my sister is ; 

This winding-sheet I wear: 
And cold and weary lasts our night. 

Till that last morn appear. 

" But, hark ! the cock has warn'd me hence ; 

A long and late adieu ! 
Come, see, false man, how low she lies. 

Who died for love of you." 

The lark sung loud ; the morning smiled, 

With beams of rosy red : 
Pale William quaked in every limb. 

And raving left his bed. 

He hied him to the fatal place 

Where Margaret's body lay ; 
And stretch'd him on the green-grass turf, 

That wrapp'd her breathless clay. 

And thrice he call'd on Margaret's name. 

And thrice he wept full sore ; 
Then laid his cheek to her cold grave, 

And word spake never more ! 

the Banks of Endermay, another early attempt, very ele- 
gant and very pleading.] 

[t The two introiluctory lines, says Percy, (and one or 
two others elsewhere) had originally more of the ballad 
simplicity, viz. 

When all wa/= wrapt in dark midnight, 
And all were fast asleep, &c. 
For a character of Mallet's ballads, see Scott's Essay on 
Imitations, Pnet. Wrls, vol. iv. p. 27. The ballad before 
us Percy has called one of the most beautiful ballada in 
our own or any language. Md. vol. iii. p. laS.] 
2s2 



610 



EDWARD YOUNG. 



SONG. 
The smiling morn, the breathing spring, 
Invite the tuneful birds to sing, 
And while they warlile from each spray. 
Love melts the universal lay. 
Let us, Amanda, timely wise. 
Like them improve the hour that flies, 
And in soft raptures waste the day 
Among the shades of Endermay. 



For soon the winter of the year, 
And age, life's winter, will appear; 
At this, thy living bloom will fade. 
As that will strip the vernal shade. 
Our taste of pleasure then is o'er. 
The feather'd songsters love no more ; 
And when they droop, and we decay, 
Adieu the shades of Endermay. 



EDWARD YOUNG. 



[Born, leei. Died, 1765.] 



Young's satires have at least the merit of con- 
/aining a number of epigrams, and as they 
appeared rather earlier than those of Pope, they 
may boast of having afforded that writer some 
degree of ejjample. Swift's opinion of them, 
however, seems not to have been unjust, that 
they should have either been more merry or 
more angry.* One of his tragedies is still 
popular on the stage ; and his Night Thoughts 
have many admirers both at home and abroad. 
Of his lyrical poetry he had himself the good 
sense to think but indifferently. In none of his 
works is he more spirited and amusing than in 
his Essay on Original Composition, written at 
the age of eighty. 

The Night Thoughts have been translated into 
more than one foreign language; and it is usual 
for foreigners to regard them as eminently 
characteristic of the peculiar temperament of 
English genius. Madame de Stael has indeed 
gravely deduced the genealogy of our national 
melancholy from Ossian and the Northern Scalds, 
down to Dr. Young. Few Englishmen, however, 
will probably be disposed to recognise the author 
of the Night Thoughts as their national poet by 
way of eminence. His devotional gloom is more 
in the spirit of St. Francis of Asisium than of an 
English divine: and his austerity is blended with 
a vein of whimsical conceit that is still more un- 
like the plainness of English character. The 
Night Thoughts certainly contain many splendid 
and happy conceptions, but their beauty is thickly 
marred l)y false wit and overlaboured antithesis; 
indeed his whole ideas seem to have been in a 
state of antithesis while he composed the poem. 
One portion of his fancy appears devoted to 
aggravate the picture of his desolate feelings, and 
the other half to contradict that picture by 
eccentric images and epigrammatic ingenuities. 
As a poet he was fond of exaggeration, but it 
was that of the fancy more than of the heart. 
This appears no less in the noisy hyperboles of 

[* The Universal Pas^ion is indeeil a very great perform- 
ance. It is said to be a seri(5s of epigrams. 

Young's Fpeoies of satire is between those of Ilorare and 
Juvenal ; and he ha.« the trayety of Ilora-e without his laxity 
of numbers, and the morality of Juvenal with greater 
variation of images. lie plays indeed only on the surface 
of life; he never penetrates the reonoses of the mind, ar.d 
therefore th<> whole power of his poetry is exhausted by 



his tragedies, than in the studied melancholy of 
the Night Thoughts, in which he pronounces the 
simple act of laughter to be half immoral. That 
he was a pious man, and had felt something from 
the afflictions described in the Complaint, need 
not be called in question,! but he seems cove- 
nanting with himself to be as desolate as possible, 
as if he had continued the custom ascribed to 
him at college, of studying with a candle stuck in 
a human skull; while, at the same time, the 
feelings and habits of a man of the world, which 
still adhere to him, throw a singular contrast 
over his renunciations of human vanity. He 
abjures the world in witty metaphors, commences 
his poem with a sarcasm on sleep, deplores his 
being neglected at court, compliments a lady of 
quality by asking the moon if she would choose to 
be called the -'•fair Portland of the skies" — and 
dedicates to the patrons of " a murk indebted 
muse," one of whom (Lord WilmingtoiiJ) on some 
occasion he puts in the balance of antithesis as a 
counterpart to heaven. He was, in truth, not so 
sick of life as of missing its preferments, and was 
still ambitious not only of converting Lorenzo, 
but of shining before this utterly worthless and 
wretched world as a sparkling, sublime, and witty 
poet. Hence his poetry has not the majestic 
simplicity of a heart abstracted from human 
vanities, and while the groundwork of his senti- 
ments is more darkly shaded than is absolutely 
necessary either for poetry or religion, the sur- 
face of his e.xpression glitters with irony and 
satire, and with thoughts sometimes absolutely 
approaching to pleasantry. His ingenuity in the 
false sublime is very peculiar. In Night IX. he 
concludes his description of the day of judgment 
by showing the just and the unjust consigned 
respectively to their " sulphureous or ambrosial 
seats," while 

"Hell through all her glooms 
Returns in groans a melauchoiy roar ;" 

this is aptly put under the book of Consolation. 

a single perusal ; his conceits please only when they sur^ 
prise. — .lOHNSOX.] 

t It iippear.-i. however, from Sir Herbert Croft's account 
of his life, [in Johnson's I'oets,] that he had not lost the ob- 
jects of his iiffcelion in such rapid succession as he feigned, 
wlien he rddretses (he •'lusatiale anh.'r (Death) whose 
shaft flew thrice, ere thrice yon moon hiul filled her liorn." 

[I The Lord Wilmington of Thomson's '• Winter "] 



EDWARD YOUNG. 



511 



But instead of winding up his labours, he proceeds 
through a multitude of reflections, and amidst 
many comparisons assimilates the constellations 
of heaven to gems of immense weight and value 
on a ring for the finger of their Creator. Con- 
ceit could hardly go farther than to ascribe finery 
to Omnipotence. The taste of the French artist 
was not quite so bold, when in the picture of 
Belshazzar's feast, he put a ring and ruffle on the 
hand that was writing on the wall. 

Here, however, he was in earnest compara- 
tively with some other passages, such as that in 
which he likens Death to Nero driving a phaeton 
in a female guise, or where he describes the same 
personage, Death, borrowing the •■' cotkacfed brow 
of a spendlhrift," in order to gain admittance to 
" a gay circle." Men, with the same fami- 
liarity, are compared to monkeys before a look- 
ing'-glass ; and, at the end of the eighth book, 
Satan is roundly denominated a " f/wdce;"* the 
first time, perhaps, that his abilities were ever 
seriously called in question.f 

Shall we agree with Dr. Johnson when he 
affirms of the Night Thoughts that particular 
lines are not to be regarded, that the power is in 
the whole, and that in the whole there is a mag- 
nificence like that which is ascribed to a Chinese 
plantation, the magnificence of vast extent and 
endless diversity 1 Of a Chinese plantation few 
men have probably a very distinct conception ; 
but unless that species of landscape be an utterly 
capricious show of objects, in which case even 
extent and variety will hardly constitute magni- 
ficence, it must possess amusement and vicis- 
situde, arising from the relation of parts to each 
other. But there is nothing of entertaining suc- 
cession of parts in the Night Thoughts. The 
poem excites no anticipation as it proceeds. One 
book bespeaks no impatience for another, nor is 
found to have laid the smallest foundation for 
new pleasure when the succeeding Night sets in. 
1'he poet's fancy discharges itself on the mind in 
short ictuses of surprise, which rather lose than 
increase their force by reiteration ; but he is re- 
markably defective in progressive interest and 
co.ileciive effect. The power of the poem, instead 
of " being in the whole,'" lies in short, vivid, and 
broken gleams of genius ; so that if we disregard 
particular lines, we shall but too often miss the 
only gems of ransom which the poet can bring as 
the price of his relief from surrounding tedium. 
Of any long work, where the power really lies in 
the whole, we feel reluctant to hazard the cha- 
racter by a few short quotations, because a few 
fragments can convey no adequate idea of the 



* " Nor think this pentence is severe on thee, 
Satan, thy master, I dare call a dunce." 

Cunclading lines nf Night Sth. 

[t The Night Thoughts are ppoken of differently, either 
wUh exagfierated applause or conti'mpt, as the reader's 
disposition is either turned to mirth or melancholy. — 
Goldsmith.] 



architecture; but the directly reverse of this is 
the case with the Night Thoughts, for by select- 
ing particular beauties of the poem we should 
delight and electrify a sensitive reader, but might 
put him to sleep by a perusal of the whole. This 
character of detached felicities, unconnected with 
interesting progress or reciprocal animation of 
parts, may be likened to a wilderness, without 
path or perspective, or to a Chinese plantation 
(if the illustration be more agreeable;) but it 
doe's not correspond with our idea of the magni- 
ficence of a great poem, of which it can be said 
that the power is in the whole. After all, the 
variety and extent of reflection in the Night 
Thoughts is to a certain degree more imposing 
than real. They have more metaphorical than 
substantial variety of thought. Questions which 
we had thought exhausted and laid at rest in one 
book, are called up again in the next in a Proteus 
metamorphosis of shape, and a chamelion diversity 
of colour. Happily the awful truths which they 
illustrate are few and simple. Around those 
truths the poet directs his course with innume- 
rable sinuosities of fancy, like a man appearing 
to make a long voyage, while he is in reality 
only crossing and recrossing the same expanse 
of water. 

He has been well described in a late poem, as 
one in whom 



" Still gleams and still expires ( 
Of genuine poetry." 



! cloudy day 



The above remarks have been made with no 
desire to depreciate what is genuine in his beau- 
ties. The reader most sensitive to his faults must 
have felt, that there is in him a spark of origi- 
nality which is never long extinguished, however 
far it may be from vivifying the entire mass of 
his poetry. Many and exquisite are his touches 
of sublime expression, of profound reflection, 
and of striking imagery. It is recalling but a 
few of these to allude to his description, in the 
eighth book, of the man whose thoughts are not 
of this world, to his simile of the traveller at the 
opening of the ninth book, to his spectre of the 
antediluvian world, and to some parts of his very 
unequal description of the conflagration; above 
all, to that noble and familiar image, 

" When final Ruin fiercely drives 
Her ploughshare o'er creation." 

It is true that he seldom, if ever, maintains a 
flight of poetry long free from oblique associa- 
tions ; but he has individual passages which Phi- 
losophy might make her texts, and Experience 
select for her mottos. 



[* A paasage imitated by Burns in his Poem " To the 
Daisy :" 

Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate 

Full on thy b'oom. 
Till crush'd beneath the farrow's weight. 
Shall be thy doom. 
Burns was a great reader of Young, as the Scotch indeed 
universally are.] 



512 



EDWARD YOUNG. 



FROM NIGHT I. 

Introduction to the Night Thousht«— Uncertainty of 
human happiness — Universality of human misery. 

Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep ! 
He, like the world, his ready visit pays 
Where fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes; 
Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe, 
And lights on lids unsullied with a tear. 

From short (as usual) and disturb'd repose, 
I wake : How happy they, who wake no more ! 
Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave. 
I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams 
Tumultuous; where my wreck'd desponding 

thought 
From wave to wave of fancied misery, 
At random drove, her helm of reason lost. 
Though now restored, 'tis only change of pain, 
(A bitter change !) severer for severe, 
The day too short for my distress; and night, 
Even in the zenith of her dark domain. 
Is sunshine to the colour of my fate. 

Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, 
In rayless majesty, now stretches forth 
Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world, 
Silence, how dead ! and darkness how profound ! 
Nor eye, nor listening ear, an object finds; 
Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the genera! pulse 
Of life stood still, and nature made a pause; 
An awful pause ! prophetic of her end. 
And let her prophecy be soon fulfiU'd ; 
Fate ! drop the curtain ; I can lose no more. 

Silence and darkness! solemn sisters! twins 
From ancient night, who nurse the tender thought! 
To reason, and on reason build resolve 
(That column of true majesty in man,) 
Assist me : I will thank you in the grave ; 
The grave, your kingdom : there this frame shall 

fall 
A victim sacred to your dreary shrine. 
But what are ye ? — 

Thou who didst put to flight 
Primeval silence, when the morning stars, 
Exulting, shouted o'er the rising ball; 
O thou, whose word from solid darkness struck 
That spark, the sun, strike wisdom from my soul ; 
My soul, which flies to thee, her trust, her trea- 
sure. 
As misers to their gold, while others rest. 

Through this opaque of nature and of soul, 
This double night, transmit one pitying ray, 
To lighten and to cheer. lead my mind 
(A mind that fain would wander from its woe,) 
Lead it through various scenes of life and 

death; 
And from each scene the noblest truths inspire. 
Nor less inspire my conduct than my song; 
Teach my best reason, reason ; my best will 
Teach rectitude ; and fix my firm resolve 
Wisdom to wed, and pay her long arrear: 
Nor let the vial of thy vengeance pour'd 
On this devoted head, be pour'd in vain. 

The bell strikes one. We take no note of time 
But from its loss To give it then a tongue 
Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, 



I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright. 

It is the knell of my departed hours : 

Where are they 1 With the years beyond the 

flood. 
It is the signal that demands despatch: 
How much is to be done! My hopes and fears 
Start up alarm 'd, and o'er life's narrow verge 
Look down — -On what ] a fathomless abjss; 
A dread eternity ! how surely mine ! 
And can eternity belong to me. 
Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hourl 

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, 
How complicate, how wonderful is man ! 
How passing wonder he who made him such ! 
Who center'd in our make such strange ex- 
tremes ! 
From different natures marvellously mix'd. 
Connexion exquisite of distant worlds! 
Distinguish'd link in being's endless chain ! 
Midway from nothing to the Deity! 
A beam ethereal, sullied, and absorb'd ! 
Though sullied and dishonour'd, still divine! 
Dim miniature of greatness absolute ! 
An heir of glory ! a frail child of dust ! 
Helpless immortal ! insect infinite ! 
A worm ! a god ! — I tremble at myself. 
And in myself am lost ! at home a stranger. 
Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast, 
And wondering at her own : How reason reels ! 
what a miracle to man is man. 
Triumphantly distress'd ! what joy, what dread ! 
Alternately transported and alarm'd ! 
What can preserve my life, or what destroy 1 
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the 

grave ; 
Legions of angels can't confine me there. 

'Tis past conjecture ; all things rise to proof: 
While o'er my limbs sleep's soft dominion spread, 
What though my soul fantastic measures trod 
O'er fairy fields ; or mourn'd along the gloom 
Of pathless woods ; or down the craggy steep 
Hurl'd headlong, swam with pain the mantled 

pool ; 
Or scaled the cliflT; or danced on hollow winds, 
With antic shapes, wild natives of the brain? 
Her ceaseless flight, though devious, speaks her 

nature 
Of subtler essence than the trodden clod ; 
Active, aerial, towering, unconfined, 
Unfetter'd with her gross companion's fall. 
Ev'n silent night proclaims my soul immortal; 
Ev'n silent night proclaims eternal day. 
For human weal Heaven husbands all events; 
Dull sleep instructs, nor sport vain dreams in 
vain. 



Why then their loss deplore that are not lost] 
Why wanders wretched thought their tomba 

around 
In infidel distress] Are angels there? 
Slumbers, raked up in dust, ethereal fire ? 

They live! they greatly live a life on earth 
Unkindled, unconceived ; and from an eye 
Of tenderness let heavenly pity fall 
On me, more justly number'd with the dead. 
This is the desert, this the solitude : 



EDWARD YOUNG. 



513 



How populous, how vital, is the grave ! 

This is creation's melancholy vault. 

The vale funereal, the sad cypress gloom ; 

The land of apparitions, empty shades ! 

All, all on earth, is shadow, all beyond 

Is substance ; the reverse is folly's creed : 

How solid all, where change shall be no more ! 

This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, 
The twilight of our day, the vestibule; 
Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death, 
Strong death, alone can heave the massy bar, 
This gross impediment of clay remove, 
And make us embryos of existence free, 
From real life ; but little more remote 
Is he, not yet a candidate for light, 
The future embryo, slumbering in his sire. 
Embryos we must be till we burst the shell, 
Yon ambient azure shell, and spring to life, 
The life of gods, transport ! and of man. 

Yet man, fool man ! here buries all his 
thoughts; 
Inters celestial hopes without one sigh. 
Prisoner of earth, and pent beneath the moon, 
Here pinions all his wishes ; wing'd by heaven 
To fly at infinite; and reach it there 
Where seraphs gather immortality. 
On life's fair tree, fast by the throne of God. 
What golden joys ambrosial clustering glow 
In his full beam, and ripen for the just. 
Where momentary ages are no more ! 
Where time, and pain, and chance, and death 

expire ! 
And is it in the flight of threescore years 
To push eternity from human thought, 
And smother souls immortal in the dusti 
A soul immortal, spending all her fires, 
Wasting her strength in strenuous idleness, 
Thrown into tumult, raptured or alarm'd. 
At aught this scene can threaten or indulge, 
Resembles ocean into tempest wrought. 
To waft a feather, or to drown a fly. 

Where falls this censure? Ito'erwhelms myself: 
How was my heart incrusted by the world ! 
O how self-fetter'd was my grovelling soul, 
How, like a worm, was I wrapt round and round 
In silken thought, which reptile fancy spun, 
Till darken'd reason lay quite clouded o'er 
With soft conceit of endless comfort here. 
Nor yet put forth her wings to reach the skies! 

Night-visions may befriend : (as sung above) 
Our waking dreams are fatal. How I dream'd 
Of things impossible ! (Could sleep do more ?) 
Of joys perpetual in perpetual change ! 
Of stable pleasures on the tossing wave ! 
Eternal sunshine in the storms of life! 
How richly were my noon-tide trances hung 
With gorgeous tapestries of pictured joys ! 
Toy behind joy, in endless perspective ! 
Till at death's toll, whose restless iron tongue 
Calls daily for his millions at a meal. 
Starting I woke, and found myself undone. 
Where now my frenzy's pompous fumiturel 
The cobweb'd cottage, with its ragged wall 
Of mouldering mud, is royalty to me ! 
The spider's most attenuated thread 
65 



Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie 

On earthly bliss ; it breaks at every breeze. 

* * * * 

Yet why complain 1 or why complain for one ] 
Hangs out the sun his lustre but for me. 
The single man 1 Are angels all beside 1 
I mourn for millions: 'Tis the common lot: 
In this shape, or in that, has fate entail'd 
The mother's throes on all of woman born, 
Not more the children than sure heirs of pain 
War, famine, pest, volcano, storm, and fire, 
Intestine broils, oppression, with her heart 
Wrapt up in triple brass, besiege mankind. 
God's image disinherited of day. 
Here, plunged in mines, forgets a sun was made. 
There, beings deathless as their haughty lord, 
Are hammer'd to the galling oar for life. 
And plough the winter's wave, and reap despair 
Some for hard masters, broken under arms. 
In battle lopp'd away, with half their limbs. 
Beg bitter bread through realms their valour 
If so, the tyrant, or his minion, doom. [saved. 
Want, and incurable disease, (fell pair!) 
On hopeless multitudes remorseless seize 
At once, and make a refuge of the grave. 
How groaning hospitals eject their dead ! 
What numbers groan for sad admission theie ! 
What numbers, once in fortune's lap high-fed, 
Solicits the cold hand of charity ! 
To shock us more, solicit it in vain ! 
Ye silken sons of pleasure ; since in pains 
You rue more modish visits, visit here. 
And breathe from your debauch: give and reduce 
Surfeit's dominion over you : but so great 
Your impudence, you blush at what is right. 

Happy ! did sorrow seize on such alone. 
Not prudence can defend, or virtue save ; 
Disease invades the chastest temperance. 
And punishment the guiltless, and alarm, 
Through thickest shades, pursues the fond of peace 
Man's caution often into danger turns: 
And his guard falling crushes him to death. 
Not happiness itself makes good her name; 
Our very wishes give us not our wish. 
How distant oft the thing we doat on most 
From that for which we doat, felicity ! 
The smoothest course of nature has its pains ; 
And truest friends, through error, wound our rest. 
Without misfortune, what calamities; 
And what hostilities, without a foe! 
Nor are foes wanting to the best on earth. 
But endless is the list of human ills, 
And sighs might sooner fail, than cause to sigh. 



FROM NIGHT H. 
Apology for the periousness of the sohject. 
Thou say'st I preach, Lorenzo ; tis confest 
What if, for once, I preach thee quite awake" 
Who wants amusement in the flame of battle ! 
Is it not treason in the soul imnaortal. 
Her foes in arms, eternity the p«ize] 
Will toys amuse, when mediciH«s cannot cure ! 
When spirits ebb, when life's, enchanting, scenes 



514 



EDWARD YOUNG. 



Their lustre lose, and lessen in our sight, 
As lands and cities with their glittering spires, 
To the poor shatter'd bark, by sudden storm 
Thrown olf to sea, and soon to perish there? 
Will toys amuse 1 No: Thrones will then be 

toys, 
And earth and skies seem dust upon the scale. 



FROM THE SA5IE. 
! of men in pursuit of amusement. 
Ah ! how unjust to Nature and himself, 
Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man ! 
Like children, babbling nonsense in their sports, 
We censure nature for a span too short; 
That span too short, we tax as tedious too ; 
Torture invention, all expedients tire, 
To lash the lingering moments into speed, 
And whirl us (happy riddance !) from ourselves. 
Art, brainless art ! our furious charioteer 
(For nature's voice unstifled would recall,) 
Drives headlong toward the precipice of death ; 
Death, most our dread ; death thus more dreadful 
O what a riddle of absurdity ! [made: 

Leisure is pain ; takes off our chariot wheels ; 
How heavily we drag the load of life! 
Blest leisure is our curse ; like that of Cain, 
It makes us wander; wander earth around, 
To fly that tyrant, thought. As Atlas groan'd 
The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour. 
We cry for mercy to the next amusement; 
The next amusement mortgages our fields ; 
Slight inconvenience ! prisons hardly frown, 
From hateful time if prisons set us free. 
Vet when death kindly tenders us relief. 
We call him cruel; years to moments shrink, 
Ages to years. 'J"he telescope is turn'd. 
To man's false optics (from his folly false) 
Time, in advance, behind him hides his wings, 
And seems to creep, decrepit with his age ; 
Behold him, when pass'd by ; what then is seen, 
But his broad pinions swifter than the winds ] 
And all mankind, in contradiction strong. 
Rueful, aghast, cry out on his career. 



FROM THE SAME. 
Ble?8cdness of the son of f jresight. 
Where shall I find hirn? Angels! tell me 
where. 
You know him: Heisnearyou: Point him out: 
Shall I see glories beaming from his brow ? 
Or trace his footsteps by the rising flowers ! 
Your golden wings, how hovering o'er him, shed 
Protection : now are waving in applause 
To that blest son of foresight! lord of fate! 
That awful independent on to-morrow! 
Whose work is done ; who triumphs in the past ; 
Whose yesterdays look backward with a smile ; 
Nor, like the Parthian, wound him as they fly ; 
That common, but opprobrious lot ! past hours. 
If not by guilt, yet wound us by their flight; 
If folly bounds our proepect by the grave, 



All feeling of futurity benumb'd ; 

All god-like passion for eternals quench'd ; 

All relish of realities expired; 

Renounced all correspondence with (he skies: 

Our freedom chain'd ; quite wingless our desire; 

In sense dark-prison'd all that ought to soar; 

Prone to the centre ; crawling in the dust; 

Dismounted every great and glorious aim ; 

Embruted every faculty divine ; 

Heart-buried in the rubbish of the world. 

The world, that gulf of souls, immortal souls, 

Souls elevate, angelic, wing'd with fire 

To reach the distant skies, and triumph there 

On thrones, which shall not mourn their masters 

changed ; 
Though we from earth ; ethereal they that fell. 



FROM THE SAME. 
Society necessary to happiness. 
Wisdom, though richer than Peruvian mines, 
And sweeter than the sweet ambrosial hive. 
What is she hut the mearts of hap|)iness ? 
That unobtain'd, than folly more a fool ; 
A melancholy fool, without her bells. 
Friendship, the means of wisdom, richly gives, 
The precious end which makes our wisdom wise. 
Nature, in zeal for human amity. 
Denies, or damps, an undivided joy. 
.toy is an import, joy is an exchange; 
Joy flies monopolists : it calls for two ; 
Rich fruit! heaven-planted! never pluck'd by one. 
Needful auxiliars are our friends, to give 
To social man true relish of himself. 
Full on ourselves, descending in a line, 
Pleasure's bright beam is feeble in delight: 
Delight intense is taken by rebound; 
Reverberated pleasures fire the breast. 



FROM NIGHT III. 
Complaint for Narcissa. 

O Philander! 
What was thy fate? A double fate to me; 
Portent and pain, a menace and a blow, 
Like the black raven hovering o'er my peace, 
Not less a bird of omen than of prey. 
It call'd Narcissa long before her hour ; 
It call'd her tender soul by break of bliss, 
From the first blossom, from the buds of joy ; 
Those few our noxious fate unblasted leaves 
In this inclement clime of human life. 

Sweet harmonist! and beautiful as sweet! 
And young as beautiful ! and soft as young ! 
And gay as soft ! and innocent as gay ! 
And happy (if aught happy here) as good! 
For fortune fond had budt her nest on high. 
Like birds quite exquisite of note and plume, 
Transfix'd by fate, (who loves a lofty mark,) 
How from the summit of the grove she fell, 
And left it unharmonious. All its charms 
Extinguish'd in the wonders of her song ! 
Her song still vibrates in my ravish'd ear. 



EDWARD YOUNG. 



515 



Still melting there, and with voluptuous pain 
(O to ibrget her) thrilling through my heart! 

Song.beauty, youth, love, virtue, joy ; this group 
Of bright idciis, flowers of paradise. 
As yet unfoifeit! in one blaze we bind, 
Kneel, and present it to the sl<ies as all 
We guess of heaven: and these were all her own. 
And she was mine; and I was — was! — most 
Gay title oi the deepest misery ! [blest — 

As bodies grow more ponderous robb'd of life, 
CJood lost weighs more in grief than gain'd in joy, 
]>ike blossom'd trees o'erturn'd by vernal storm, 
l,o\ely in death the beauteous rum lay ; 
And if in death still lovely, lovelier there. 
Far lovelier! pity swells the tide of love. 
And will not the severe excuse a sigh ] 
Scorn the pioud man that is ashamed to weep; 
Our tears indulged indeed deserve our shame. 
Ye that e"er lost an angel, pity me ! 

Soon as the lustie languisli'd in her eye, 
Dawning a dimmer day on human sight. 
And on her cheek, the residence of spring, 
Pale omen sat, an i SL-aiter'd fears around 
On all that saw (and who would cease to gaze 
Tiiat once had seen !) with haste, parental haste, 
I flew, I snatih'd her from the rigid north. 
Her native bed, on which bleak Boreas blew. 
And bore her neaier to the sun : the sun 
(As if the sun could envy) check'd his beam. 
Denied his wonted succour; nor with more 
Regret beheld her drooping than the bells 
Of idics ; I'airest lilies not so f.iir ! 

* * * * 

So man is made; nought ministers delight 
By what his glowing passions can engage; 
And glowing passions, bent on aught below. 
Must, soiin or late, with anguish turn the scale; 
And angu.sh after rapture, how severe? 
Rapture I liold man! who templ'st the wrath 

divine. 
By p'ucking fruit denied to mortal taste. 
While here, presuming on the rights of heaven. 
For transport dost thou call on every hour, 
Lorenzo! At thy friend's expense be wise; 
Lean not on earth; 'twill pierce thee to the heart; 
A broken 'reed at l)est, but oft a spear ; 
On its sharp point peace bleeds, and hope ex- 
pires. 
Turn, iiopeless thought! turn from her: — 
thought repell'd 
Resentng rallies, and wakes every woe. 
SnatchM ere thy prime! and in thy bridal hour! 
And when kind fo.tune, with thy lover, smiled ! 
And when liigh-flavour'd thy fresh opening joys! 
And when blind man pronounced thy bliss com- 
plete ! 
And on a li).eign shore, where strangers wept! 
Strangers to thee; and, more surprising still. 
Strangers to kindness, wept: ther eyes let fall 
Inhuman tears! strange tears! that tra-kled down 
Fnim marble hearts! obdurate tenderness! 
A tenderness that call'd them more severe ; 
In spite of nature's soft persuasion steel'd ; 
Whde nature melted, superst.tion raved; 
That nkourii'd the dead, and th.s denied a grave. 



Their sighs incensed ; sighs forc'gn to the will ! 
Their will the tiger suck'd, outraged the storm. 
For, oh ! the curst ungodliness of zeal ! 
While sinful flesh relented, spirit nurst. 
In blind infallibility's embrace. 
The sainted spirit, petrified the breast; 
Denied the charity of dust to spread 
O'er dust ! a charity their dogs enjoy. 
What could I do? What succour! What rp 
With pious sacrilege, a grave I stole; [source 
With impious piety, that grave I wrong'd ; 
Short in my duty ; coward in my grief! 
More like her murderer, than friend, I crept. 
With soft suspended step, and muffled deep 
In midnight darkness, whisper'd my last sigh. 
I whisper'd what should echo through their 

realms ; 
Nor writ her name, whose tomb should pierce the 

skies. 
Presumptuous fear ! How durst I dread her foes, 
While nature's loudest dictates I obey'd ? 
Pardon necessity, bless'il shade ! of grief 
And indignation rival bursts I pour'd ; 
Half execration mingled with my prayer; 
Kindled at man while I his God adored; 
Sore grudged the savage land her sacred dust; 
Stamp'd the ( ursed soil; and with humanity 
(Denied Narcissa) wish'd them all a grave. 



FROM NIGHT IV. 

Compari'-on of the soul viewing the prospects of immor 

tality to the prisouer eularged from a tlun^eoQ. 

As when a wretch, from thick, polluted air, 
Darkness, and stench, and sulfjcating damps. 
And dungeon horrors, by kind fate discharged, 
Clunbs some fair eminence, where ether pure 
Surrounds him, and Elysian prospects rise. 
His heart exults, his spirits cast their load ; 
As if new-born, he triumphs in the change; 
So joys the soul when from inglorious aims. 
An I sordid sweets, from feculence and froth 
Of ties terrestrial, set at large, she mounts 
To Reason's region, her own element. 
Breathes hope immortal, and alFects the skies. 



FROM NIGHT V. 
Tlie danger to virtue of infection from the world. 
Virtue, for ever frail, as fair, below, 
Her tender nature suffers in the crowd, 
Nor touches on the world without a stain: 
The world's infectious ; few bring back at eve, 
Immaculate, the manners of the morn. 
Something, we thought, is blotted ; we resolved, 
Is shaken ; we renounced, relurns again. 
Each salutation may slide in a sin 
Unlhought before, or fix a former flaw. 
Nor is it strange; light, motion, concourse, noise 
All scatter us abroad ; thought, outward bound, 
Neglectful of our home affairs, flie.s off 
In fume and disspation ; quits her charge. 
And leaves the breast unguarded to the foe 



616 



EDWARD YOUNG. 



FROM NIGHT VI. 
Insuffioienry of genius withoxit virtue. 
Genius and Art, ambition's boasted wings, 
Our boast but ill d<'serve. A feeble aid ! 
Dedalian enginery ! If these alone 
Assist our flight, Fame's flight is glory's fall. 
Heart merit wanting, mount we ne'er so high, 
Our height is but the gibbet of our name. 
A celebrated wretch, when I behold ; 
When I behold a genius bright and base. 
Of towering talents and terrestrial aims ; 
Methinks I see, as thrown from her high sphere. 
The glorious fragments of a soul immortal. 
With rubbish mix'd, and glittering in the dust. 
Struck at the splendid melancholy sight. 
At once compassion soft and envy rise — 
But wherefore envy 7 Talents angel-bright, 
If wanting worth, are shining instruments 
In false ambition's hand to finish faults 
Illustrious, and give infamy renown. 



FROM NIGHT Till. 

Description of the man whose thoughts are not of this 

world. 

Some angel guide my pencil, while I draw 
What nothing less an angel can exceed ! 
A man on earth devoted to the skies ; 
Like ships in seas, while in, above the world. 

With aspect mild, and elevated eye, 
Behold him seated on a mount serene. 
Above the fogs of sense, and passion's storm; 
All the black cares and tumults of this life, 
Like harmless thunders breaking at his feet, 
Excite his pity, not impair his peace. 
Earth's genuine sons, the scepter'd and the slave, 
A mingled mob ! a wandering herd ! he sees 
Bewilder'd in the vale; in all unlike ! 
His full reverse in all ! what higher praise ? 
What stronger demonstration of the right] 

The present all their care, the future his. 
When public welfare calls, or private want. 
They give to fame, his bounty he conceals. 
Their virtues varnish nature, his exalt. 
Mankind's esteem they court, and he his own. 
Theirs, the wild chase of false felicities. 
His, the composed possession of the true. 
Alike throughout is his consistent peace. 
All of one colour, and an even thread ; 
While party-colour'd shreds of happiness. 
With hideous gaps between, patch up for them 
A madman's robe ; each pufl' of fortune blows 
The tatters by, and shows their nakedness. 

He see^ with other eyes than theirs ; where they 
Behold a sun, he spies a Deity ; 
What makes them only smile, makes him adore. 
Where tkey see mountains, he but atoms sees ; 
An empire in his balance weighs a grain. 
I'hey things terrestrial worship as divine; 
His hopes immortal blow tlnem by as dust, 
1'hat dims his sight, and shortens his survey, 
Which longs in infinite to lose all bound. 
Titles and honours (if they prove his fate) 



He lays aside to find his dignity ; 
No dignity they find in aught besides. 
They triumph in externals, (which conceal 
Man's real glory,) proud of an eclipse. 
Himself too much he prizes to be proud. 
And nothing thinks so great in man as man. 
Too dear he holds his interest, to neglect 
Another's welfare, or his right invade ; 
Their interest, like a lion, lives on prey. 
They kindle at the shadow of a wrong ; 
Wrong he sustains with temper, looks on heaven, 
Nor stoops to think his injurer his foe; 
Nought but what w^ounds his virtue wounds his 
A cover'd heart their character defends ; [peace. 
A cover'd heart denies him half his praise. 
With nakedness his innocence agrees; 
While their broad foliage testifies their fall. 
Their no joys end, where his full feast begins : 
His joys create, theirs murder, future bliss. 
To triumph in existence, his alone ; 
And his alone, triumphantly to think 
His true existence is not yet begun. 
His glorious course was, yesterday, complete ; 
Death, then, was welcome ; yet life still is sweet 



FROM HIS SATIRES. 



The love of praise. 
What will not men attempt for sacred praise ! 
The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art, 
Keigns, more or less, and glows, in every heart ; 
The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure ; 
The modest shun it, but to make it sure. 
O'er globes, and sceptres, now on thrones it swells; 
Now trims the midnight lamp in college cells : 
'Tis Tory, Whig ; it plots, prays, preaches, pleads, 
Harangues in senates, squeaks in masquerades. 
Here, to Steele's humour makes a bold pretence; 
There, bolder, aims at Pulteney's eloquence. 
It aids the dancer's heel, the writer's head. 
And heaps the plain with mountains of the dead: 
Nor ends with life ; but nods in sable plumes. 
Adorns our hearse, and flatters on our tombs. 



SATIRE V. 
Propensity of man to false and fantastic joys. 
Man's rich with little, were his judgment true ; 
Nature is frugal, and her wants are few ; 
Those few wants answer'd, bring sincere delights ; 
But fools create themselves new appetites : 
Fancy and pride seek things at vast expense, 
Which relish not to reason, nor to sense. 
When surfeit, or unthankfijlness, destroys, 
In nature's narrow sphere, our solid joys 
In fancy's airy land of noise and show, [grow ; 
Where nought but dreams, no real pleasuiea 
Like cats in air-pumps, to subsist we strive 
On joys too thin to keep the soul alive. 



JOHN BROWN. 



5r 



* * Such blessings nature pours, 

O'erstock'd mankind enjoys Imt half her stores: 
In distant wilds, by human eyes unseen, 
She rears her flowers, and spreads her velvet 

green : 
Pure gurgling rills the lonely desert trace, 
And waste their music on the savage race. 
Is nature then a niggard of her bliss ] 
Repine we guiltless in a world Lke this 1 
But our lewd tastes her lawful charms refuse, 
And painted arts depraved allurements choose. 



CHARACTERS OF WOMEN— THE ASTRONOMICAL 
LADY. 

FROM THE SAME. 

Some nymphs prefer astronomy to love ; 
Elope from mortal man, and range above. 
The fair philosopher to Rowley flies. 
Where in a box the whole creation lies: 
She sees the planets in their turns advance, 
And scorns, Poiticr, thy sublunary dance ! 
Of Desaguliers she bespeaks fresh air; 
And Whiston has engagements with the fair. 
What vain experiments Sophronia tries ! 
'Tis not in air-pumps the gay colonel dies. 
But though to-day this rage of science reigns, 
(O fickle sex !) soon end her learned pains. 
Lo ! Pug from Jupiter her heart has got, 
Turns out the stars, and Newton is a sot. 



THE LANGUID LADY. 

FROM THE SAME. 

The languid lady next appears in state. 
Who was not born to carry her own weight; 
She lolls, reels, staggers, tdl some foreign aid 
To her own stature lifts the feeble maid, 
Then, if ordain'd to so severe a doom. 
She, by just stages, journeys round the room: 
But, knowing her own weakness, she dispairs 
To scale the Alps — that is, ascend the stairs. 
My fan ! let others say, who laugh at toil : 
Fan! hood! glove! scarf! is her laconic style; 
And that is spoke with such a dying fall. 
That Betty rather sees than hears the call : 
The motion of her lips, and meaning eye, 
Piece out th' idea her faint words deny. 



O listen with attention most profound ! 
Her voice is but the shallow of a sound. 
And help, oh help! her spirits are so dead. 
One hand scarce lifts the other to her head. 
If there a stubborn pin, it triumphs o'er. 
She pants ! she sinks away ! and is no more. 
Let the robust and the gigantic carve. 
Life is not worth so much, she'd rather starve; 
But chew she must herself! ah cruel fate! 
That Rosalinda can't by proxy eat. 



THE SWEARER, 

FROM THE SAME. 

Thalestris triumphs in a manly mien; 
Loud is her accent, and her phrase obscene. 
In fair and open dealing where's the shame 1 
What nature dares to give, she dares to name. 
This honest fellow is sincere and plain. 
And justly gives the jealous husband pain. 
(Vain is the task to petticoats assign'd. 
If wanton language shows a naked mind.) 
And now and then, to grace her eloquence. 
An oath supplies the vacancies of sense. 
Hark! the shr.ll notes transpierce the yielding air. 
And teach the neighbouring echoes how to swear. 
By Jove, is faint, and for the simple swain ; 
She on the Chri.-^tian system is profane. 
But though the volley rattles in your ear. 
Believe her dress, she's not a grenadier. 
If thunder's awful, how much more our dread, 
When Jove deputes a lady in his stead] 
A lady 1 pardon my mistaken pen, 
A shanieless woman is the worst of men. 



THE WEDDED WIT. 



FROM THE SAME. 



Nought but a genius can a genius fit: 
A wit herself, Amelia weds a wit : 
Both wits! though miracles are said to cease, 
Three days, three wondrous days ! they lived in 

peace ; 
With the fourth sun a warm dispute arose, 
On D'Urfey's poesy, and Bunyan's prose: 
The learned war both wage with equal force. 
And the fifth morn concluded the divorce. 



JOHN BROWN. 



[Born, 1715, Died, 1765.] 



Dr. Brown, author of the tragedies of Athel- 
stan and Barbarossa, and of several other works, 
was born at Rolhbury, in Northumberland, where 
his father was curate. He studied at Cambridge, 
obtained a minor canonry and lectiireshi|) in tlie 
catliedral of Carlisle, and was afterward pre- 
ferred to the living of Morland, in Westmoreland. 
The latter office he resigned in disgust at being 
rebuked lor an accidental omission of the Athana- 



sian creed. He remained for some years in ob- 
scurity at Carlisle, till the year of the Rebellion, 
when he distinguished himself by his intrepidity 
as a volunteer at the siege of the castle. His 
Essay on Satire introduced him to Warlmrton, 
who exhorted him to write his Remarks on 
Shaftesbury's Characteristics, as well as to at- 
tempt an epic poem on the plan which Pope had 
sketched. Through Warburton's influence he 



5i; 



JOHN BROWN. 



olitained the rectory ol" Horliesly.near Colchester; 
but his fate was to be embroiled with his patrons, 
and having quarrelled with those who had given 
him the living in Essex, he was obliged to retire 
upon the vicarage of St. Nicholas, at Newcastle. 
A latent taint of derangement had certainly 
made him vain and capricious; but Warburton 
seems not to have been a delicate doctor to his 
mind's disease. In one of his letters he says, 
" Brown is here, rather perter than ordinary, 
but jio wiser. You cannot imagine how tender 
they are all of his tender places, and with how 
uiifedvig, a hatid 1 proLe litem." The writer of 
this humane sentence was one whom Brown had 
praised in his Estimate as the Gulliver and Colos- 
sus of a degenerate age. When his Barbarossa 
came out, it appears that some friends, equally 
tender with the Bishop of Gloucester, reproved 



him for having any connection with players. The 
players were not much kinder to his sore feelings. 
Garrick offended him deeply by a line in the pro- 
logue which he composed for his Barbarossa, 
alluding to its author, " Lei the poor devil eui — 
alldU) him Ihfil." 

His poetry never obtained, or indeed deserved 
much attention ; but his " Estimate of the Man 
ners and Principles of the times" passed tlirougli 
seven editions, and threw the nation into a tem- 
porary ferment. Voltaire alleges that it roused the 
English from lethargy by the imputation of de- 
generacy, and made them put forth a vigour that 
proved victorious in the war with France. Dr. 
Brown was preparing to accept of an invitation 
from the Empress of Russia to superintend her pub- 
lic plans of education, when he was seized with a 
fit of lunacy, and put a period to his own existence. 



FKOM THE TRAGEDY OF " BARBAROSSA." 



{■elira, the son of the deceased Prince of Algiers, ndtnittcd 
iu disguise into the pulace of the u-ur| er Baxbarossa, 
and meeting with Othnian, his secret friend. 

Persons— Barbarossa, Seum, Othman. 

Bar. Most welcome, Othman. 
Behold this gallant stranger. He hath done 
The state good service. Let some high reward 
Await him, such as may o'erpay his zeal. 
Conduct him to the queen : tor he hath news 
Worthy her ear, from her departed son ; 
Such as may win her love — Come, Aladin ! 
The banquet waits our presence : festal joy 
Laughs in the mantling goblet ; and the night, 
Illumined by the taper's dazzling beam, 
Rivals departed day. lExeunt Bar. and Ala. 

Selini. What anxious thought 
Rolls in thine eye, and heaves thy labouring breast ? 
Why join'st thou not the loud excess of joy, 
That riots through the palace 1 

Oih. Barest thou tell me 
On what dark errand thou art here ] 

Selim. I dare. 
Dost not perceive the savage lines of blood 
Deform my visage? Read'st not in mine eye 
Remorseless fury ] — I am Selim's murderer. 

0th. Selim's murderer ! 

Selim. Start not from me. 

My dagger thirsts not but for regal blood 

Why this amazement 1 [should be 

O.h. Amazement! — No — 'Tis well — 'Tis as it 
He was indeed a foe to Barbarossa. j, 

Silim. And therefore to A Igiers : — Was it not so ? 
Why dost thou pause 1 W hat passion shakes thy 
frame ] 

0th. Fate, do thy worst ! I can no more dis- 
semble ! 

('an I, unmoved, behold the murdering ruffian, 
Siuear'd with my prince's blood ! — Go, tell the 

tyrant, 
Othman defies his power; that, tired with life, 
He dares his bloody hand, and ])leads to die. 

Selim. What, didst thou love this Selim? 



Olh. All men loved him. 
He was of such unmix 'd and blameless quality, 
That envy, at his praise, stood mute, nor dared 
To sully his fair name ! Remorseless tyrant! 

Selim. I do commend thy faith. And since 
thou lovest him, 
I have deceived this tyrant Barbarossa: 
Selim is yet alive. 

Olh. Alive! 

Selirn. Nay more 

Selim is in Algiers. 

Olh. Impossible ! [hither straight. 

Selim. Nay, if thou doubt'st, I'll bring him 

Olh. Not for an empire ! 
Thou might'st as well bring the devoted lamb 
Into the tiger's den. 

Selim. But I'll bring him 
Hid in such ileep disguise as shall deride 
Suspicion, though she wear the lynx's eyes. 
Not even thyself couldst know him. 

Olh. Vesjsure: too sure to hazard such an awful 
Trial ! 

Selim. Yet seven revolving years, worn out 
In tedious exile, may have wrought such change 
Of voice and feature in the stale of youth, 
As might elude thine eye. 

Oih. No time can blot 
The memory of his sweet majestic mien, 
'J'he lustre of his eye ! besides, he wears, 
A mark indellible, a beauteous scar. 
Made on hi^ forehead by a furious pard, 
Which rushing on his mother, Selim slew. 

Seli7n. A scar ! 

Oh. Ay, on his forehead. 

Selim. What ! like this 1 [Liftivg his turhan. 

Oih. Whom do I see! — am I awake ■*- 



-my 
[Kneels. 



prmce I 
My hononr'd, honour'd king! 

Selim. Rise, faithful Othman. 

Thus let me thank thy truth! [EmhracesMm. 

Olh. O happy hour! [my hand? 

&/wi. Why dost thou tremble thus? VV hy grasp 

And why that ardent gaze! Thou canst not 

doubt me ! 



JOHN BROWN. 



519 



0,7). Ah, no! I see thy sire in every line. — 
How (lid iny prince escape the murderer's handl 

Sclim. I wrench'd the dagger from hirn, and 
give liack 
That death he meant to bring. The ruffian wore 
Tlie tyrant's signet: — "Take this ring," he cried, 
"Tiie sole return my dying hand can make thee 
For its accursed attempt: this pledge resfored, 
Will prove thee slain! Safe may'st thou see Algiers, 
Unknown to all." This said, the assassin died. 

Oth. But howto gain admittance thusunknown? 

Sfliut. Disguised as Seiim's murderer I come: 
The accomplice of the deed: the ring restored, 
Gam'd credence to my words. 

Oih. Yet ere thou camest, thy death was 
rumour'd here. 

Sclitii. I spread the flattering tale, and sent it 
hitiier, 
That liabliling rumour, like a lying dream. 
Might make belief more easy. Tell me, Othman, 

And yet I tremble to approach the theme 

How fares my mother? docs she still retain 
Her native greatness? 

Oih Still : in vain the tyrant 
Tempts her to marriage, though with impious 

threats 
Of death or violation. 

Selini. May kind heaven 
Strengthen her virtue, and by me reward it! 
When shall I see her, Othman? 

Oili. Yet, my prince, 
I tremble for thy presence. 

Selim. Let not fear 
Sully thy virtue : 'tis the lot of guilt 
To treml)le. What hath innocence to do with fear? 

Oih. Yet think — should Barbarossa 

Selim. Dread him not — 
Thou know'st by his command I see Zaphira; 
And wrapt in this disguise, I walk secure. 
As if from heaven some guarding power attending, 
Threw ten-fold night around me. 

Oih. Still my heart 
Forebodes some dire event! — O quit these walls! 

Sclirii. Not till a deed be done, which every 
tyrant 
Shall tremble when he hears. 



FROM THE SAME. 
Enter Othman and Sadi friend to Othman. 

Selim, Honour'd friends! 
How goes the night? 

Sadi. 'Tis well-nigh midnight. 

Oih. What — In tears, my prince? 

Selim. But tears of joy : for I have seen Zaphira, 
And jiour'd the balm of peace into her breast: 
Think not these tears unnerve me, valiant friends! 
They have but harmonized my soul; and waked 
AH that is man within me, to disdain 
I eril. or death. — What tidings from the city ? 

Sitfli. All, all is ready. Our confederate friends 
Burn with impatience, till the hour arrive. 

Selim. What is the signal of the appointed 
hour? 



Sadi. The midnight watch gives signal of our 
meeting; 
And when the second watch of night is rung, 
The work of death begins. 

Selim, Speed, speed, ye minutes! 
Now let the rising whirlwind shake Algiers, 
And justice guide the storm ! Scarce two hours 
hence — 

SadL Scarce more than one. 

* * * * 

Selim. But is the city quiet? 

Sadi. All,all ishush'd. Throughout the empty 
streets, 
Nor voice, nor sound. As if the inhabitants, 
liike the presaging herds, that seek the covert 
Ere the loud thunder rolls, had inly felt 
And shunn'd the impending uproar. 

Oth, There is a solemn horror in the night, too, 
That pleases me : a general pause through nature : 
The winds are hush'd — 

Sadi, And as I pass'd the beach. 
The lazy billow scarce could lash the shore : 
No star peeps through the firmament of heaven — 

Selim, And, lo ! where eastward, o'er the sullen 
wave 
The waning moon, deprived of half her orb, 
Rises in blood: her beam, well-nigh extinct. 
Faintly contends with darkness — [Bell tolls. 

Hark ! — what meant 
That tolling bell ? 

Oth. It rings the midnight watch. 

Sadi, This was the signal — 
Come, Othman, we arecall'd: the passing minutes 
Chide our delay ; brave Othman, let us hence. 

Selim. One last embrace ! — nor doubt, but, 
crown'd with glory, 
We soon shall meet again. But, oh, remember, 
Amid the tumult's rage, remember mercy ! 
Stain not a righteous cause with guiltless blood ! 
Warn our brave friends, that we unsheath the 

sword. 
Not to destroy, but save! noi- let blind zeal, 
Or wanton cruelty, e'er turn its edge 
On age or innocence ! or bid us strike 
Where the most pitying angel in the skies, 
That now looks on us from his blest abode. 
Would wish that we should spare. 

Oih, So may we prosper. 
As mercy shall direct us ! 

Selim, Farewell, friends! 

Sadi. Intrepid prince, farewell ! 

[Exeunt Oth. and Sabi 



SELIM'S SOLILOQUY BEFORE THE INSURRECTION 

Selim. Now sleep and silence 
Brood o'er the city. — The devoted sentinel 
Now takes his lonely stand ; and idly dreams 
Of that to-morrow he shall never see ! 
In this dread interval, busy thought, 
From outward things descend into thyself 
Search deep my heart! bring with thee awfa 

conscience. 
And firm resolve ! that, in the approaching houj 



520 



MICHAEL BRUCE. 



Of blood and horror, I may stand unmoved ; 
Nor fear to strike where justice calls, nor dare 
To strike where she forbids ! — Why bear I, then, 
This dark insidious dagger? — 'Tis the badge 
Of vile assassins ; of the coward hand 
That dares not meet its foe.-rDetested thought ! 



Yet — as foul lust and murder, though on thrones 
Triumphant, still retain their hell-born quality; 
So justice, groaning beneath countless wrong», 
Quits not her spotless and celestial nature ; 
But, in the unhallow'd murderer's disguise. 
Can sanctify this steel I 



MICHAEL BRUCE. 



, 1746. Died, 1767.) 



Michael Bruce was bom in the parish of 
Kinneswood, in Kinross-shire, Scotland. His 
father was by trade a weaver, who out of his 
scanty earnings had the merit of aflbrding his 
son an education at the grammar-school of Kin- 
ross, and at the university of Edinburgh. Michael 
was delicate from his childhood, but showed an 
early disposition for study, and a turn for poetry, 
which was encouraged by some of his neigh- 
bours lending him a few of the most popular 
English poets. The humblest individuals who 
have befriended genius deserve to be gratefuUy 
mentioned. The first encouragers to whom 
Bruce showed his poetical productions were a 
Mr. Arnot, a farmer on the banks of Lochleven, 
and one David Pearson, whose occupation is not 
deccribed. In his sixteenth year he went to the 
university of Edinburgh, where, after the usual 
course of attendance, he entered on the study of 
divinity, intending, probably, to be a preacher in 
the Burgher sect of dissenters, to whom his 
parents belonged. Between the latter sessions, 
which he attended at college, he taught a small 
school at Gairney bridge, in the neighbourhood 
of his native place, and afterward at Forest-Hill, 
near Allan, in Clackmannanshire. This is nearly 
the whole of his sad and short history. At the 
latter place he was seized with a deep consump- 



tion, the progress of which in his constitution 
had always inclined him to melancholy. Under 
the toils of a day and evening school, and with- 
out the comforts that might have mitigated dis- 
ease, he mentions his situation to a friend in a 
touching but resigned manner — "I had expected," 
he says, " to be happy here ; but my sanguine 
hopes are the reason of my disappointment." 
He had cherished sanguine hopes of happi- 
ness, poor youth ! in his little village-school ; but 
he seems to have been ill encouraged by his em- 
ployers, and complains that he had no company, 
but what was worse than solitude. " I believe," 
he adds, "if I had not a lively imagination I 
should fall into a state of stupidity or delirium." 
He was now composing his poem on Lochleven, 
in which he describes himself, 

" Amiil unfertile wi'ds, rerording thus, 
The dear remembrance of his native fields. 
To cheer the tedious ni;j;ht; while slow disease 
Prey'd on his piniri;^ Titals. and the blasts 
Of dark Decemljer'g shook his humble cot." 

During the winter he quitted his school, and, 
returning to his father's house, lingered on for a 
few months till he expired, in his twenty-first 
year. During the spring he wrote an elegy on the 
prospect of his own dissolution, a most interest- 
ing relic of his amiable feelings and fortitude. 



FROM THE ELEGY ON SPRING. 
Now spring returns : but not to me returns 

The vernal joy my better years have known ; 
Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns. 

And all the joys of life with health are flown. 

Staiting and shiv'ring in th' inconstant wind. 
Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was, 

Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclined. 

And count the silent moments as they pass: 

The winged moments, whose unstaying speed 
No art can stop, or in their course arrest ; 

Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead. 
And lay me down in peace with them that rest. 

Oft morning dreams presage approaching fate; 

And morning dreams, as poets tell, are true. 
J^ed by pale ghosts, I enter death's dark gate, 

An ^ bid the realms of light and life adieu. 



I hear the helpless wail, the shriek ot woe ; 

I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore. 
The sluggish streams that slowly creep below, 

Which mortals visit, and return no more. 

Farewell, ye blooming fields ! ye cheerful plains! 

Enough for me the churchyard's lonely mound, 
Where melancholy with still silence reigns. 

And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless 
ground. 

There let me wander at the close of eve. 

When sleep sits dewy on the labourer's eyes. 

The world and all its busy follies leave, 

And talk with wisdom where my Daphnis lies. 

There let me sleep forgotten in the clay. 

When death shall shut these weary aching eyes. 

Rest in the hopes of an eternal day. 

Till the long night is gone, and the last morD 
arise. 



JAMES GRAINGER. 



521 



FROM "LOCIILEVEN." 
Now sober Industry, illustrious power ! 
Hath raised the peaceful cottage, calm abode 
Of innocence and joy; now, sweating, glides 
The shining ploughshare; tames the stubborn 

soil ; 
Leads the long drain along th' unfertile marsh; 
Bids the bleak hill with vernal verdure bloom, 
The haunt of flocks ; and clothes the barren heath 
With waving harvests, and the golden grain. 
Fair from his hand, behold the village rise, 
In rural pride, 'mong intermingled trees ! 
Above whose aged tops, the joyful swains 
At even-tide, descending from the hill, 
With eye enamour'd, mark the many wreaths 
Of pillar'd smoke, high-curling to the clouds. 
The street resounds with labour's various voice, 
Who whistles at his work. Gay on the green, 
Young blooming boys, and girls with golden hair, 
Trip nimble-footed, wanton in their play, 
The village hope. All in a rev'rend row, 
Their giay-hair'd grandsires, sitting in the sun. 
Before the gate, and leaning on the staff, 
The well-remember'd stories of their youth 
Recount, and shake their aged locks with joy. 



How fair a prospect rises to the eye, 
Where beauty vies in all her vernal forms, 
For ever pleasant, and for ever new ! 
Swells the exulting thought, expands the soul, 
Drowning each ruder care : a blooming train 
Of bright ideas rushes on the mind. 
Imagination rouses at the scene. 
And backward, through the gloom of ages past, 
Beholds Arcadia, like a rural queen, 
Encircled with her swains and rosy nymphs, 
The mazy dance conducting on the green. 
Nor yield to old Arcadia's blissful vales 
Thine, gentle Leven ! green on either hand 
Thy meadows spread, unbroken of the plough. 
With beauty all their own. Thy fields rejoice 
With all the riches of the golden year. 
Fat on the plain, and mountain's sunny side. 
Large droves of oxen, and the fleecy flocks 
Feed undisturb'd, and fill the echoing air 
With music grateful to the master's ear: 
The traveller stops, and gazes round and rouno 
O'er all the scenes, that animate his heart 
With mirth and music. Even the mendicant, 
Bowbent with age, that on the old gray stone. 
Sole sitting, suns him in the public way, 
Feels his heart leap, and to himself he sings. 



JAMES GRAINGER. 



[Born, 1721.» 

Dr. James Grainger, tfie translator of Ti- 
bullus, was for some time a surgeon in the army ; 
he afterward attempted, without success, to ob- 
tain practice as a physician in London, and finally 
settled in St. Kitt's, where he married the gover- 
nor's daughter. The novelty of West Indian 



scenery inspired him with the unpromising sub- 
ject of the Sugar-cane, in which he very poeti- 
cally dignifies the poor negroes with the name 
of " Swaius."'f He died on the same island, a 
victim to the West Indian fever. 



ODE TO SOLITUDE. 
SOLITUDE, romantic maid ! 
Whether by nodding towers you tread, 
Or haunt the desert's trackless gloom, 
Or hover o'er the yawning tomb. 
Or climb the Andes' cliFted side, 
Or by the Nile's coy source abi le. 
Or starting from your half-year's sleep 
From Hecla view the thawing deep, 
Or, at the purple dawn of day, 
Tadmor's marble wastes survey ,J 

[* See Prior's Life of GoUsmith, vol. i. p. 237.] 

[t If (iniinger has invoked the Mu-e to sing of rats, and 
melamori hosod, in Arcadian phrase, negro slaves into 
swains, the fau't is in the writer uot in the topic. The 
arguments wliii h he h:us pri'fixed sire indeed uliciously 
flat and fjimal. — Southky, Quar. h'er. vol. xi. p. 489. 

Dr. Urui: ger's Sugar-cane is capable of leiiig rendered a 
goad poem. — Shenstone, VK.r/.-,?, vol. iii. p. 3 43.L. 

[J,T(jhnson praised (iraingor's Oile to Solitude, and re- 
pe:^tel with real energy the exoidiim observing, "This, 
sir, is very noble."— Crokeh's Bawl voL iv. p. 5(i. 

What makes the p letry in the image uf ihe marbh wa^^fe 
of Taliimr. in tiraiuger's 'HWe to So.itude," so much 
admired by Jobusoa? Is it the marble or the waste, tb« 
66 



You, recluse, again I woo, 
And again your steps pursue. 

Plumed Conceit himself surveying, 
Folly with her shadow playing. 
Purse-proud, elbowing Insolence, 
Bloated empiric, puffd Pretence, 
Noise that through a trumpet speaks. 
Laughter in loud peals that breaks. 
Intrusion with a fopling's face, 
(Ignorant of time and place,) 
Sparks of fire Dissension blowing, 
Ductile, court-bred Flattery, bowing, 



aitificial or the natural object ? The waate is like nil other 
wastes; but the iiturble. i f i almyra makes the poetry of 
the passage as of the place. — Ljkd Bvkon, Wori^s, vol. vi. 
p. 35 a. 

This was said by Byron in the great controversy thess 
Specimen.-! gave rise to between Lord IJyron and Mr. Bowie? 
the poet, — the Art and Nature squabble. Surely the poe- 
try of the passage does not depend upon a singie word: 

'Tis not a lip or eye, we beauty call. 

"In this fine Ode," says Terry, "are assembled some of 
the sublimest images in nature." — Reliques, voii ii. p- 
352.J 

2T2 



522 



JOHN GILBERT COOPER. 



Restraint's PtifF neck, Grimace's leer, 
Squint-eyed Censure's artful sneer, 
Ambition's buskins, steep'd in blood, 
Fly tliy presence, Solitude. 

Sage Reflection, bent with years. 
Conscious Virtue void of fears, 
Muffled Silence, wood-nymph shy. 
Meditation's piercing eye. 
Halcyon Peace on moss reclined, 
Retrospect that scans the mind, 
Rapt earth-gazing Reverie, 
Blushing, artless Modesty, 
Health that snuffs the morning air, 
Full-eyed Truth with bosom bare. 
Inspiration, Nature's child, 
Seek the solitary wild. 

You with the tragic muse retired. 
The wise Euripides inspired. 
You taught the sadly-pleasing air 
That Athens saved from ruins bare. 
You gave the Cean's tears to flow, 
And unlock'd the springs of woe; 
You penn'd what exiled Naso thought, 
And ])our'd the melancholy note. 
With Petrarch o'er Vaucluse you stray'd, 
When death snatch'd his long-loved maid; 
You taught the rocks her loss to mourn. 
Ye strew'd with flowers her virgin urn. 
And late in Hagley you were seen. 
With bloodshed eyes, and sombre mien. 
Hymen his yellow vestment tore, 
And Dirge a wreath of cypress wore. 
But chief your own the solemn lay 
1'hat wept Narcissa young and gay. 
Darkness clapp'd her sable wing, 
W'hile you touch'd.the mournful string. 
Anguish left the pathless wild. 
Grim-faced Melancholy smiled, 
Drowsy Midnight ceased to yaw^n. 
The starry host put back the dawn, 
Aside their harps even seraphs flung 
To hear thy sweet Complaint, O Young! 
When all nature's hush'd asleep, 
ISor Love nor Guilt their vigils keep, 
Soft you leave your cavern'd den. 
And wander o'er the works of men ; 
But when Phosphor brings the dawn 
By her dappled coursers drawn. 
Again you to the wild retreat 
And the early huntsman meet. 



Where as you pensive pace along. 

You catch the distant shepherd's song. 

Or brush from herbs the pearly dew, 

Or the rising primrose view. 

Devotion lends her heaven-plumed wings, 

You mount, and nature with you sings. 

But when mi<l-day fervors glow. 

To upland airy shades you go, 

Where never sunburnt woodman came. 

Nor sportsman chased the timid game ; 

And there beneath an oak reclined. 

With drowsy waterfalls behind. 

You sii.k to rest. 

Till the tuneful bird of night 

From the neighbouring poplars' height 

Wake you wi h her solemn strain. 

And teach pleased Echo to complain. 

With you roses brighter bloom. 
Sweeter every sweet perfume. 
Purer every fountain flows, 
Stronger every wilding grows. 
Let those toil for gold who please. 
Or for fame renounce their case. 
"What is fame? an empty bubble. 
Gold? a transient shining trouble. 
Let them for their country bleed, 
What was Sidney's, Raleigh's meedl 
Man's not worth a moment's pain, 
Base, ungrateful, fickle, vain. 
Then let me, sequester'il fair. 
To your sibyl grot repair; 
On yon hanging cliff it stands, 
Scoop'd by nature's salvage hands, 
Bosom'd in the gloomy shade 
Of cypress not with a:.;e decay'd. 
Where the owl still-hooting sits, 
W'here the bat incessant flits, 
'i'here in loftier strains I'll sing 
Whence the changing se.asons spring. 
Tell how storms deform the skies, 
Whence the waves subside and rise. 
Trace the comet's blazing tail. 
Weigh the planets in a scale ; 
Bend, great God, before thy shrine, 
The bournless macrocosm's thine. 



The remainder of this ode, which is rather tedious, 
been omitted. 



JOHN GILBERT COOPER, 



(Born, 1-23. Died, 1769.J 



Was of an ancient family in Nottinghamshire, 
and possessed the estate of 1 hurgarton Priory, 
where he exercised the active and useful duties 
of a magistrate. He resided, however, occasion- 
ally in London, and was a great promoter of the 
Society fo-- the Encouragement of Aits and Manu- 



factures. He died at his house in May-Fair, aftei 
a long and excruciating illness, occasioned by the 
stone. He was a zealous pupil of the Shaftesbury 
school ; and published, besides his Poems, a Lille 
of Socrates, Letters on Taste, and Epistles to the 
Great from Aristippus in retirement. 



JAMES MERRICK. 



323 



SONG.* 
Away ! let nought to love displeasing, 

My Winifreila, move your care ; 
Let nought delay the heavenly blessing, 

Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. 

What though no grants of royal donors 
With pompous titles grace our blood, 

We'll shine in more substantial honours. 
And, to be noble, we'll be good. 

Our name while virtue thus we tender. 
Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke; 

And all the great ones, they shall wonder 
How they respect such little folk. 

What though, from Fortune's lavish bounty, 
No mighty treasures we possess; 

We'll find, within our pittance, plenty, 
And be content without excess. 

Still shall each kind returning eeason 

Sufficient for our wishes give ; 
For we will live a life of reason, 

And that's the only life to live. 

Through youth and age, in love excelling, 
We'll band in hand together tread; 

Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling, 
And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. 

How should I love the pretty creatures, 

. While round my knees they fondly clung ! 



To see them look their mother's features. 
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue 

And when with envy Time trans|)orted, 
Shall think to rob us of our joys; 

You'll in your girls again be courted, 
And I'll go wooing in my boys. 



SOXQ. 



The nymph that I loved was as cheerful as day. 
And as sweet as the blossoming hawthorn in May, 
Her temper was smooth as the down on the dove. 
And her face was as fair as the mother's of love. 

Though mild asthepleasantnesszephyr that sheds, 
And receives gentle odours from violet beds, 
Yet warm in affection as Phoebus at noon, 
And as chaste as the silver-white beams of the 
moon. 

Her mind was unsullied as new-fallen snow, 
Yet as lively as tints of young Iris's bow, 
As firm as the rock, and as calm as the flood 
Where the peace-loving halcyon deposits her brood. 

The sweets that each virtue or grace had in store 
She cull'd as the bee would the bloom of each 

flower ; 
Which treasured for me. Oh ! how happy was I, 
For though hers to collect, it was mine to enjoy. 



JAMES MERRICK. 

[Born, 1720. Died, 1769.] 



James Merrick was a fellow of Trinity Col- 
lege, Oxford, where Lord North was one of his 
pupils. He entered into holy orders, but never 
could engage in parochial duty, from being sub- 
ject to excessive pains in his head. He was an 
eminent Grecian, and translated Tryphiodorus 



at the age of twenty. Bishop Lowth charac- 
terized him as one of the best men, and 
most eminent of scholars. His most import- 
ant poetical work is his version of the Psahns ; 
besides which he published poems on sacred sub- 
jects. 



THE v.isn. 

How short is life's uncertain space ! 

Alas! how quickly done ! 
How swift the wild precarious chase! 
And yet how difficult the race ! 

How very hard to run ! 

Youth stops at first its wilful ears 

To wisdom's prudent voice; 
Till now arrived to riper years, 
Exjierienced age, worn out with cares, 

Repents its earlier choice. 

f* 'This leuiti.ul ad Irwss to conju>ral love." says Dr. 
Vffvpy. -11 suhj. et too much iiedfCteJ by the liliertine 
Miifsfs. wa«. I tii'liovo, fir.-t jirinled in a vnhinie nf misoel- 
lancoiis poems, liy Kevenl land.*, pnllifhed ly D. Li-wis, 
\'2f':. 'vo. I: !< there SMiil. liow tvu y 1 km w not, to le a 
tianplatinn/ro « tlif unci vt B ilis'i liintiiin; e." 

That it was pruited ia 1720 is certaiu, which as Cooper 



What though its prospects now appear 

So pleasing and refined? 
Yet groundless hope, and anxious fear, 
By turns the busy moments share, 

And prey upon the mind. 

Since then false joys our fancy cheat 

With hopes of real bliss; 
Ye guardian powers that rule my fate. 
The only wish that I create 

Is all comprised in this : — 



W1I8 th->n only three years old. is fatal to hi'* ri ht. Aikin 
bailies Percy f n- insertin;; it amon;; hi-s R liqu's, " fov the 
title.'' lie 8 ly.-^, '• was only a poetic fiction, or rather a ttioke 
of.-ativc." 

Coo) er printed the poem in his Letters '»n#ra'te (1755> 
but liiil rot i riiit Lis claim, as Aikin and others have 
iguorantly done.] 



524 



WILLIAM FALCONER. 



May I, through life's uncertain tide, 

Be still from pain exempt! 
May all my wants he still supplied, 
My state too low t' ail m it of pride, 
And yet above contempt ! 



But should your providence divine 

A greater bliss intend ; 
May all those blessings you design, 
(If e'er those blessings shall be mine,) 

Be centred in a friend ! 



WILLIAM FALCONER. 



[Born, 1730. Died, 1769.] 



William Falconer was the son of a barber in 
Edinburgh, and went to sea at an early age in a 
merchant vessel of Leith. He was afterward 
mate of a ship that was wrecked in the Levant, 
and was one of only three out of her crew that 
were saved, a catastrophe which formed the sub- 
ject of his future poem. He was for some time 
in the capacity of a servant to Campbell, the 
author of Lcxiphanes, when purser of a ship. 
Campbell is said to have discovered in Falconer 
talents worthy of cultivation, and when the latter 
distinguished himself as a poet, used to boast that 
he had heen his scholar. W hat he learned from 
Campbell it is not very easy to ascertain. His 
education, as he often assured Governor Hunter, 
had been confined to reading, writing, and a little 
arithmetic, though in the course of his life he 
picked up some acquaintance with the French, 
Spanish, and Italian languages. In these his 
countryman was not likely to have much assisted 
him; but he might have lent him books, and 
possibly instructed him in the use of figures. 
Falconer published his "Shipwreck" in 1762, 
and by the favour of the Uuke of York, to whom 
it was dedicated, obtained the appointment of a 
midshipman in the Royal George, and afterward 
that of purser in the Glory frigate. He soon 
afterward married a Miss Hicks, an accom- 
plished and beautiful woman, the daughter of the 
surgeon of Sheerness-yard. At the peace of 1763, 
he was on the point of being reduced to distressed 
circumstances by his ship being laid up in ordi- 
nary at Chatham, when, by the friendship of 
Commissioner Hanvvay, who ordered the cabin of 
the Glory to be fitted up for his residence, he en- 
joyed for some time a retreat for study without 
expense or embarrassment. Here he employed 
himself in compiling his Marine Dictionary, which 
appeared in 1769, and has been always highly 
spoken of by those who are capable of estimating 
its merits. He embarked also in the politics of 
the day, as a poetical antagonist to Churchill, 
but witli little advantage to his memory. Before 
the publication of his Marine Dictionary he had 
left h.s retreat at Chatham for a less comfortable 
abode in the metropolis, and appears to have 
struggled with considerable dilhculties, in the 
midst of which he received proposals from the 
late Mr. Murray, the bookseller,* to join him in 
the business which he had newly established. 



r* The father of the publisher of this work.] 



The cause of his refusing this ofTer was, in all 
probability, the appointment which he received to 
the pursership of the Aurora, East Indiaman. 
In that shij) he embarked for India, in September 
1769, but the Aurora was never heard of alter 
she passed the Cape, and was thought to have 
foundered in the Channel of Mozambique; so 
that the poet of the " Shipwreck" may be sup- 
posed to have perished by the same species of 
calamity which he had rehearsed. 

The subject of the Shipwreck, and the fate of 
its author, bespeak an uncommon partiality in 
its favour. If we pay respect to the ingenious 
scholar who can produce agreeable verses amidst 
the shades of retirement, or the shelves of his 
library, how much more interest must we take in 
the "ship-boy on the high and giddy mast," 
cherishing refined visions of fancy at the hour 
which he may casually snatch from fatigue and 
danger. Nor did Falconer neglect the proper 
acquirements of seamanship in cultivating poetry, 
but evinced considerable knowledge of his pro- 
fession, both in his Marine Dictionary and in the 
nautical precepts of the Shipwreck. In that 
poem he may be said to have added a congenial 
and peculiarly British subject to the language; 
at least, we had no previous poem of any length 
of which the characters and catastrophe were 
purely naval. 

The scene of the catastrophe (though he fol- 
lowed only the fact of his own history) was poeti- 
cally laid amidst seas and shores where the ntind 
easily gathers romantic associations, and where 
it supposes the most picturesque vicissitudes of 
scenery and climate. 'I'he spectacle of a majestic 
British ship on the shores of Greece brings as 
strong a reminiscence to the mind, as can well be 
imagined, of the changes which time has wrought 
in transplanting the empire of arts and civiliza- 
tion. Falconer's characters are few ; but the calm 
sagacious commander, and the rough obstinate 
Rodmond, are well contrasted. Some part of the 
love-story of ■' Palemon" is rather swainish and 
protracted, yet the eflect of his being involved in 
the calamity, leaves a deeper sympathy in the 
mind for the daughler of Albert, when we con- 
ceive her at once deprived both of a father and a 
lover. The incidenU of the "Shipwreck." like 
those of a well-wrought tragedy , gradually deepen, 
while they yet leave a suspense of hope and fear 
to the imagination. In the final scene there is 
something that deeply touches our compassioc 



WILLIAM FALCONER. 



625 



in the picture of the unfortunate man who is 
struck blind by a flash of lightning at the helm. 
I remember, by the way, to have met with an 
aflecting account of the identical calamity befall- 
ing the st ersman of a forlorn vessel in a similar 
moment, given in a prose and veracious history 
of the loss of a vessel on the coast of America. 
Falconer skilfully heightens this trait by showing 
its effect on the commiseration of Rodinond, the 
roughest of his characters, who guides the victim 
of misfortune to lay hold of a sail. 

'•A flash, quick glancing on the nerves of light, 
Struck the pale helsman with eternal ni^lit: 
KoUmoniJ, who heard a piteous groan tiehind, 
Touch'd with compassion, gazed upon the blind. 



And. while around his .sad companions crowd. 
He jiuiile'i ih unhappy victim to the shroud. 
Hie thee alof,. my gallant friend! he cries: 
Ihy only suicnui- on the ma^t relies I" 

The effect of some of his sea-phrases is to give 
a definite and authentic character to his descrip- 
tions; but that of most of them, to a landsman's 
ear, resembles slang, and produces obscurity.* 
His diction, too, generally abounds with common- 
place expletives and feeble lines. His scholar- 
ship on the shores of Greece is only what we 
should accept of from a seaman; but his poem 
has the sensible charm of appearing a transcript 
of reality, and leaves an impression of truth and 
nature on the mind. 



FROM "THE SHIPWRECK." 

CHARACTER OF THE OFFICERS. 

O'er the gay vessel, and her daring band, 
Experienced Albert held the chief command ; 
Though train'd in boisterous elements, his mind 
Was yet by soft humanity refined. 
Each joy of wedded love at home he knew ; 
Abroad confess'd the father of his crew ! 
Brave, liberal, just, the calm, domestic scene 
Had o'er his temper breathed a gay serene. 
Him science taught by mystic lore to trace 
The planets wheeling in eternal race; 
To mark the ship in floating balance held, 
By earth attracted and by seas repell'd ; [known, 
Or point her devious track, through climes un- 
rhat leads to every shore and every zone. 
He saw the moon through heaven's blue concave 
And into motion charm th' expanding tide; [glide. 
While earth impetuous round her axle rolls, 
Exalts her watery zone, and sinks the poles. 
Light and attraction, from their genial source, 
He saw still wandering with diminish'd force; 
While on the margin of declining day. 
Night's shadowy cone reluctant melts away. — 
Inured to peril, with unconquer'd soul. 
The chief beheld tempestuous ocean's roll ; 
His genius, ever for the event prepared. 
Rose with the storm, and all its dangers shared. 

The second powers and office Rodmond bore: 
A hardy son of England's furthest shore ! 
Where bleak Northumbria pours her savage train 
In sable squadrons o'er the northern main ; 
That, with her pitchy entrails stored, resort, 
A sooty tribe ! to fair Augusta's port. 
Where'er in ambush lurk the fatal sands, 
riiey claim the danger; proud of skilful bands; 
For while with darkling course their vessels sweep 
The winding shore, or plough the faithless deep, 
O'er bar and slielf the watery path they sound. 
With dextrous arm ; sagacious of the ground : 

[* The first edition h:is this title : " The Shipwreck. A 
Poem in Three Cantos. By a Sailor :'' and in the prefatory 
Advertisement, i'alconer says that he was forced to e.\- 
phiin the sea-pliTiises, for he could recommend no Marine 
Diitionary, ''without forfeiting his claim to the capacity 
assumed in the title page, of which be is much more teuur 



Fearless they combat ev'ry hostile wind. 
Wheeling in mazy tracks with course inclined. 
Expert to moor, where terrors line the road; 
Or win the anchor from its dark abode: 
But drooping and relax'd in climes afar, 
Tumultuous and undisciplined in war. 
Such Rodmond was; by learning unrefined, 
That oft enlightens to corrupt the mind : 
Boisterous of manners; train'd in early youth 
To scenes that shame the conscious cheek of truth ; 
To scenes that nature's struggling voice control. 
And freeze compassion rising in the soul ! [shore. 
Where the grim hell-hounds, prowling round tho 
With foul intent the stranded bark explore — 
Deaf to the voice of woe, her decks they board, 
While tardy justice slumbers o'er her sword — 
Th' indignant Muse, severely taught to feel. 
Shrinks from a theme she blushes to reveal ! 
Too oft example, arm'd with poisons fell. 
Pollute the shrike where mercy loves to dwelT, 
Thus Rodmond, train'd by this unhallow'd crew. 
The sacred social passions never knew : 
Unskill'd to argue ; in dispute yet loud ; 
Bold without caution; without honours proud; 
In art unschool'd, each veteran rule he prized. 
And all improvement haughtily despised : 
Yet though full oft to future perils blind. 
With skill superior glow'd his daring mind. 
Through snares of death the reeling bark to guide 
When midnight shades involve the raging tide. 

To Rodmond next, in order of command, 
Succeeds the youngest of our naval band. 
But what avails it to record a name 
That courts no rank among the sons of fame? 
While yet a stripling, oft with fond alarms. 
His bosom danced to nature's boundless charms; 
On him fair science dawn'd in happier hour. 
Awakening into bloom young fancy's flower; 
But frowning fortune with untimely blast 
The blossom wither'd, and the dawn o'ercast. 
Forlorn of heart, and by severe decree 
Condemned reluctant to the faithless sea. 



c'ous than of his character as a poet." The poem as first 
published though in three cantos, its present number, is 
not one-third in extent of what it now is. There is noth- 
ing of Albert and Koiimond. Palemon and .\nna — it is sim- 
ply a descriptive poem. The alterations defy enumeratit n, 
aud are everywhere for the better.] 



526 



WILLIAM FALCONER. 



With long farewell he left the laurel grove, 
Where science ant! the tuneful sisters rove. — • 
Hitiier he waniler'il, anxious to explore 
Antiquities of nations now no more; 
To penetrate eaih distant realm unknown, 
And range excursive o'er th' untravell'd zone. 
In vain! — for rude adversity's command, 
Still on the margin of each famous land. 
With unrelenting ire his steps opposed. 
And every gate of hojie against him closed. 
Permit my verse, ye hlcss'd Pierian train. 
To call Arion this ill fated swain !* 
For, like that hard unhappy, on his head 
Mivlignant stars their hostile influence shed. 
Both, in lamenting numl)ers, o'er the deep, 
Wilh conscious anguisli taught the harp to weep ; 
And both the raging surge in safety bore 
Amid destruction panting to the shore. 
Tliis last our tragic story from the wave 
Of dark oblivion haply yet may save; 
With genuine symj)athy may yet complain, 
While sad remembrance bleeds at ev'ry vein. 

Such were the pilots ; tutor'd to divine 
Th' untravell'd course by geometric line ; 
Train'd to command, and range the various sail. 
Whose various force conforms to every gale. — 
Charged with the commerce, hither also came 
A gallant youth, Palemon was his name; 
A father's stern resentment doom'd to prove, 
He came, the victim of unhappy love ! 
His heart for Albert's beauteous daughter bled: 
Foi her a secret flame his bosom fed. 
Nor let the wretched slaves of folly scorn 
This genuine passion, nature's eldest born ! 
'Twas his with lasting anguish to complain, 
Whde blooming Anna mourn'd the cause in vain. 

Graceful of form, by nature taught to please, 
Of power to melt the female breast with ease, 
To her Palemon told his tender tale, 
Soft as the voice of suiinncr's evening gale. 
O'erjoy'd, he saw her lovely eyes relent ; 
'l"he blushing maiden smiled with sweet consent. 
Olt in the mazes of a neighbouring grove. 
Unheard, they breathed alternate vows of love : 
By fond society their passion grew. 
Like the young blossom fed with vernal dew. 
In evil hour ih' ollicitius tongue of fame 
Betray'd the secret of their mutual flame. 
With grief and anger struggling in his breast, 
Palemon's father heard the tale contest. 
Long had he listen'd with suspicion's ear. 
And Icarn'd, sagacious, this event to fear. 
'J'..o well, fair youth! thy liberal heart he knew; 
A heart to nature's warm impressions true ! 
Full oft his wisdom strove, with fruitless tod, 
With avarice to pollute the generous soil: 
That noil, impregnated with nobler seed, 
Refused the culture of so rank a weed. 



Elate with wealth, in active commerce won. 
And basking in the smile of fortune's sun, 
With scorn the parent eyed the lowly shade, 
That veil'd the beauties of this charming maid. 
Indignant he rebuked th" cnamour'd hoy, 
The flattering promise of his future joy : 
He sooth'd and menaced, anxious to reclaim 
'J'his hopeless p ission, or divert its aim : 
Oft led the youth where circling joys delight 
The ravish'd sense, or beauty charms the sight. 
With all her powers enchanting music faii'd, 
And jileasure's syren voice no more prevail'd. 
The merchant, kindling then with proud disdain. 
In look and voice assumed an harsher strain. 
In absence now his only hope remain'd ; 
And such the stern decree his will ordainM. 
Deep anguish, while Palemon heard his doom. 
Drew o'er his lovely face a saddening gloom. 
In vain with bitter sorrow he repined, 
No tender pity touch'd that sordid mind ; 
To thee, brave Albert, was the charge consign'd. 
The stately ship, forsaking England's shore, 
To regions far remote Palemon bore. 
Incapable of change, th' unhappy youth 
Still loved fair Anna with eternal truth: 
From clime to clime an exile doom'd to roam, 
His heart still panted for its secret home. 



[* Thy woes, Arion! and thy simple tiile, 
U'or (ill the Iieart phiill tiiami.li ;mJ prevail ! 
ChTiiiM HS they rei.d the verSL' t lO siully true, 
lii.w salhint Albert and hi^^ weary crow, 
Heaved all their guiiB, Ihtir lo nideriii.j, bark to save, 
Aud toird — and shriek' J — and perish'd on the wave I 
rUasures of Hope.] 



FROM THE SAME. 

Evening described— Midnight— The ship weighing anchor 

and di-partiug from the haven. 

The sun's bright orb declining all serene. 
Now glanced obliquely o'er the woodland scene. 
Creation smiles around ; on every spray 
'J'he warbling birds exalt their evening lay. 
Blithe skipping o'er yon bill, the fleecy train 
.loin the deep chorus of the lowing plain : 
'I'he golden lime and orange there were seen, 
On fragrant branches of perpetual green. 
The crystal streams, that velvet nteadows lave. 
To the green ocean roll with chiding wave, 
'i'he glassy ocean liush'd forgets to roar. 
But trembling murmurs on the sanily shore: 
And lo ! his surface, lovely to behold ! 
Glows in tiie west, a sea of living gold ! 
While all above a thousand liveries gay 
The skies with pomp inefl'able array. 
Arabian sweets perfume the ha|>py plains: 
Above, beneath, around cnchintmeiit reigns ! 
While yet the shades, on time's eternal scale, 
With long vibration deepen o'er the vale; 
While yet the songsters of the vocal grove 
With dying numbers tune the soul to love; 
With joyful eyes th' attentive master sees 
'Ih' auspicious omens of an eastern breeze. — 
Now radiant Vesper leads the starry train. 
And night slow draws her ve.l o'er land and main; 
Round the charged bowl the sailors form a ring ,- 
By turns recount the wondrous tale or sing; 
As love or battle, hardships of the main, 
Or genial wine awake their homely strain: 
'I'hen some the watch of night altf mate keep. 
The rest lie buried in oblivious sleep. 



WILLIAM FALCONER. 



627 



Deep mkinighl now involves the livid skies, 
Wliile infant breezes from tlie sliore arise. 
Tlie vvaninf^ moon, behind a wat'ry shroud. 
Pale glimmer'd o'er the Ions-protracted cloud. 
A mighty ring around iier silver throne. 
With parting meteors cross'd, portentous shone. 
This in the troubled sky full oft prevails; 
Oft deem'd a signal of tempestuous gales. — 
While young Arion sleeps, before his sight 
Tumultuous swim the visions of the night, 
Kow blooming Anna, with her happy swain, 
A()[)roach'd the sacred hymeneal fane: 
Anon tremendous lightnings flash between ; 
Add funeral pomp and weeping loves are seen ! 
Now witn Palemon up a roi'ky steep. 
Whose summit trembles o'er the roaring deep. 
With |)aiiiful step he climb'd ; while far above 
iSwcet Anna charm'd them with the voice of love, 
'i'hen sudden from the slippery height they fell, 
W bile dreadful yawn'd beneath thejaws of hell — 
Amid this (earful trance, a thundering sound 
He hears — and thrice the hollow decks rebound. 
Upstarting from his couch on deck he sprung; 
Thrice with shrill note the boatswain's whistle 

rung. 
"All hands unmoor!" proclaims a boisterous cry : 
"AH hands unmoor!" the cavern rocks reply. 
Roused from repose aloft the sa.lois swarm, 
And with their levers soon the windlass arm. 
The order given, up-springing with a bound 
They lodge the bars, and wheel their engine round : 
At every turn the clanging pauls resound. 
Uptorn reluctant from its oozy cave, 
Tlie ponderous anchor rises o'er the wave. 
Along their slippery masts the yards as(;end, 
And high in air the canvas wings extend: 
Kfdoubling cords the lofty canvas guide. 
And through inextricable mazes glide. 
The lunar rays with long reflection g!eam, 
To light the vessel o'er the silver stream : 
Alonii the glassy plain serene she glides. 
While azure radiance trembles on her sides. 
Eroin east to north the transient breezes play ; 
And ill the Egyptian quarter soon decay. 
A colin ensues; they dread th' adjacent shore; 
The boats with rowers arm'd are sent before: 
With cordage fasten'd to the lofty prow, 
A'.oof to sea the stately ship they tow. 
The nervous crew their sweeping oars extend ; 
And peal.ng shouts the shore of Candia rend. 
Success attends their skill ; the danger's o'er: 
The port is doubled and beheld no more. 

Now inorn, her lamp pale glimmering on the 
Scatter'd before her van reluct.iiit niglit. [sight. 
She comes not in refulgent pomp array'd, 
But sternly frowning, wrapt in sullen shade. 
Above incumbent vapours, Ida's height. 
Tremendous rock ! emerges on the sight. 
North-east the guardian isle of S;andia lies, 
And westward Freschin's woody capes aiise. 

With winning postures now the wanton sails 
Spread all their snares to charm th' inconstant 

gales. 
The swelling stu'n sails now their wings extend. 
Then stay -sails sidelong to the breeze ascend : 



While all to court the wandering breeze are jilaced ; 
With yards now thwarting, now obliquely bracetl. 

The dim horizon lowering vapours shroud. 
And blot the sun yet struggling in the cloud: 
Through the wide atmosphere condenseii with 
His glaring orb emits a sanguine blaze. [haze, 
The pilots now their rules of art ap^ily, 
'J'he mystic needle's devious aim to try. 
The compass placed to catch the rising ray, 
The quadrant's sh.idows studious they survey ! 
Along the arch the gradual index slides. 
While Phcebus down the vertic circle glides. 
Now, seen on ocean's utmost verge to swim, 
He swecjis it vibrant with his nether limb. 
Their sage experience thus explores the height 
And polar distance of the source of light: 
Then through the chiliads' triple maze they trace 
Th' analogy that proves the magnet's [dace. 
The wayward steel, to truth thus reconciled, 
No more the attentive pilot's eye beguiled. 

The natives, while the ship departs the land, 
Ashore with admiration gazing stand. 
Msjestically slow, before the breeze. 
In silent pomp she inarches on the seas. 
Her mdk-white bottom casts a softer gleam. 
While trembling through the green translucent 

stream. 
The wales, that close above in contrast shone, 
Clasp the long fabric with a jetty zone, 
Britannia riding awful on the prow. 
Gazed o'er the vassal-wave that roll'd below: 
Where'er she moved the vassal-waves were seen 
To yield obsequious, anil confess their queen. 
Th' imperial trident graced her dexter-hand, 
Of power to rule the surge, like Moses' wand, 
Th' eternal empire of the main to keep. 
And guide her squadrons o'er the trembling deep 
Her left propitious bore a mystic shield, 
Around whose margin rolls the wat'ry field. 
There her bold genius in his floating car. 
O'er the wild billow hurls the storm of war — • 
And lo ! the beasts, that oft with jealous rage 
In bloody combat met, from age to age. 
Tamed into union, yoked in friendship's chain. 
Draw his [iroud chariot round the vanquish'd main. 
From the broad margin to the centre grew 
Shelves, rocks, and whirlpools, hideous to the 

view ! — 
Th' immortal shield from Neptune she received, 
When first her head above the waters heaved. 
Looze floated o'er her liinlis an azure vest ; 
A figured scutcheon glitter'd on her breast; 
There, from one parent soil, for ever young, 
The bloo;ning rose and hardy thistle sprung, 
Around her hea 1 an oaken wreath was seen, 
Inwove with laurels of unfading green. 
Such was the siuljituied prow, from van to rear, 
Th' artillery fiown'd, a black tremendous tier! 
Embalm'd with orient gum above the wave, 
The swelling sides a yellow radiance gave. 
* * * * 

High o'er the poop, the flattering winds unfurl'd 
Th' imperial flag that rules the wat'ry world. 
Deep-blnshing armours all the tops invest; 
And warlike trophies either quarter drest: 



528 



WILLIAM FALCONER. 



Then tower'd the masts, the canvas swell'd on 
And waving streamers floated in the sky. [high, 
Thus the rich vessel moves in trim array, 
Like some fair virgin on her bridal day; 
Thus like a swan she cleaves the wat'ry plain, 
The pride and wonder of the ^gean main ! 



FROM THE SAME. 
Distress of the vessel— heaving of the guns OTerboard. 
No season this for counsel or delay ! 
Too soon th' eventful moments haste away ! 
Here perseverance, with each help of art. 
Must join the boldest efforts of the heart. 
These only now their misery can relieve ; 
These only now a dawn of safety give! 
While o'er the quivering deck from van to rear. 
Broad surges roll in terrible career, 
Rodmond, Arion, and a chosen crew, 
This office in the face of death pursue. 
The wheel'd artillery o'er the deck to guide, 
Rodmond descending claim'd the weather-side. 
Fearless of heart, the chief his orders gave ; 
Fronting the rude assaults of every wave, [deep. 
Like some strong watch-tower nodding o'er the 
Whose rocky base the foaming waters sweep, 
Untamed he stood ; the stern aerial war. 
Had mark'd his honest face with many a scar. — 
Meanwhile Arion, traversing the waist. 
The cordage of the leeward guns unbraced, 
And pointed crows beneath their metal placed. 
Watching the roll, their forelocks they withdrew. 
And from their beds the reeling cannon threw, 
Then, from the windward battlements unbound, 
Rodmond's associates wheel th' artillery round ; 
Pointed with iron fangs, their bars beguile 
The ponderous arms across the steep defile ; 
Then, hurl'd from sounding hinges o'er the side. 
Thundering they plunge into the flashing tide. 



FROM THE SAME. 

Council of officers— Albert's directions to prepare for the 

last extremities. 

Again the chief th' instructive draught extends. 
And o'er the figured plane attentive bends! 
To him the motion of each orb was known. 
That wheels around the sun's refulgent throne; 
But here, alas, his science nought avails ! 
Art droops unequal, and experience fails. 
The dilieient traverses since twilight made. 
He on the hydrographic circle laid ; 
Then the broad angle of lee-way explored, 
As swept across the graduated chord. 
H«;r place discover'd by the rules of art. 
Unusual terrors shook the master's heart; 
When Falconera's rugged isle be found [bound; 
Wtthin her drift, with shelves, and breakers 
Foe if on those destructive shallows tost, 
TL^ helpless bark with all her crew are lost : 
As AUal still appears, that danger o'er, 
'Vhi steep St. George, and rocky Gardalor. 
With him the pdots of their hopeless state 
In mournful consultation now debate. 



Not more perplexing doubts her chiefs appal 
When some proud city verges to her fall; 
While ruin glares around, and pale affright 
Convenes her councils in the dead of night — 
No hlazon'tl trophies o'er their concave spread, 
Nor storied pillars raised aloft the head : 
But here the queen of shade around them threw 
Her dragon-wintr, disastrous to the view ! 
Dire was the scene, with whirlwind, hail, and 

shower; 
Black melancholy ruled the fearful hour! 
Beneath tremendous roll'd the flashing tide, 
Where fate on every billow seem'd to ride- 
Inclosed with ills, by peril unsubdued, 
Great in distress the master-seaman stood: 
Skill'd to command, deliberate to advise; 
Expert in action, and in council wise; 
'i'hus to his partners, by the crew unheard, 
The dictates of his soul the chief referr'd ; 

Ye faithful mates, who all my troubles share, 
Approved companions of your master's care! 
To you, alas ! 'twere fruitless now to tell 
Our sad distress, already known too well ! 
This morn with favouring gales the port we left, 
Though now of every flattering hope bereft : 
No skill nor long experience could forecast 
Th' unseen approach of this destructive blast. 
These seas, where storms at various seasons blow, 
No reigning winds nor certain omens know. 
The hour, th' occasion, all your skill demands; 
A leaky ship embay'd by dangerous lands. 
Our bark no transient jeopardy surrounds; 
Groaning she lies beneath unnumber'd wounds, 
'Tis ours the doubtful remedy to find; 
To shun the fury of the seas and wind. 
For in this hollow swell, with labour sore. 
Her flank can bear the bursting floods no more; 
Yet this or other ills she must endure ; 
A dire disease, and desperate is the cure ! 
Thus two expedients offer'd to your choice, 
Alone require your counsel and your voice. 
These only in our power are left to try : 
To perish here, or from the storm to fly. 
The doubtful balance in my judgment cast. 
For various reasons I prefer the last. 
'Tis true, the vessel and her costly freight, 
To rne consign'd my orders only wait ; 
Yet, since the charge of every life is mine, 
'I'o equal votes our counsels I resign ; 
Forbid it. Heaven, that in this dreadful hour, 
I claim the dangerous reins of purblind power ! 
But should we now resolve to bear away. 
Our hopeless state can suffer no delay. 
Nor can we, thus bereft of every sail, 
Attempt to steer obli<juely on the gale; 
For then, if broaching sideward to the sea. 
Our dropsy 'd ship may founder by the lee ; ' 
No more obedient to the pilot's power, 
Th'o'erwhelming wave may soon her frame devour. 

He said ; the listening mates with fix'd regard. 
And silent reverence, his opinion heard. 
Important was the question in debate, 
And o'er their counsels hung impending fate. 
Rodmond, in many a scene of peril tried, 
Had oft the master s happiest skill descried. 



WILLIAM FALCONER. 



6-:'J 



Yet now, the hour, the scene, the occasion known, 
Perhaps with equal right preferr'd his own. 
Of long experience in the naval art, 
Blunt was his speech, and naked was his heart; 
Alike to him each climate and each blast; 
The first in danger, in retreat the last : 
Sagacious balancing th' opposed events, 
From Albert his opinion thus dissents. 

Too true the perils of the present hour. 
Where toils exceeding toils our strength o'er- 

power ! 
Yet whither can we turn, what road pursue. 
With death before still opening on the view? 
Our bark, 'tis true, no shelter here can find, 
Sore shatter'd by the ruffian seas and wind. 
Yet with what hope of refuge can we flee, 
Cliased by this tempest and outrageous sea'? 
For while its violence the tempest keeps. 
Bereft of every sail we roam the deeps : 
At random driven, to present death we haste; 
And otic short hour perhaps may be our last. 
In vain the gulf of Corinth, on our lee, 
Now opens to her ports a passage free ; 
Since, if before the blast the vessel flies. 
Full in her track unnumber'd dangers rise. 
Here Falconera spreads her lurking snares; 
There distant Greece her rugged shelfs prepares. 
Should once her bottom strike that rocky shore, 
The splitting bark that instant were no more ; 
Nor she alone, but with her all the crew 
Beyond relief were doom'd to perish too. 
Thus if to scud too rashly we consent, 
Too late in fatal hour we may repent. 
Then of our purpose this appears the scope, 
To weigh the danger with the doubtful hope. 
Though sorely buffeted by every sea. 
Our hull unbroken long may try a-lee. 
The crew, though harass'd long with toils severe, 
Stdl at their pumps perceive no hazards near. 
Shall we, incautious, then the danger tell. 
At once their courage and their hope to quell 1 
Prudence forbids ! — 'This southern tempest soon 
May change its quarter with the changing moon: 
Its rage, though terrible, may soon subside. 
Nor into mountains lash th' unruly tide, [more 
These leaks shall then decrease : the sails once 
Direct bur course to some relieving shore. — ■ 

Thus while he spoke, around from man to man 
At either pump a hollow murmur ran. 
For while the vessel, through unnumber'd chinks. 
Above, below, th' invading waters drinks. 
Sounding her depth they eyed the wetted scale, 
And lo! the leaks o'er all their powers prevail. 
Yet in their post, by terrors unsubdued. 
They with redoubling force their task pursued. 

And now the senior-pilot seem'd to wait 
Arion's voice to close the dark debate. 
Though many a bitter storm, with peril fraught, 
In Neptune's school the wandering stripling 

taught. 
Not twice nine summers yet matured his thought. 
So oft he bled by fortune's cruel dart. 
It fell at last innoxious on his heart. 
His mind still shunning care with secret hate, 
In patient Indolence resign'd to fate. 
67 



But now the horrors that around him roll. 
Thus roused to action his rekindling soul. 

With fix'd attention pondering in my mind 
The dark distresses on each side combin'd: 
While here we linger in the pass of fate, 
I see no moment left for sad debate. 
For, some decision if we wish to form, 
Ere yet our vessel sink beneath the storm, 
Her shatter'd state and yon desponding crew 
At once suggest what measures to pursue. 
The labouring hull already seems half-fiU'd 
With waters through a hundred leaks distill'd ; 
As in a dropsy, wallowing with her freight, 
Plalf-drown'd she lies, a dead inactive weight; 
Thus drench'd by every wave, her riven deck 
Stripp'd and defenceless floats a naked wreck; 
Her wounded flanks no longer can sustain 
These fell invasions of the bursting main. 
At every pitch the o'erwhelming billows bend. 
Beneath their load, the quivering bowsprit end. 
A fearful warning ! since the masts on high 
On that support with trembling hope rely. 
At either pump our seamen pant for breath, 
In dark dismay anticipating death. 
Still all our power th' increasing leak defy : 
We sink at sea, no shore, no haven nigh. 
One dawn of hope yet breaks athwart the gloom, 
To light and save us from the wat'ry tomb. 
That bids us shun the death impending here; 
Fly from the following blast, and shoreward steer. 
'Tis urged indeed, the fury of the gale 
Precludes the help of every guiding sail; 
And driven before it on the watery waste, 
To rocky shores and scenes of death we haste 
But haply Falconera we may shun ; 
And far to Grecian coasts is yet the run : 
Less harass'd then, our scudding ship may bear 
Th' assaulting surge repell'd upon her rear; 
Even then the wearied storms as soon shall die. 
Or less torment the groaning pines on high. 
Should we at last be driven by dire decree 
Too near the fatal margin of the sea. 
The hull dismasted there a while may ride, 
With lengthcn'd cables on the raging tide. 
Perhaps kind Heaven, with interposing power, 
May curb the tempest ere that dreadful hour. 
But here ingulf'd and foundering while we stay 
Fate hovers o'er and marks us for her prey. 

He said : — Palemon saw, with grief of heart, 
The storm prevailing o'er the pilot's art; 
In silent terror and distress involved. 
He heard their last alternative resolved. 
High beat his bosom ; with such fear subdued ; 
Beneath the gloom of some enchanted wood. 
Oft in old time the wandering swain explored 
The midnight wizards' breathing rites abhorr'd ; 
Trembling approach'd their incantations fell. 
And, chill'd with horror, heard the songs of hell, 
Arion saw, with secret anguish moved. 
The deep affliction of the friend he loved ; 
And, all awake to friendship's genial heat, 
His bosom felt consenting tumults beat. 
Alas! no season this for tender love; 

Far hence the music of the myrtle grove ! 

2U 



530 



WILLIAM FALCONER. 



With comfort's soothing voice, from hope deceived, 
Palemon's drooping spirit he revived, 
For consolation oft, with healing art, 
Retuncs the jarring numbers of the heart. 
Now had the pilots all the events revolved, 
And on their final refuge thus resolved ; 
When, like the faithful shepherd, who beholds 
Some prowling wolf approach his fleecy folds; 
To the brave crew, whom racking doubts perplex. 
The dreadful purpose Albert thus directs • 

Unhappy partners in a wayward fate ! 
Whose gallant spirits now are known too late, 
Ye ! wno unmoved behold this angry storm 
Its terrors all the rolling deep deform. 
Who, patient in adversity, still bear 
The firmest front when greatest ills are near ! 
The truth, though grievous, I must now reveal, 
That long in vain I purposed to conceal. 
Ingulf'd, all helps of art we vainly try, 
To weather leeward shores, alas ! too nigh. 
Our crazy bark no longer can abide 
The seas that thunder o'er her batter'd side; 
And while the leaks a fatal warning give, 
That in this raging sea she cannot live, 
One only refuge from despair we find; 
At once to wear and scud before the wind. 
Perhaps even then to ruin we may steer ; 
For broken shores beneath our lee appear; 
But that's remote, and instant death is here ; 
Yet there, by Heaven's assistance we may gain 
Some creek or inlet of the Grecian main ; 
Or, shelter'd by some rock, at anchor ride, 
Till with abating rage the blast subside. 

But if, determined by the will of Heaven, 
Our helpless bark at last ashore is driven, 
These counsels follow'd, from the wat'ry grave 
Our floating sailors in the surf may save. 

And first let all our axes be secured, 
To cut the masts and rigging from aboard. 
Then to the quarters bind each plank and oar. 
To float between the vessel and the shore. 
The longest cordage too must be convey'd 
On deck, and to the weather rails belay 'd. 
So they who ha[)ly reach alive the land, 
Th' extended lines may fasten on the strand. 
Whene'er loud thundering on the leeward shore, 
While yet aloof we hear the breakers roar, 
Thus for the terrible event prepared, 
Brace fore and aft to starboard every yard. 
So shall our masts swim lighter on the wave, 
And from the broken roc-ks our seamen save. 
Then westward turn the stem, that every mast 
May shoreward fill, when fiom the vessel cast. — 
When o'er her side once more the billows bound. 
Ascend the rigging till slie strikes the ground: 
And when you hear aloft the alarming shock 
That strikes her bottom on some pointed rock. 
The boldest of our sailors must descend, 
The dangerous business of the deck to tend ; 
Then each, secured by some convenient cord. 
Should cut the shrouds and rigging from the board. 
Let the broad axes next assail each mast ! 
And booms, and oars, and rafts to leeward cast. 
Thus, while the cordage stretch'd ashore may guide 
Our brave companions through the swelling tide. 



This floating lumber shall sustain them o'er 
The rocky shelves, in safety to the shore. 
But as your firmest succour, till the last, 
O cling securely on each faithful mast ! 
Though great the danger, and the task severe, 
Yet bow not to the tyranny of fear! 
If once that slavish yoke your spirits quell, 
Adieu to hope ! to life itself farewell ! 

1 know among you some full oft have view'd, 
With murd'ring weapons arm'd, a lawless brood, 
On England's vile inhuman shore who stand. 
The foul reproach and scandal of our land ! 
To rob the wanderers wreck'd upon the strand. 
These, while their savage office they pursue, 
Ofl wound to death the helpless, plunder'd crew, 
Who, 'scaped from every horror of the main. 
Implored their mercy, but implored in vain. 
But dread not this! — a crime to Greece unknown. 
Such blood-hounds all her circling shores disown ; 
Her sons, by barbarous tyranny oppress'd. 
Can share afHict;on with the wretch distress'd: 
Their hearts, by cruel fate inur'd to grief, 
Oft to the friendless stranger yield relief. 

With conscious horror struck, the naval band 
Detested for a while their native land : 
They cursed the sleeping vengeance of the laws, 
That thus forgot her guardian sailors' cause. 
Meanwhile the master's voice again they heard, 
Whom, as with filial duty all revered. 

No more remains — but now a trusty band 
Must ever at the pump industrious stand; 
And while with us the rest attend to wear, 
Two skilful seamen to the helm repair! — 
O Source of life ! our refuge and our stay ! 
Whose voice the warring elements obey. 
On thy supreme assistance we rely; 
Thy mercy supplicate, if doom'd to die! 
Perhaps this siorm is sent, with healing breath. 
From neighbouring shores to scourge disease and 

death ! 
'Tis ours on thine unerring laws to trust : 
With thee, great i^ord! "whatever is, is just." 



FROM THE SAME. 
The vessel ging to pieces— <leath of Albert. 
And now. lash'd on by destiny severe. 
With horror fraught the dreadful scene drew near! 
The ship hangs hovering on the verge of death, 
Hell yawns, rocks rise, and breakers roar beneath! 
In vain, alas! the sacred shades of yore 
Would arm the mind with philosophic lore; 
In vain they'd teach us. at the latest breath, 
To smile serene amid the pangs of death. 
Even Zeno's self and Epictetus old. 
This fell abyss had shudder'd to behold. 
Had Socrates, for godlike virtue famed, 
And wisest of the sons of men proclaim'd, 
Beheld this scene of frenzy and distress. 
His soul had trembled to its last recess ! — 
O yet confirm my heart, ye powers above. 
This last .tremendous shock of fate to prove; 
The tottering frame of reason yet sustain; 
Nor let this total ruin whirl my brain ! 



MARK AKENSIDE. 



531 



In vain the cords and axrs were prepared, 
For now th' audacious seas insult the yard ; 
High o'er the ship they throw a liorrid shade, 
And o'er her burst, in terrible cascade. 
Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she flies, 
Her shatter'd top half-buried in the skies. 
Then headlong plunging thunders on the ground, 
Earth groans! air trembles! and the deeps re- 
sound ! 
Her giant bulk the dread concussion feels, 
And quivering with the wound, in torment reels. 
So reels, convulsed with agonizing throes, 
The bleeding bull bene.ith the inurd'rer's blows. — 
Again she plunges ! hark! a second shock 
'i'ears her strong bottom on the marble rock! 
Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries, 
The fated victims shuddermg roll their eyes 
In wild despair, while yet another stroke, 
With deep convulsion, rends the solid oak: 
Till like the mine, in whose infernal cell 
The lurking demons of destruction dwell. 
At length asunder torn her frame divides. 
And crashing spreads in ruin oer the tides. 
* * * « 

As o'er the surge the stooping main-mast hung. 
Still on the rigging thirty seamen clung: 
Some, struggling, on a broken crag were cast, 
And there l>y oozy tangles grappled fast: 
Awhile they bore th' o"erwhelming billows' rage, 
Unequal combat with their fate to wage; 
Till all benumb'd and feeble they forego 
Their slippery hold, and sink to shades below. 
Some, from the main-yard-arm impeiuous thrown 
On marble ridges, die without a groan. 
Three with Palemon on their skill depend. 
And from the wre- k on oars and rafts descend. 
Wow on the mount.iin-wave on high tliey ride, 
Then downward plunge beneath ih' involving 
tide; 



Till one, who seems in agony to strive, 
The whirling breakers heave on shore alive ; 
The rest a speedier end of anguish know. 
And press'd the stony beach, a lifeless crew ! 
Next, unhappy chief! th' eternal doom 
Of Heaven decreed thee to the briny tomb ! 
What scenes of misery torment thy view ! 
What painful struggles of thy dying crew! 
Thy perish'd hopes all burled in the flood, 
O'erspread with corses! red with human blood! 
So pierced with anguish hoary Priam gazeil. 
When Troy's imperial domes in ruin blazed; 
While he, severest sorrow doom d to feel, 
Expired beneath the victor's murdering steel. 
Thus with his helpless partners till the last, 
Sad refuge ! Albert hugs the floating mast; 
His soul could yet sustain the mortal blow, 
But droops, alas ! beneath superior woe : 
For now soft nature's sympatlietic chain 
Tugs at his yearning heart with powerful strain 
His faithful wife for ever dooin'd to mourn 
For him, alas! who never shall return ; 
To black adversity's approach exposed. 
With want and hardships unforeseen inclosed: 
His lovely daughter lell without a friend. 
Her innocence to succour and defend ; 
By youth and indigence set forth a prey 
To lawless guilt, that flatters to betray — 
While these reflections rack his feeling mind, 
Rodmond, who hung beside, his grasp resign 'd; 
And, as the tumbling waters o'er him roll'd, 
His out-stretch'd arms the master's legs enfold.— 
Sad Albert feels the dissolution near, ' 
And strives in vain his fetter'd limbs to clear; 
For <leath bids every clinging joint adhere. 
All-faint, to Heaven he throws his dying eyes. 
And, •' O protect my wife and child !" he cries : 
Thegushingstreams roll back th' unfinish'd sound! 
He gasps! he dies! and tumbles to the ground! 



MARK AKENSIDE. 



[Born, 1721. Died, 1770J 



It may be easy to point out in Akenside a 
superfluous pomp of ex|)iess.on ; yet the cha- 
racter which Po[e bestowed on him, "that he 
was ntU an ever; day writer,"''^ is certainly ap- 
parent in the dec.ced tone ol'his moral sentiments, 
and in his spirited maintenance of gieat prin- 
ciples. HiS verse has a sweep of harmony that 
seems to accord with an emphalia mind. He 
encountered in his principal poem the moiC than 
ord.nary di;ficult.es of a d.dactic subject. 

" To 1 aiiit the fine t fertures of thu niin'l. 
Ami to m >st suijUe autl my terious ..liings 
Oivo colour, streii^tii, and m^ii u.' — i,ook i. 

The object of his work was to trace the various 

[* While he wis yet unknown.] 

t Vi/, , his loiiipvi''""" O' '^'"' Votary of Imagination to a 
ICiii^lU I rnint in .omo Liiihuileil paniili «, I'.ua-uie,-- of 
linuiiiatioii, book iii. 1.5.7: in hi.< s-ketihof the village 
ma.in.i, loik i. I, i.;55; and in a p,issaj;e of buok iii. at liue 
o( ij. hc^iuuiug "Butweio uut ualuro iLus euUuwed at 



pleasures which we receive from nature and art 
to their respective principles in the human ima- 
gination, anil to show the connection of those 
p.iiiciples with the moral dignity of man, and the 
filial purposes of his creation. His leading sjie- 
culative ideas are derived from Plato, Addison, 
Sliaftesbury, and Hutchinson. To .Addison he 
has been accused of being indebted for more than 
he acknowledged; but surely in plagiarisms from 
the Spectator it might be taken for granted, that 
no man could have counted on concealment ; and 
there are only three passages (I think) in his 
poem where his obligations to that source are 
worthy of notice.f Independent of these, it is 

lari;e." His iileas nf the final oause of our ileli.xht in the 
v.„'t ai U i.limlt iljie, is theanie witli one o,-p e-seti in tin- 
S|ect;t.r, . o -t.3. ISut Addison and lie borrowed i. in 
ci mition fiom Lhe subime theology of I'lato. The leadin? 
liiui, oi hi w..Ml-kr.o.vu pas-iage, •' Say, why was niMii >o emi- 
nently lai.ed," kc, is avowedly takeu from Lou-inus. 



582 



MARK AKENSIDE. 



.Tue that he adopted Addison's threeWd division | 
)f the sources of the pleasures of the imagination ; 
but in doing so he properly followed a theory 
which had the advantage of being familiar to 
the reader; and when he afterward substituted 
another, in recasting his poem, he profited nothing 
by the change. In the purely ethical and didactic 
parts of his subject he displays a high zeal of 
classical feeling, and a graceful development of 
the philosophy of taste. Though his metaphysics 
may not always be invulnerable, his general ideas 
of moral truth are lofty and prepossessing. He 
is peculiarly eloquent in those passages in which 
he describes the final causes of our emotions of 
taste: he is equally skilful in delineating the 
processes of memory and association ; and he 
gives an animated view of Genius collecting her 
stores for works of excellence. All his readers 
must recollect with what a happy brilliancy he 
comes out in the simile of art and nature, dividing 
our admiration when he compares them to the 
double appearance of the sun distracting his Per- 
sian worshipper. But " non sa'is est pidrhfi 
esse poemata, dulcia suuto." The sweetness which 
we miss in Akenside is that which should arise 
from the direct representations of life, and its 
warm realities and affections. We seem to pass 
in his poem through a gallery of pictured ab- 
stractions rather than of pictured things. He 
reminds us of odours which we enjoy artificially 
extracted from the flower instead of inhaling 
them from its natural blossom. It is true that 
his object was to teaeh and explain the nature of 
mind, and that his subject led him necessarily 
into abstract ideas, but it admitted also of copious 
scenes, full of solid human interest, to illustrate 
the philosophy which he taught. Poetry, what- 
ever be its title, should not make us merely con- 
template existence, but feel it over again. That 
descriptive skill which expounds to us the nature 
of our own emotions, is rather a sedative than a 
stimulant to enthusiasm. The true poet reno- 
vates our emotions, and is not content with ex- 
plaining them. Even in a philosophical poem 
on the imagination, Akenside might have given 
historical tablets of the power which he delineated; 
but his illustrations for the most part only consist 
in general ideas fleetingly personified. There is 
but one pathetic passage (I think) in the whole 
poem, namely, that in which he describes the 



lover embracing the urn of his deceased mistress. 
On the subject of the passions, in book ii., when 
our attention evidently expects to be disengaged 
from abstraction, by spirited draughts illustrative 
of their influence, how much are we disappointed 
by the cold and tedious episode of Harmodius's 
vision, an allegory which is the more intolerable, 
because it professes to teach us resignation to the 
will of Heaven, by a fiction which neither imposes 
on the fancy nor communicates a moral to the 
understanding. Under the head of "Beauty" he 
only personifies Beauty herself, and her image 
leaves upon the mind but a vague impression of 
a beautiful woman, who might have been any- 
body. He introduces indeed some illustrations 
under the topic of ridicule, but in these his solemn 
manner overlaying the levity of his subjects un- 
happily produces a contrast which apjiroaches 
itself to the ridiculous. In treating of novelty he 
is rather more descriptive ; we have the youth 
breaking from domestic endeartnents in quest of 
knowledge, the sage over his midnight lamp, the 
virgin at her romance, and the village matron re- 
lating her stories of witchcraft. Short and com- 
pressed as those sketches are, they are still beau- 
tiful glimpses of reality, and it is expressly from 
observing the relief which they alibrd to his 
didactic and declamatory passages, that we are led 
to wish that he had appealed more frequently to 
examples from nature. It is disagreeable to add, 
that unsatisfactory as he is in illustrating the 
several parts of his theory, he ushers them in 
with great promises, and closes them with self- 
congratulation. He says, 

" Thus with a faithful aim have we presumed 
AiJvenlurpus to du.ineiite nature's form:" 

when, in fact, he had delineated very little of it. 
He raises triumphal arches for the entrance and 
exit of his subject, and then sends beneath them 
a procession of a few individual ideas. 

He altered the poem in maturer life, but with 
no accession to its powers of entertainment. Har- 
modius was indeed dismissed, as well as the phi- 
losophy of ridicule ; but the episode of Solon was 
left unfinished, and the whole work made rather 
more dry and scholastic; and he had even the 
bad taste, I believe, to mutilate some of those fine 
passages, which, in their primitive state, are still 
deservedly admired and popular.* 



FROM "THE PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION." 



I'he subject proposed — Difficulty of treating it poetically 
— The ideas of the Divine mind tiie origin of every 
quality pleasin;; to the imagination — Variety of mental 
constitutions — The idea of a fine imagination, and the 
stale of the mind in the enjoyment of those pleasures it 
affords. 

With what attractive charms this goodly frame 
Of Nature touches the consenting hearts 
Of mortal men ; and what the pleasing stores 
Which beauteous imitation thence derives 
To deck the poet's or the painter's toil ; 



My verse unfolds. Attend, ye gentle Powers 
Of Musical Delight ! and while I sing 

[* Alienside holds a high place among British Poets. 
He h;!d all the qualities natural and acquired of a great 
poet. His mind was imbued with classic lore — with lolly 
conceptions, and that love and knowledge of nature which 
no book can communicate. His ear was correct, and his 
blank verse deserves to be studied by all who would 
extel in this truly English measure. Of his smaller poems 
the Hymn to the Naiads stands pre-eminent, breathing 
as it does the very spirit <if Callimachus and antiquity. 
His inscriptions are amung the best in our language, and 
Southey and Wordsworth have profited largely by them. 
His Odes are tame productions: that to the Earl of Hunt- 
ingdon has most admirers : it is good, but it is not excellent.] 



MARK AKENSIDE. 



533 



T! our gifts, your honours, Jance aroun(3 my strain. 

Thou, smiling queen of every tuneful breast, 

Indulgent Fancy ! from the fruitful hanks 

Of Avon, whence thy rosy fingers cull 

Fresh flowers and dews to sjirinkle on the turf 

Where Shakspeare lies, he present: and with thee 

Let Fiction come, upon her vagrant wings 

Wafting ten thousand colours through the air, 

Which, by the glances of her magic eye, 

She blends and shifts at will, through countless 

Her wild creation. Goddess of the lyre, [forms. 

Which rules the accents of the moving sphere. 

Wilt thou, eternal Harmony ! descend 

And join this festive train ] for witli thee comes 

The guide, the guardian of their lovely sports, 

Majestic Truth ; and where Truth deigns to come. 

Her sister Liberty will not be far. 

Be present all ye genii, who conduct 

The wandering footsteps of the youthful bard, 

New toyour springs and shades: who touch his ear 

With finer sounds: who heighten to his eye 

The bloom of Nature, and before him turn 

The gayest, happiest attitude of things. 

Oft have the laws of each poetic strain 
The critic-verse employ'd ; yet still unsung 
Lay this prime suiyect, though importing most 
A poet's name : for fruitless is the attempt. 
By dull obedience and by creeping toll 
Obscure to conquer the severe ascent 
Of high Parnassus. Nature's kiiidling breath 
Must fire the chosen genius; Nature's h;ind 
Must string his nerves, and imp his eagle-wings 
Impatient of the painful steep, to soar 
High as the summit; there to breath at large 
Ethereal air; with bards and sages old. 
Immortal sons of praise. 'J'hese flattering scenes, 
To this neglected labour court my song; 
Yet not unconscious what a doubtful task 
To paint the finest features of the mind. 
And to most subtle and mysterious things 
Give colour, strength, and motion. But the love 
Of Nature and the Muses bids explore. 
Through secret paths erewhile untrod by man, 
The fair poetic region, to detect 
Untasted springs, to drink inspiring draughts, 
And shade my temples with unfadmg flowers 
CuII'd from the laureate vale's profound recess. 
Where never poet gain'd a wreath before. 

From Heaven my strains begin ; from Heaven 
descends 
The flame of genius to the human breast, 
And love and beauty, and poetic joy 
And inspiration. Ere the radiant Sun 
Sprang from the east, or 'mid the vaults of night 
The Moon suspended her serener lamp ; .[globe. 
Ere mountains, woods, or streams, adorn'd the 
Or Wisdom taught the sons of men her lore; 
Then lived the Almighty One : then, deep retired 
In his unfathom'd essence, view'd the forms. 
The forms eternal of created things; 
The radiant Sun, the Moon's nocturnal lamp. 
The mountains, woods, and streams, the rolling 

globe. 
And Wisdom's mien celestial. From the first 
Of days, on them his love divine he fix'd, 



His admiration: till in time complete, 
What he admired and loved, his vital smile 
Unfolded into being. Hence the breath 
tjf life informing each organic frame. 
Hence the green earth, and wild resounding waves , 
Hence light and shade alternate ; warmth and cold ; 
And clear autumnal skies and vernal showers. 
And all the fair variety of things. 

But not alike to every mortal eye 
Is this great scene unveil'd. For since the claims 
Of social life, to different labours urge 
The active powers of man; with wise intent 
The hand of Nature on peculiar minds 
Imprints a different bias, and to each 
Decrees its province in the common toil. 
To some she taught the fabric of the sphere. 
The changeful Moon, the circuit of the stars. 
The golden zones of Heaven ; to some she gave 
To weigh the moment of eternal things, 
Of time, and space, and Fate's unbroken chain, 
And will's quick impulse: others by the hand 
She led o'er vales and mountains, to explore 
What healing virtue swells the tender veins 
Of herbs and flowers ; or what the beams of morn 
Draw forth, distdling from the cLfted rind 
In balmy tears. But some, to higher lu)pes 
Were destined; some within a finer mould 
She wrought, and temper'd with a purer flame. 
To these the Sire On)nipotent unfolds 
The world's harmonious volume, there to read 
The transcript of himself On every part 
They trace the bright impressions of his hand: 
In earth or air, the meadow's purple stores. 
The Moon's mild radiance, or the virgin's form 
Blooming with rosy smiles, they see portray'd 
That uncreated beauty, which delights 
The mind supreme. They also feel her charms, 
Enamour'd ; they partake the eternal joy. 

For as old Memnon's image, long renown'J 
By faltling Nilus, to the quivering touch 
Of Titan's ray, with each repulsive string 
Consenting, sounded through the warbling air 
Unbidden strains; even so did Nature's hand 
To certain species of external things. 
Attune the finer organs of the mind; 
So the glad impulse of congenial powers, 
Or of sweet sounds, or fair proportion'd form, 
The grace of motion, or the bloom of light, 
Thrdls through imagination's tender frame, 
From nerve to nerve : all naked and alive 
They catch the spreading rays; till now the soul 
At length discloses every tuneful spring. 
To that harmonious movement from without 
Responsive.^ Then the inexpressive strain 
Diffuses its enchantment: Fancy dreams 
Of sacred fountains and Elysian groves. 
And vales of bliss: the inleliectual power 
Bends from his awful throne a wondering ear. 
And smiles: the passions, gently soothed away, 
Sink to divine repose, and love and joy 
Alone are waking; love and joy, serene 
As airs that fan the summer. O I attend, 
Whoe'er thou art, whom these del ghts can touch, 
Whose candid bosom the refln.ng love 
Of Nature warms, O! listen to my song; 
2u2 



J8J 



MARK AKENSIDE. 



And I will guide thee to her favourite walks, 
And teach thy solitude her voice to hear, 
And point her loveliest features to tiiy view. 

Know then, whate'er of Nature's pregnant stores, 
Whate'er of mimic Art's reflected forms 
With love and admiration thus inflame 
The powers of fancy, her delighted sons 
'J'o three illustrious orders have referr'd ; 
Three sister-graces, whom the painter's hand, 
The poet's tongue, confesses ; the sublime, 
The wonderful, the fair. I see them dawn ; 
I see the radiant visions, where they rise, 
More lovely than when Lucifer displays 
His beaming forehead through the gates of morn, 
To lead the train of Phoebus and the Spring. 

Say, why was man so eminently raised 
Amid the vast creation ; why ordain'd 
ThrougJi life and death to dart his piercing eye, 
With thoughts beyond the limit of his frame ; 
But that the Omnipotent might send him forth 
In sight of mortal and immortal powers, 
As on a boundless theatre, to run 
The great career of justice ; to exalt 
His generous aim to all diviner deeds; 
To chase each partial purpose from his breast: 
And through the mists of passion and of sense. 
And through the tossing tide of chance and pain, 
To hold his course unfaltering, whde the voice 
Of Truth and Virtue, up the steep ascent 
Of Nature, calls him to his high reward. 
The applauding smile of Heaven? Else wherefore 
In mortal bosoms this unquenched hope, [burns 
That breathes from day to day sublimer things. 
And mocks possession ? wherefore darts the mind. 
With such resistless ardour to embrace 
Majestic forms ; impatient to be free. 
Spurning the gross control of wilful might, 
Proud of the strong contention of her toils; 
Proud to be daring? Who but rather turns 
To Heaven's broad fire his unconstrained view, 
'J^han to the glimmering of a waxen flame? 
Who that, from Alpine heights, his labouring eye 
Shoots round the wide horizon, to survey 
Nilus or Ganges rolling his bright wave 
Through mountains, plains, throughempires black 

with shade. 
And continents of sand, will turn his gaze 
To mark the windings of a scanty rill 
That murmurs at his feet? The high-born soul 
Disdains to rest her heaven-aspiring wing 
Beneath its native quarry. Tired of Earth 
And this diurnal scene, she springs aloft 
'i'hrough fields of air; pursues the flying storm; 
Rides on the voll.ed lightning through the heavens; 
Or, yoked with whirlwinds and the norihern blast. 
Sweeps the long tract of day. Then high she soars 
The blue prolbund, and hovering round the Sun 
Beholds him pouring the redundant stream 
Of light; beholds his unrelenting sway 
Bend the reluctant planets to absolve 
The fated rounds of 'J'iiiie. 'i'lience far effused 
She darts her swiftness up the long career 
Of devious comets; through its burning signs 
Exulting measures the perennial wheel 
Of Nature, and looks back on all the stars, 



Whose blended light, as with a milky zone. 
Invests the orient. Now amazed she views 
The empyreal waste, where happy spirits hold. 
Beyond this concave heaven, their calm abode; 
And fields of radiance, whose unfading light 
Has travell'd the profound six thousand years, 
Nor yet arrives in sight of mortal things. 
Even on the barriers of the world untired 
She meditates the eternal depth below ; 
Till half recoiling, down the headlong steep 
She plunges; soon o'erwhelm'd and swallow'd up 
In that immense of \)eing. There her hopes 
Rest at the fated goal. For from the birth 
Of mortal man, the sovereign Maker said, 
That not in humble nor in brief delight. 
Not in the fading echoes of Renown, 
Power's purple robes, nor Pleasure's flowery lap, 
The soul should find enjoyment; but from these 
Turning disdainful to an equal good, 
Through all the ascent of things enlarge her view, 
Till every bound at length should disappear. 
And infinite perfection close the scene. 



FROM THE SAME. 
Final cause uf our pleasure in Beauty. 
, Then tell me, for ye know, 
Does Beauty ever deign to dwell where health 
And active use are strangers? Is her charm 
Confess'd in aught, whose most peculiar ends 
Are lame and fruitless? or did Nature mean 
This pleasing call the herald of a lie; 
To hide the shame of d.scord and disease. 
And catch with fair hypocrisy the heart 
Of idle faith? no ! with better cares 
The indulgent mother, conscious how infirm 
Her otlspring tread the paths of good and ill, 
By this illustrious image, in each kind 
Still most illustrious where the objec^t holds 
Its native powers most perfect, she by this 
Illumes the headstrong impulse of desire. 
And sanctifies his choice, 'i'he generous glebe 
Whose bosom smiles with verdure, the clear tract 
Of streams delicious to the thirsty soul. 
The bloom of nectar'd fruitage ripe to sense, 
And every charm of animated things, 
Are only pledges of a state sincere. 
The integrity and order of their frame 
When all is well within, and every end 
Accomplish'd. Thus was Beauty sent f.om Heaven 
The lovely ministress of truth and good 
In this dark world : for truth and good are one, 
And beauty dwells in them; and they in her 
With like participation. 



FROM THE SAME. 
Meutal Beauty. 
Mind, mind alone, (bear witness. Earth and 
The living fountains in itself contains [Heaven!) 
Of beauteous and sublime: here hand i,i hand, 
bit paramount the Graces; here enthro>»t;d. 
Celestial Venus, with diviiiesl airs, 



MARK AKENSIDE. 



535 



Invites the soul to never-fading joy. 

Look then al)road through Nature, to the range 

Of planets, suns, and adatnantine spheres, 

Wheeling unshaken through the void immense; 

And speak, O man! does this rapacious scene 

With hrtlf that kindling majesty dilate 

Thy strong conception, as when Brutus rose 

Refulgent from the stroke of C.Tsar's fate, 

Amid the crowd of patriots; and his arm 

Aloft extending, Tke eternal Jove 

When guilt brings down the thunder, call'd aloud 

On Tul'y's name, and shook his crimson steel, 

And bade the father of his country hail 1 

For lo ! the tyrant prostrate on the dust, 

And Rome again is free ! Is aught so fair 

In all the dewy landscapes of the spring, 

In the bright eye of Hesper or the Morn, 

In Nature's fairest forms, is aught so fair 

As virtuous Friendsh'p? as the candid blush 

Of him who strives with fortune to be just ! 

The graceful tear that streams for others' woesi 

Or the m^LI majesty of private life. 

Where peace with ever-blooming olive crowns 

The gate; where Honour's liberal hands effuse 

Unenvied treasures, and the snowy wings 

Of Innocence and Love protect the scene 1 



FROM BOOK II. 

All tJie natural passions, grief, pity, and indignation, 

partake of a pleasing sensation. . 

Ask the faithful youth. 
Why the cold urn of her whom long he loved 
So often fills his arms; so often draws 
His lonely footsteps at the silent hour. 
To pay the mournful tribute of his tears'? 
0! he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds 
Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego 
That sacred hour, when, stealing from the noise 
Of care and envy, sweet remembrance soothes 
With Virtue's kindest looks his aching breast. 
And turns his tears to rapture. — Ask the crowd 
Which ri.es impatient from the village-walk 
To climb the neighbouring cliffs, when far below 
The cruel winds have hurl'd upon the coast 
Some helpless bark ; while sacred Pity melts 
The general eye, or Terror's icy hand 
Smites their distorted limbs and horrent hair; 
While every mother closer to her breast 
Catches her child, and pointing where the waves 
Foam through the shatter'd vessel, shrieks aloud. 
As one poor wretch that spreads his piteous arms 
For succour, swallow'd by the roaring surge, 
As now another, dash'd against the rock. 
Drops lifeless down : O ! deemest thou indeed 
No kind endearment here by Nature given 
To mutual terror and Compassion's tears T 
No sweetly-melting softness wiiich attracts. 
O'er all that elge of pain, the social powers 
To this their proper action and their end] 
— Ask thy own heart ; when at the midnight hour. 
Slow through that studious gloom thy pausing eye, 
Led by the glimmering taper, moves around 
The sacred volumes of the dead, the songs 



Of Grecian bards, and records writ by Fame 

For Grecian heroes, where the present power 

Of Heaven and Earth surveys the immortal page, 

Even as a father blessing, while he reads 

The praises of his son. If then thy soul, 

Spurning the yoke of these inglorious days. 

Mix in their deeds and kindle with their flame; 

Say, when the prospect blackens on thy view, 

When rooted from the .ase, heroic states 

Mourn in the dust, and tremiile at the frown 

Of curst Ambition: when the pious band 

Of youths who fought for freedom and their sires. 

Lie side by side in gore; when ruffian Pride 

Usurps the throne of Justice, turns the pomp 

Of public power, the majesty of rule. 

The sword, the laurel, and the purple robe. 

To slavish empty pageants, to adorn 

A tyrant's walk, and glitter in the eyes 

Of such as bow the knee; when honour'd urns 

Of patriots and of chiefs, the awful bust 

And storied arch, to glut the coward-age 

Of regal Envy, strew the public way 

With hallow'd ruins; when the Muse's haunt, 

The marble porch where Wisdom wont to talk 

With Socrates or Tully, hears no more. 

Save the hoarse jargon of contentious monks. 

Or female superstition's midnight prayer; 

When ruthless Rapine from the hand of Time 

Tears the destroying scythe, with surer blow 

To sweep the works of glory from their base ; 

Till Desolation o'er the grass-grown street 

Expands his raven-wings, and up the wall. 

Where senates once the price of monarchs doom'd, 

Hisses the gliding snake through hoary weeds 

That clasp the mouldering column; thus defaced, 

Thus widely mournful when the prospect thrills 

Thy beating bo.som, when the patriot's tear 

Starts from thine eye, and thy extended arm 

In fancy hurls the thunderbolt of Jove 

To fire the impious wreath on Philip's brow. 

Or dash Octavius from the trophied car; 

Say, does thy secret soul repine to taste 

The big distress 1 Or wouldst thou then exchang»> 

Those heart-ennobling sorrows for the lot 

Of him who sits amid the gaudy herd 

Of mute barbarians bending to his nod. 

And bears aloft his gold-invested front, 

.\nd says within himself — I am a king. 

And wherefore should the clamorous voice of woe 

Intrude upon mine ear! — The baleful dregs 

Of these late ages, this inglorious draught 

Of servitude and folly, have not yet. 

Blest be the eternal Ruler of the world? 

Defiled to such a depth of sordid shame 

The native honours of the human soul, 

Nor so effaced the image of its sire. 



FROM BOOK III. 
Enjoyments of genius in collecting her stores for com- 
position. 

By these mysterious ties the busy power 
Of Memory her ideal train preserves 
Entire ; or when they would elude her watcn, 



586 



MARK AKENSIDE. 



Reclaims their fleeting footsteps from the waste 

Of daric oblivion; thus collecting all 

The various forms of being to present, 

Before the curious aim of mimic Art, 

Their largest choice; like spring's unfolded blooms 

Exhaling sweetness, that the skilful bee 

May taste at will from their selected spoils 

To'work her dulcet food. For not the expanse 

Of living lakes in summer's noontide calm. 

Reflects the bordering shade, and sun-bright 

heavens 
With fairer semblance; not the sculptured gold 
More faithful keeps the graver's lively trace. 
Than he, whose birth the sister powers of Art 
Propitious view'd, and from his genial star 
Shed influence to the seeds of fancy kind ; 
'J'han his attemper'd bosom must preserve 
The seal of Nature. There alone unchanged. 
Her form remains. The balmy walks of May 
There breathe perennial sweets : the trembling 
Resounds for ever in the abstracted ear, [chord 
Melodious : and the virgin's radiant eye, 
Superior to disease, to grief, and time, 
Shines with unbating lustre. Thus at length 
Endow'd with all that Nature can bestow, 
The child of Fancy oft in silence bends 
O'er these mix'd treasures of his pregnant breast, 
With conscious pride. From them he oft resolves 
To frame he knows not what excelling things; 
And win he knows not what sublime reward 
Of praise and wonder. By degrees, the mind 
Feels her young nerves dilate; the plastic powers 
Labour for action : blind emotions heave 
His bosom, and with loveliest frenzy caught, 
From Earth to Heaven he rolls his daring eye, 
From Heaven to Earth. Anon then thousand 

shapes, 
fjike spectr(>s trooping to the wizard's call. 
Flit swift before him. From the womb of Earth, 
From Ocean's bed they come: the eternal 

Heavens 
Disclose their splendours, and the dark Abyss 
Pours out her births unknown. With fixed gaze 
He marks the rising phantoms. Now compares 
Their different forms ; now blends them, now 
Enlarges and extenuates by turns ; [divides, 

Opposes ranges in fantastic bands. 
And infinitely varies. Hither now, 
Now thither fluctuates his inconstant aim, 
With endless choice perplex'd. At length his plan 
Begins to open. Lucid order dawns; 
And as from Chaos old the jarring seeds 
Of Nature at the voice divine repair'd 
Each to its place, till rosy Earth unveil'd 
Her frMgrant bosom and the joyful Suri 
Sprung up the blue serene ; by swift degrees 
'J'hus disentangled, his entire design 
■ Emerges. Colours mingle, features join. 
And lines converge: the fainter parts retire; 
The fiirer eminent in liglit advance; 
And every image on its neighbour smiles. 
Awhile he stands, and with a father's joy 
Contemplates. Then with Promethean art, 
Lito its proper vehicle he breathes 
The fair conception ; which, embodied thus, 



And permanent, becomes to eyes or ears 
An object ascertain'd: while thus inform'd, 
The various organs of his mimic skill, 
The consonance of sounds, the featured rock, 
The shadowy picture and impassion'd verse. 
Beyond their proper powers attract the soul 
By that expressive semblance, while in sight 
Of Nature's great original we scan 
The lively child of Art; while line by line, 
And feature after feature, we refer 
To that sublime exemplar whence it stole 
Those animating charms. Thus beauty's palm 
Betwixt them wavering hangs: applauding love 
Doubts where to choose; and mortal man aspires 
To tempt creative praise. As when a cloud 
Of gathering hail, with limpid crusts of ice 
Inclosed and obvious to the beaming Sun, 
Collects his large efl"ulgence ; straight the Heavens 
With equal flames present on either hand 
The radiant visage : Persia stands at gaze, 
Appall'd ; and on the brink of Ganges doubts 
The snowy-vested seer, in Mithra's name. 
To which the fragrance of the south shall burn. 
To which his warbled orisons ascend. 



FROM BOOK III. 

Conclusion. 
Oh ! blest of Heaven, whom not the languid 
Of Luxury, the syren ! not the bribes [songs 
Of sordid Wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils 
Of pageant Honour, can seduce to leave 
Those ever-blooming sweets, which from the store 
Of Nature fair Iniagination culls 
To charm the enliven'd soul ! What though not 
Of mortal oflTspring can attain the heights [all 
Of envied life; though only few possess 
Patrician treasures or imperial state; 
Yet Nature's care, to all her children just, 
With richer treasures and an ampler state, 
Endows at large whatever happy man 
Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp. 
The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns 
The princely dome, the column and the arch, 
The breathing marbles and the sculptured gold, 
Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim 
His tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the Spring 
Distils her dews, and from the silken gein 
Its lucid leaves unfolds: for him, the hand 
Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch 
With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn. 
Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings ; 
And still new beauties meet his lonely walk. 
And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze 
Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud iml)ibes 
The setting Sun's ellulgence, not a strain 
From all the tenants of the warbling shade 
Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake 
Fresh pleasure unreproved. Nor thence partakes 
Fresh pleasures only : for the attentive mind, 
By this harmonious action on her powers. 
Becomes herself harmonious: wont so oft 
In outward thines to meditate the charm 
Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home 



THOMAS CriATTERTON. 



To find a kinJred order, to exert 

Within herself this elegance of love, 

This fair inspired delight : her teniper'd powers 

Refine at length, and every passion wears 

A chaster, milder, more attractive mien. 

But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze 

On Nature's form, where, negligent of all 

These lesser graces, she assumes the port 

Of that eternal majesty that weigh'd 

The world's foundations, if to these the mind 

Exalts her daring eye; then mightier far 

Will he the change, and nobler. Would the forms 

Of servile custom cramp her generous powers] 

Would sordid policies, the barbarous growth 

Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down 

To tame pursuits, to indolence and fearl 

liO ! she appeals to Nature, to the winds 

And rolling waves, the Sun's unwearied course, 

The elements and seasons: all declare 

For what the eternal Maker has ordain'd 

The powers of man : we feel within ourselves 

His energy divine: he tells the heart, 

He meant, he made us to behold and love 

What he beholds and loves the general orb 

Of life and being ; to be great like him, 

Beneficent and active. Thus the men [self 

Whom Nature's works can charm, with God him- 



Hold converse; grow familiar, day by day, 
With his conceptions, act upon his plan ; 
And form to his, the relish of their souls. 



INSCRIPTION FOR A BUST OF SHAKSPEARE. 

O YOUTHS and virgins: declining eld : 
O pale Misfortune's slaves: O ye who dwell 
Unknown with humble Quiet: ye who wait 
In courts, or fill the golden seat of kings: 
O sons of Sport and Pleasure: O thou wretch 
That weep'st for jealous love, or the sore wounds 
Of conscious Guilt, or Death's rapacious hand 
Which left thee void of hope: O ye who roam 
In exile; ye who through the embattled field 
Seek bright renown ; or who for nobler palms 
Contend, the leaders of a public cause; 
Approach : behold this marble. Know ye not 
The features ? Hath not oft his faithful tongue 
Told you the fashion of your own estate. 
The secrets of your bosom 1 Here then, round 
His monument with reverence while ye stand. 
Say to each other; "This was Shakspeare's form: 
Who walk'd in every path of human life; 
Felt every passion; and to all mankind 
Doth now, will ever, that experience yield 
Which his own genius only could acquire." 



THOMAS CHATTERTON. 

, [Born, No'-. 20, 1752. Died, Aug. 25, 1770; 

AGED SEVENTEEN TE.U18, NINE MONTHS, AND A FEW DATS.*] 



Thomas Chatterton was the posthumous child 
of the master of a free-school in Bristol. At five 
years of age he was sent to the same school which 
his father had taught; but he made so little im- 
provement that his mother took him back, nor 
could he be induced to learn his letters till his 
attention had been accidentally struck by 'the 
illuminated capitals of a French musical MS. 
His mother afterward taught him to read from 
an old black-letter Bible. One of his biographers 
has expressed surprise that a person in his 
mother's rank of life should have been acquainted 
with black-letter. The writer might have known 
that books of the ancient type continued to be 
read in that rank of life long after they had 
ceased to l)e used by persons of higher station. 
At the age of eight he was put to a charity-school 
in Bristol, where he was instructed in reading, 
writing, and arithmetic. From his tenth year he 
discovered an extraordinary passion for books; 
and before he was twelve, had perused about 
seventy volumes, chiefly on history and divinity. 
The prematurity of his mind, at the latter period, 
was so strongly marked in a serious and religious 
cast of thought, as to induce the bishop to con- 
firm hmi,and admit hini to the sacrament at that 
tiS 



I early age. His piety, however, was not of long 
I duration. He had also written some verses suffi- 
j ciently wonderful for his years, and had picked 
■ up some knowledge of music and drawing, when, 
[ nt the age of fourteen, he was bound apprentice 
to a Mr. Lambert, a scrivener, in his native city. 
In Mr. Lambert's house his situation was very 
humble; he ate with the servants, and slept in 
the same room with the footboy ; but his em- 
ployments left him many hours of leisure for 
reading, and these he devoted to acquiring a 
knowledge of English antiquities and obsolete 
language, which, together with his poetical in- 
genuity, proved sufficient for his Rowleian fabri- 
cations. 

It was in the year 1768 that he first attracted 
attention. On the occasion of the new bridge of 
Bristol being opened, he sent to Farley's Journal, 
in that city, a letter, signed Dunhelmus Bristoli- 
ensis, containing an account of a procession of 
friars, and of other ceremonies which had taken 
place, at a remote period, when the old bridge 
had been opened. The account was said to be 

[* early ri; e ! tn thy abunrl.int !>>nve 
What Lould advancing age have added innrH? 

DKyD.iN 0/ Oldliam.] 



538 



THOMAS CHATTERTON. 



taken from an ancient MS. Curiosity was in- 
stantly excitptl ; and the saffes of Bristol, with a 
spirit of barbarism which the monks and friars 
of the fifteenth century could not easily have 
rivalled, having traced the letter to Chatterton, 
interrogated him, with lluents, about the original. 
Boy as he was, he haughtily refused to explain 
upon compulsion ; hut by milder treatment was 
brought to state, that he had found the MS. in 
his mother's house. The true part of the history 
of those ancient papers, from which he pretended 
to have derived this original of Farley's letter, 
as well as his subsequent poetical treasures, was, 
that in the muniment-room of St. Mary Redcliife 
Church, of Bristol, several chests had been an- 
ciently deposited, among which was one called 
the " Cofre" of Mr. Canynge, an eminent mer- 
chant of Bristol, who had rebuilt the church in 
the reign of Edward IV. About the year 1727 
those chests had been broken open by an order 
fi-oin proper authority : some ancient deeds had 
been taken out, and the remaining MSS lelt 
exposed, as of no value. Chatterton's father, 
whose uncle was sexton of the church, had car- 
ried off great numbers of the ])archmeiits, and 
had used them as covers for books in his school. 
Amidst the residue of his father's ravages, Chat- 
terton gave out that he had found many writings 
of Mr. Canynge, and of Thomas Rowley, (the 
friend of Canynge,) a priest of the fifteenth cen- 
tury. The rumour of his discoveries occasioned 
his acquaintance to be sought by a few individuals 
of Bristol, to whom he made presents of vellum 
MSS. of professed antiquity. The first who 
applied to him was a Mr. Catcott, who obtained 
from him the Bristowe Tragedy, and Rowley's 
Epitaph on Canyngc's ancestor. Mr. Barret, a 
surgeon, who was writing a history of Bristol, 
was also presented with some of the poetry of 
Rowley; ami Mr. Burgum, a pewterer, was 
favoured with the "Romaunt of the Knyghte," 
a poem, said by Chatterton to have been written 
by the pewterer's ancestor, John de Berghum, 
about 450 years before. The believing presentees, 
in return, supplied him with small sums of money, 
lent him books, and introduced him into society. 
Mr. Barret even gave him a few slight instruc- 
tions in his own j)rofession. Chatterton's spirit 
and ambition perceptibly increased; and he used 
to talk to his mother and sisters of his prospects 
of fame and fortune, always promising that they 
should be partakers in his success.* 

Having deceived several incompetent judges 



[* Nothing can be more extraordinary than the doli^ht 
which Chatterton appears to have f ^It in executing tlie*e 
niimtier!e-s and mu'tifarious impoitio'is. His mini; 
passion was not the vanity of a p 'ct "ho depends upon 
the opinion of others for it^ gratification, but the stoical 
pride of talent, which felt nourishment in the tolitry 
inTii(.in;il:iti 111 of S'pi'riirity over thi' dnpus who fe'l in'o 
his toils. He h.is himself described this leading fe :tin-e 
of his iharat'M- in a letter to Sir. li:ir-et: '-it is my 
;irii1e. mv damned. raMve, uncinquerable p'id '. tliat 
jiliinffes me into distraction. You mu^t know that 13- 
20'hs of my conipo i ion is pri le. I must ei her live a 
slave — a seivaut—have no wiJ of my own which I may 



with regard to his MSS. he next ventured to 
address himself to Horace Walpole, to whom he 
sent a letter, offering to supply him with an ac- 
count of a series of eminent painters, who had 
flourished at Bristol. Walpole returned a polite 
answer, desiring further information ; on which 
Chatterton transmitted to him some of his Row- 
leian poetry, described his own servile situation, 
and requested the patronage of his correspondent. 
The virtuoso, however, having shown the poeti- 
cal sjiecimens to Gray and Mason, who pro- 
nounced them to be forgeries, sent the youth a 
cold reply, advising him to apply to the business 
of his profession. Walpole set out soon after for 
Paris, and neglected to return the MSS. till they 
had been twice demanded back by Chatterton ; 
the second time in a very indignant letter. On 
I these circumstances was founded the whole charge 
I that was brought against Walpole, of blighting 
I the prospects, and eventually contributing to the 
I ruin of the youthful genius. Whatever may be 
thought of some expressions respecting Chatter- 
ton, which Walpole employed in the exjilauation 
of the afiair "which he afterward published, the 
idea of taxing him with criminality in neglecting 
him was manifestly unjust. But iti all cases of 
misfortune the first consolation to which human 
nature resorts, is, right or wrong, to find some- 
body to blame, and an evil seems to be half 
cured when it is traced to an object of indig- 
nation.f 

In the mean time Chatterton had commencpd 
a correspondence with the Town and (Country 
Magazine in London, to which he transmitted 
several communications on subjects relating to 
English antiquities, besides his specimens of 
Rowley's poetry, and fragments, purporting to 
be translations of Saxon poems, written in the 
measured prose of Macpherson's style. His 
poetical talent also continued to develope itself 
in several pieces of verse, avowedly original, 
though in a manner less pleasing than in his 
feigned relics of the Gothic Muse. When we 
conceive the inspired boy transporting himself in 
imagination back to the days of his fictitious 
Rowley, embodying his ideal character, and 
giving to airy nothing a "local habitation and a 
name," we may forget the impostor in the enthu- 
siast, and forgive the falsehood of his reverie for 
its beauty and ingenuity. One of his companions 
has described the air of rapture and inspiration 
with which he used to repeat his passages from 
Rowley, and the delight which he took to con- 



fairly declare as such, or die." — Sir Walter Scott, Misc. 

Wirl.s. vol. xvii. p. L'31. 

I (hourht. of Chatterton, the marvellous toy: 
The sleepless -soul that perish'd in bis pride. 

WoRnSWODTFT.] 

[tMr. AlPxar-dT Chalmers, the literary hack of London 
t'T mtny a lon^ year, has written, in his edition of the 
Kng ish Poets, a Wakening life of CI attertoi. '• Horace 
Wa pole." says Soutliey, ■' has teen fieniuent'y invci;licd 
against by the ardent admu'ers of Cha*teiton, with more 
severity th;in justice; we recommend Mr. ("^Imlniers to 
them in futu-e as a proper .sulject f r any casti;;iti;in 
which they mav be pleased to bestow in pro.se or rhvme.' 
—Quar. Rev. Tol. xi. p. 495.] 



THOMAS CHATTERTON. 



539 



teiiiplate the church of St. Mary Reilcliflfe, while 
it awoke the associations of antii|uity in liis 
romantic mind. There was one spot in particu- 
lar, full in view of the church, where he would 
often lay himself down, and fix his eyes, as it 
were, in a trance. On Sundays, as long as day- 
light lasted, he would walk alone in the country 
around Bristol, taking drawings of churches, or 
other olijects that struck his imagination. The 
romance of his character is somewhat disen- 
chanted, when we find him in his satire of " Kcm 
Garde s," which he wrote before leaving Bristol, 
indulging in the vulgar scandal of the day, upon 
the characters of the Princess Dowager of Wales 
and Lord Bute; whatever proofs such a produc- 
tion may afford of the quickness and versatility of 
his talents. 

As he had not exactly followed Horace Wal- 
pole's advice with reg;;rd to moulding his inclina- 
tions to business, he felt the irksomeness of his 
situation in Mr. Lambert's office at last intoler- 
able ; and he vehemently solicited and obtained 
the attorney's consent to release him from his 
apprenticeship. His master is said to have been 
alarmed into this concession by the hints which 
Chatterton gave of his intention to destroy him- 
self; but even without this fear, Mr. Lambert 
could have no great motive to detain so reluctant 
an apprentice, fiom the hopes of his future 
services. 

In the month of April, 1770, Chatterton arrived 
in London, aged seventeen years and five months. 
He immediately received from the booksellers, 
with whom he had already corresponded, several 
important literary engagements. He projected a 
History of England, and a H.slory of London, 
wrote for the magazines and newspapers, and 
contributed songs for the public gardens. But 
party politics soon became his favourite object; 
as they flattered his self-importance, and were 
likely to give the most lucrative efiiploymcnt to 
his pen. His introduction to one or two indi- 
viduals, who noticed him on th's account, seems 
to have filled h s ardent and sanguine fancy with 
unbounded prospects of success. Among these 
acquaintances was the Lord Mayor Beckford, 
and it is not unlikely, if that magistrate had not 
died soon after, that Chatterton might have found 
a patron. His death, however, and a liltle ex- 
perience, put_ an end to the young adventurer's 
hopes of making his f.irtune by wiiting in hostility 
to government; and with great ac, ommodation 
of principle he addressed a letter to Lord North, 
in praise of his admin stration. There was per- 
haps more levity than profligacy in this tergiver- 
Bation :* though it must be owned that it was 
not the levity of an ingenuous boy. 



, During the few months of his existence in 
London his letters to his mother and sister, 
which were always accompanied with presents, 
expressed the most joyous anticipation-!. But 
suddenly all the flush of his gay hopes and busy 
I projects terminated in despair. 'J'he particular 
causes which led to his catastrophe have not been 
distinctly traced. His own descriptions of his 
' prospects were but little to be trusted ; for while 
I apparently exchanging his shadowy visions of 
; Rowley for the real adventures of life, he was 
i still moving under the spell of an imagination that 
I saw every thing in exaggerated colours. Out of 
j this dream he was at length awakened, when he 
found that he had miscalculated the chances of 
patronage, and the profits of literary labour. 
The abortive attempt which he made to obtain 
the situation of a surgeon's mate on board an 
African vessel, shows that he had al)andoned the 
hopes of gaining a livelihood by working for the 
booksellers, thouglihe was known to have shievvdly 
remarked, that they were not the worst patrons 
of merit. After this disappointment his poverty 
became extreme, and though there is an account 
of a gentleman having sent him a guinea within 
the few last days of h s life, yet there is too much 
reason to fear that the pangs of his voluntary 
death were preceded by the actual sufferings of 
want. Mrs. Angel, a sack-maker, in Brook- 
street, Holborn, in whose house he lodged, 
olfisred him a dinner the day before his death, 
knowing that he had fasted a long time ; but his 
pride made him refuse it with some indignation. 
On the 25th of August he was found dead in his 
bed, from the effects of poison, which he had 
swallowed. He was interred in a shell in the 
burial-ground of Shoe-lane workhouse. 

'I'he heart wh ch can peruse the fate of Chat- 
terton without being moved, is little to be envied 
for its tranqu llity ; but the intellects of those men 
must be as deficient as their hearts are unchari- 
table, who, confounding all shades of moral dis- 
tinction, have ranked his literary fiction of Rowley 
in the same classof crimes with pecuniary forgery, 
and have calculated that if he had not died l>y his 
own hand he would probably have ended his days 
upon a gallows, 'i'his disgusting sentence has 
been pronounced upon a youth who was exem- 
plary for severe study, temperance, and natural 
aflection. His Rowleian forgery must indeed be 
pronounced improper by the general law which 
condemns all falsifications of history; but it de- 
prived no man of his fame, it had no sacrilegious 
interference with tlie memory of departed genius, 
it had not, like Lauder's imposture, any malig- 
nant motive, to rob a party or a country, of a 
name which was its pride and ornament.! 



[* Mr. Campbell has l)or-ow«d the exyre«'ion from 
Chiilmers's Life. '-To call," siiys .Mr. Siutiey, " Chat- 
tfi'ou'.s boyi h e<tays, in \o\\ 1 al coi.ti'overy, poMliial 
tergiver.<!atioii. is a.« preposle:ou< an abuse of language, 
as it wciuki le to rail .Mr. CbaliniTs a j dirious critic or 
a cai did bio;r:iphpr."— §«ac. Fei'. vol. \i. p. 43i.] 

It -'or is th- t:ertoii's iuipufitioii ripnheuFib^e like 
Trrbmds fnrgeries. fur no real niinic or fiuic siiffured as 
Sliakspeare's ml^ht have sulTerLd. A real Kowiey, such 



as Chatterton gave birth to, never existed tiU he wrote, 
a; U no | oet I" tweeii ( liauier and Spenser but might (iwn 
with pridu Ihe pn due ions of th • boy "of iJri toive." 
Lauder's inipis;ure went to d.gvada a great auihar, Ire- 
land's to Mial<e an tlior write as only an Irel.uid cunld 
have written, but Cli:.tt 'Vion's to make a new pcet ti. «d- 
vance the g orj- of hi-^ i.ative city and ol' hi.s nation al Urge. 
" 'the deception," ^a^s t-outliey, " was not iuleiide' to (1» 
fVaiid or injure one iiumau being."] 



510 



THOMAS CITATTERTON. 



Setting aside the opinion of those unchnritable 
biographers, whose imaginittloiis have conducted 
him to the gihiiet, it may l>e owned that his un- 
formed character exhibited strong and conflicting 
elements of good and evil. Even the momentary 
project of the infidel boy to become a Methodist 
preacher, betrays an oblii)uity of design, and a 
contempt of human credulity that is not very 
amiable. But had he been spared, his pride and 
ambition would have come to flow in their proper 
channels; his understanding would have taught 
him the practical value of truth and the dignity 
of virtue, and he would have despised artifice, 
when he had felt the strength and security of 
wisdom. In estimating tiie promises of his 
genius, I would rather lean to the utmost enthu- 
siasm of his admirers, than to the cold opinion of 
those, who are afraid of being blinded to the 
defects of the poems attributed to Rowley, by 
the veil of obsolete phraseology which is thrown 
over them. If we look to the ballad of Sir 
Charles Bawdin, and translate it into modern 
English, we shall find its strength and interest to 
have no dependence on obsolete words. In tke 
striking passage of the martyr Bawdin standing 
erect in his car to rebuke Edward, who beheld 
him from the window, when 



" Tlie t. ninfs soul rush'd to his face," 
and when he exclaimed, 

'• Bi'hold tl e man ! he speaks the truth, 
lle'.s fjreater ihuii a kiug;" 
in these, and in all the striking parts of the ballad, 
no effect is owing to mock antiquity, but to the 
simple and high conception of a great and just 
character, who 

" Summ'd the actions of the drty, 
Lacb ui^lit before he slept." 

What a moral portraiture from the hand of a 
boy ! The inequahty of Chatterton's various 
productions may be compared to the dispropor- 
tions of the ungrown giant. His works had 
nothing of the iletinite neatness of that preco- 
cious talent which stops short in early maturity. 
His thirst for knowledge was that of a being 
taught by instinct to lay up materials for the ex- 
ercise of great and undeveloped powers. Even 
in his favourite maxim, pushed it might be to 
hyperbole, that a man by abstinence and perse- 
verance might accomplish whatever he pleased, 
may be traced the indications of a genius which 
nature had meant to achieve works of immor- 
tality. Tasso alone can be compared to him as 
a juvenile prodigy.* No English poet ever 
equalled hiin at tlie same age.f 



BRISTOWE TRAGEDLE: 

OR, 

TIIE DETIIE OF SYR CHARLES BAWDIN. 
TtiK feathered songster chaunticleer 

Han wounde hys bugle home, 
And tolde the earlie villager 

The commynge of the niorne : 

Kynge Edwarde sawe the ruddie streakes 

Of lighle eilypse the greie, 
And herde the raven's crokynge throte 

Proclayme the fated daie. 

"Thou'rt ryght," quod he, "for, by the Godde 
That syttes enthroned on hyglie ! 

Charles Bawdin, and hys fcUowes twaine, 
To-daie shall surelie die." 

Thenne wyth a jugge of nappy ale 

Hys knyghtes dydd onne hymm waite ; 

" Goe tell the traytour, thalt to-daie 
Hee leaves thys mortall stale." 

Syr Canterlone thenne bcndedd lowe, 
Wythe harte brymm-full of woe; 

Hee journey'd to the castle-gate. 
And to Syr Charles dydd goe. 

* In the verses «hich Tas o sent to lii.< mother when he 
was nine years old. [One oi his juvenile production- is 
a Hymn for Chri.-tmas-day, which, if real y writ en al out 
the : ge of eleven, bears amp e tu.-tiuiony lothi' premature 
powois of the author; ai d when ihe haim my ami ea--e of 
expression are contrasted witli Ihj aithor's luyhoi d. in- 
eipjrience, and wantcf instructijii, a) peaisalmoslmir.icu- 
lous. — Sir Waltkr Scott. Misc. HV)W..v. \o\. >Tii. p. 'ils.] 

[t No pli.ce la Bristol is sought ou' wi h ■ uch anxiety as 
St. Mary's KeJcliffe; not so mmh f.-.m the Uauty of i'.a 
ar hitoeture, as fiom its Chaleit>n ass< ciatioiis. The 
very place seems to speak, of the marvel.ous boy: we 



But whenne hee came, hys children twaine, 

And eke hys lovynge wyfe, 
Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore. 

For goode Syr Charleses lyfe. 

<'0, goode Syr Charles!" sayd Canterlone, 
" Badde tydyngs I doe brynge." 

"Speke boldlie,manne,"sayd brave Syr Charles 
♦' Whatte says thie tray tor kynge 1" 

"I greeve to telle; before yonne sonne 

Does fromme the welkin flye, 
Hee hath upponn hys honour sworne, 

Thatt thou shalt surelie die." 

" Wee all must die," quod brave Syr Charles, 

"Ofthatte I'm not affearde; 
Whatte bootes to lyve a little space 1 

'I'hanke Jesu, I'm prejiared : 

" Butt telle thye kynge, for myne bee's not, 

I'de sooner die to-daie, 
Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are, 

Though I shoulde lyve for aie." 

Then Canterlone hee dydd goe out, 

To telle the maior straite 
To gett all thyiiges ynne reddyness 

For goode Syr Charleses fate. 

tread where l.e trod and ?ee what he saw — the muniment 
room a. id its empty cnil'. rs tie loaib if " Mai tor 
Canyn^e," ar.d its euncu- insciipti ns. Nor is the grave in 
the (liunhvHid ■ f the inet's f.ither without i s inti-vest. 
while the b ys of il e f ho I to which Ch tterton belorged 
are seen in the neigh ou h.od chid as Chaltenoii was 
c ad. Brisol indeed seems .o 1 na he cf its woi der and 
disgia'e; the New Bridge iJerives i s ^o'.e interest, from 
aCi.aiterton forgery. U is right to i.d.l that Ihe people 
of Brisiol have become at last alive to the surpass-inj: in- 
terest < f th ir city, ai.d have erected a tabteful uonumeut 
to the boy of seventeen.] 



Thenne Maisterr Canynge saughte the kynge, 
And felle downe onne hys knee ; 

"I'm come," quod hee, "unto your grace 
To move your clemencye." 

Thenne quod the kynge, " Youre tale speke out, 
You have been much cure friende ; 

Whatever youre request may bee, 
We wylle to ytte attende." 

" My nobile leige ! alle my request 

Ys for a nobile knyghte, 
Who, though may hap hee has donne wronge, 

Hee thoughte ytte stylle was ryghte; 

" He has a spouse and children twaine, 

Alle rewyn'd are for aie ; 
Yfl' that you are resolved to lett 

Charles Bawdin die to-daie." 

" Speke not of such a tray tour vile," 

'J'he kynge ynn furie sayde ; 
" Before the evening starre doth sheene, 

Bawdin shall loose hys hedde : 

" Justice does loudlie for hym calle, 
And hee shalle have hys meede : 

Speke, Maister Canynge ! whatte thynge else 
Att present doe you ncede 1" 

" My nobile leige !" goode Canynge sayde, 

" Leave justice to our Godde, 
And laye the yronne rule asyde ; 

Be thyne the olyve rodde. 

" Was Godde to serche our hertes and reines 

The best were synners grete ; 
Christ's vicarr only knowcs no synne, 

Ynne alle thys mortall state. 

" Lett mercie rule thyne infante reigne, 
'Twylle faste thye crovvne fulle sure ; 

From race to race thye familie 
Alle sov'reigns shall endure : 

"But yff wythe bloode and slaughter thou 

Beginne thy infante reigne, 
Thy crowne upponne thy childrennes brows 

Wylle never long remayne." 

" Canynge, awaie ! thys traytour vile 
Has scorn'd my power and mee ; 

Howe canst thou then, for such a manne, 
Intreate my clemencye]" 

" My nobile leige ! the trulie brave 

Wylle val'rous actions prize. 
Respect a brave and nobile mynde, 

Although ynne enemies." 

" Canynge, awaie ! By Godde in heav'n, 

Thatt dydd mee being gyve, 
I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade 

Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve. 

■' By Marie, and alle Seinctes ynne heav'n, 

Thys sunne shall be hys laste." 
Thenne Canynge dropt a brinie teare, 

And from the presence paste. 



Wyth herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief, 

Hee to Syr Charles dydd goe, 
And sat hymm downe uponne a stoole, 

And teares beganne to flowe. 

" Wee all must die," quod brave Syr Charles ; 

" Whatte bootes ytte howe or whennel 
Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate 

Of all wee mortall raenne. 

" Save why, my friende, thie honest soul 

Runns over att thyne eye; 
Is ytte for my most welcome doome 

Thatt thou dost child-lyke cryel" 

Quod godlie Canynge, " I doe weepe 

Thatt thou soe soone must dye. 
And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyfe ; 

"fys thys that wettes myne eye." 

" Thenne drie the tears thatt out thyne eye 
From godlie fountaines sprynge ; 

Dethe I despise, and all the power 
Of Edwarde, traytour kynge. 

« Whan through the tyrant's welcome means 

I shall resigne my lyfe, 
The Godde I serve wylle soone provyde 

For bothe mye sonnes and wyfe. 

"Before I sawe the lyghtsome sunne, 

Thys was appointed mee; 
Shall mortall manne repyne or grudge 

What Godde ordeynes to bee] 

" Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode, 

Whan thousands dy'd arounde; 
When smokyhge streemes of crimson bloode 

Imbrew'd the fatten'd grounde : 

" Howe dydd I knowe thatt ev'ry darte, 

Thatt cutte the airie waie, 
Myghte nott fynde passage toe my harte, 

And close myne eyes for aie ] 

" And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe, 
Looke wanne and bee dysmayde ] 

Ne ! fromm my herte flie childyshe feere. 
Bee alle the manne display'd. 

" Ah, goddelyke Henrie ! Godde forefende 
And guarde thee and thye sonne, 

Yff 'tis hys wylle; but yff 'tis nott, 
Why thenne hys wylle bee donne. 

"My honest friende, my faulte has beene 
To serve Godde and my prynce ; 

And thatt I no tyme-server am. 
My dethe wylle soone convynce. 

" Ynne Londonne citye was I borne, 

Of parents of grete note; 
My fadre dydd a nobile armes 

Emblazon onne hys cote : 

«' I make ne doubte but hee ys gono 

Where soone I hope to goe ; 
Where wee for ever shall bee blest, 

From oute the reech of woe. 
2 V 



6i2 



THOMAS CHATTERTON. 



♦' TIpc taughtf! mee justice and the laws 

With pitie to unite ; 
Ariel eke hee taught mee howe to knowe 

'J'lie wronge cause fionim the ryghte : 

« Hee taughte mee wyth a prudent hande 

'I'o feede the hungrie poore, 
Ne lett mye sarvants dryve awaie 

The hungrie fromme my doore : 

" And none can saye butt all mye lyfe 

I have hys wordyes kept ; 
And summ'd the actyonns of the daie 

Eche nyghte before I slept. 

" I have a spouse, goe askc of her 

Yir Idefyl'd her bedde; 
I have a kynge, and none can laie 

Black treason onne my heddie. 

♦' Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve, 

Fromin fleshe I dydd refrayne; 
Whie should I thenne appeare dismay'd 

To leave thys worlde of payne? 

"Ne, hapless Henrie ! I rejoyce 

I shall ne see thye dethe ; 
Most willynglie ynne thye just cause 

Doe I resign my brethe. 

" Oh, fickle people ! rewyn'd londe ! 

'IMiou vvylt kenne peace ne moe; 
Whyle Richard's sonncs exalt themselves 

Thye brookes wyth bloude wylle flowe. 

" Sale, were ye tyr'd of godlie peace. 

And godlie Henrie's n-igne, 
Tliatl you dyd choppe your easie daies 

For those of bloude and peyne 1 

" Whatt though I onne a sledde be drawne, 

And mangled by a hynde, 
I doe defye the traytor's pow'r, 

Hee can ne harm my mynde ; 

» Whatte though, uphoisted onne a pole, 
Mve lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre, 

And ne ryche monument of brasse 
Charles Bawdin's name shall bear; 

>' Vett ynne the holie book above, 
W'byche tyme can't eate awaie. 

There wylhe the servants of the Lorde 
Mye name shall lyve for aie. 

"Thenne welcome dethe! for lyfe eterne 

I leave thys mortall lyfe : 
Farewell, vayne worlde, and all that's deare, 

Mye sonnes and lovynge wyfe ! 

" Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes 

As e'er the moneth of Maie; 
IVor woulde I even wyshe to lyve, 

Wyth my dere wyfe to stale." 

Quod Canynge, "'Tys a goodlie thynge 

'J\> bee prepared to die; 
And from thys worlde of poyne and grefe 

To Godde vnne heav'n to flic." 



And now the belle began to tolle, 

And claryonnes to sounti; 
Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete 

A prauncyng onne the grounde : 

And just before the officers 
His lovynge wyfe came ynne, 

Weepynge unfeigned teeres of woe, 
Wythe loudd and dysmalle dynne. 



" Sweet Florence ! nowe I 

Ynn quiet lett 
Praie Godde that 



praie forbere, 

nn quiet lett mee di 



I nil qiiiei leii mee uie ; 
raie Godde that ev'ry Christian souls 
Maye looke onne dethe as I. 

" Sweet Florence ! why these brinie teeres 1 

'J'lieye washe my soule awaie. 
And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe, 

Wyth thee, sweete danie, to stale. 

"'Tys butt a jou'nie I shall goe 

Untoe the binde of biysse; 
Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love, 

Receive thys holie kysse." 

Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her sale, 
Tremblynge these wordes spoke : 

"Ah. crude Edwarde ! bioudie kynge ! 
Mye hcrte ys welle nyghe broke : 

" Ah, sweete Syr Charles ! why wylt thou goe 

Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe! 
The cruelle axe thalt cuttes thy nccke, 

Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe." 

And nowe the officers came ynne 

To brynge Syr Charles awnie, 
Whoe turnedd toe hys lovynge wyfe, 

And thus to her dydd sale: 

"I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe; 

'J'ruste thou ynne Godde above, 
And teaclie tliy sonnes to feare the Lorde, 

And ynne theyre hcrtes hym love: 

"Teache them to runne the nobile race 

'J'batt I theyre fader runne; 
Florence ! shou'd dethe thee take — adieu ! 

Yee officers, leade onne." 

Thenne Florence raved as anie madde, 

And dydd her tresses tere ; 
" Oh staie mye husbande. lorde, and lyfe !" — 

Syr Charles thenne dropt a teaie. 

Tyll tyredd oute wythe ravynge loude, 

Shee fellen onne the flore ; 
Syr Charles exerted alle hys myghte. 

And march d iromm oute the dore. 

L'ponne a sledde hee mounted thenne, 
Wythe lookes full brave and swete; 

Lookes thatt enshone ne moe concern 
'1 hanne anie ynne the strete. 

Before hym went the council-menne, 

Ynn Scarlett robes and golde, 
And tassils spanglynge ynne the sunne 

Muchc glorious to beholde : 



THOMAS CHATTERTON. 



543 



The fieers of Seincte Augustyne next 

Appeared to the syghte, 
AUe flaikl ynne homelie russett weeJes, 

or godlie monkysh plyglite : 

Ynne diffiaunt partes a godlie psaume 
Moste swcetlie theye dyd chaunt; 

Behynde iheyre backes syx niynstrelles came, 
Who tuned the strunge bataunt. 

Thenne fyve-and-twenty archers came, 

Echonc the bowe dydd hende, 
From rescue of Kynge Henries friends, 

Syr Charles forr to defend. 

Bolde as a lyon came Syr Charles, 
Drawne onne a cloth-layde slcdde, 

Bye two lilacke stedcs ynne trap])ynges white, 
Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde: 

Behynde hym fyve-and-twenty moe 

Of archers stronge and stoute, 
Wyth hended bowe echone ynne hande. 

Marched ynne goodlie route : 

Seinrte Jameses Freers marched next, 

Eclioiie hys parte dydd chaunt ; 
Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came, 

Who tuii'd the strunge bataunt : 

Thenne came the maior and eldermenne, 

Ynne clothe of scarlett deck't; 
And iheyre attendyng uienne echone, 

Lyke easterne princes trick't: 

And after them a multitude 

Of citizens dydd thronge ; 
The wyndowes were alle fulle of heddes 

As hee dydd passe aloiige. 

And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse, 
Syr Charles dydd turne aeul saie, 

" O thou thalt savest manne fromrhe synne, 
Washe mye soule clean thys daie !" 

Att the grete mynster wyndowe sat 

'J'lie kynge ynne myckle state, 
To see Chailes Bawd.n goe alonge 

To hys most welcom fate. 

Soon as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe 
'J'hatt Edwarde hee myghte heare, 

The brave Syr Chailes hee dydd stande uppe. 
And thus hys wordes declare: 

"Thou seest me, Edwarde ! tray tour vile! 

Expos'd to infamie; 
Butt bee assur'd, disloyal! manne! 

I'm greater nowe thanne thee. 

"Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude, 

'J'hou wearest now a crowne ; 
And hast appoynted mee to dye, 

By power nott thyne owne. 

"Thou thynkest I shall dye to-daie ; 

I have been dede 'till nowe, 
And soone shall lyve to wcare a crowne 

For aic uponne my browe: 



" Whylst thou, perhapps, for som few yeares, 

Shalt rule thys fu-kle lande. 
To letl tliein knowe howe wyde the rule 

'Twixt kynge and tyrant hande: 

"Thye pow'r unjust, thou traytour slave! 

Shalle falle onne thye owne hedde." — 
Fromm out of hearyng of the kynge 

Departed thenne the sledde. 

Kynge Edwarde's soul rush'd to hys face, 

Hee turn'd his hedde awaie. 
And to hys broder Gloucester 

Hee thus dydd speke and saie: 

" To hym that soe much dreaded dethe, 

Ne ghastlie terrors brynge, 
Beholde the manne ! hee spake the truthe, 

Hee's greater thanne a kynge!" 

"Soe lett hym die!" Duke Richard sayde; 

" And maye echone oure foes 
Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe. 

And feede the carry on crowes." 

And nowe the horses gentlie drewe 
Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle; 

The axe dydd glyster ynne the sunne. 
His prclious bloude to spy lie. 

Syr Charles dydd uppe the scaflTold goe, 

As U|)pe a gilded carre 
Of victorye, bye val'rous chiefs 

Gayn'd ynne the bloudie warre : 

And to the people hee dyd saie, 

" Beholile, you see me dye. 
For servynge loyally myc kynge, 

Mye kynge most ryghtfullie. 

"As longe as Edwarde rules thys lande, 

IS'e quiet you wylle knowe: 
Your sonnes and husbandes shalle bee slayne, 

And brookes wythe bloude shall flowe. 

"You leave your goode and lawfulle kynge 

Whenne ynne in adversitye ; 
Lyke mee, untoe the true cause stycke. 

And for the true cause dye.'' 

Thenne hee, wyth preestes. uponne hys knees, 

A pray'r to Godde dyd make, 
Besecchynge hym unto hyrnselfe 

Hys paitynge soule to take. 

Thenne, kneelynge downe, hee layd hys hedde 

Most seemlie onne the blocke; 
Whych fromme hys bodie fayre at once 

The able heddes-manne stroke : 

And oute the bloude beganne to flowe. 

And rounde the scaflblde twyne; 
And tea res, enow to washe 't awaie, 

Dydd flowe from each mann's eyne. 

The bloudie axe hys bodie fayre 

Ynnto four [)artes cutte; 
And ev'rye parte, and eke hys hedde, 

Uponne a pole was putte. 



544 



CHRISTOPHER SMART. 



One parte dyJ rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle, 

One onne the mynster-towcr, 
And one from off the castle gate 

The crowen dydd devoure : 

The other onne Seyncte Powle's goode gate, 
A dreery spectacle ; 



Hys hedde was placed onne the hyghe crosse, 
Ynne hyghe-streete most nobile. 

Thtis was the ende of Bawdin's fate : 
Godde prosper longe oure kynge, 

And grante hee maye, with Bawdin's soule, 
Ynne heav'n Godd's mercie synge ! 



CHRISTOPHER SMART. 



tBorn, 1722. Died, 1770.] 



Chkistopher Smart was borne at Shipbourne, 
in Kent. Being an eight months child, he had 
from his birth an infirm constitution, which un- 
fortunately his habits of life never tended to 
strengthen. His father, who was steward of the 
Kentish estates of Lord Barnard, (afterward 
Earl of Darlington,) possessed a property in the 
neighbourhood of Shipbourne of about 300/. 
a year; but it was so much encumbered by debt 
that his widow was obliged to sell it at his death 
at a considerable loss. This happened in our 
poet's eleventh year, at which time he was taken 
from the school of Maidstone, in Kent, and 
placed at that of Durham. Some of his paternal 
relations resided in the latter place. An ancestor 
of the family, Mr. Peter Smart, had been a pre- 
bendary of Durham in the reign of Charles the 
First, and was regarded by the puritans as a 
proto-martyr in their cause, having been de- 
graded, lined, and imprisoned for eleven years, 
on account of a Latin poem which he published 
in 1643, and which the high-church party chose 
to consider as a libel. What services young 
Smart met with at Durham from his father's 
relations we are not informed ; but he was kindly 
received by Lord Barnard, at his seat of Raby 
Castle ; and through the interest of his lordship's 
family obtained the patronage of the Duchess of 
Cleveland, who allowed him for several years an 
annuity of forty pounds. In his seventeenth 
year he went from the school of Durham to the 
university of Cambridge, where he obtained a 
fellowship of Pembroke-hall, and took the degree 
of master of arts. About the time of his obtain- 
ing his fellowship he wrote a farce, entitled "the 
Grateful Fair,^or the trip to Cambridge," which 
was acted in the hall of his college. Of this 
production only a few songs, and the mock- 
heroic soliloquy of the Princess Periwinkle, have 
been preserved ; but from the draught of the 
plot given by his biographer, the comic ingenuity 
of the piece seems not to have been remarkable.* 
He distinguished himself at the university, both 
by his Latin and English verses : among the 
former was his translation of Pope's Ode on St. 
Cecilia's Day, on the subject of which, and of 
other versions which he projected from the same 
author, he had the honour of corresponding with 
Pope. He also obtained, during several years, 

[* See day's Works by Mitford, vol. iii. pp. 41 and il.] 



the Seatonian prize for poetical essays on the at- 
tributes of the Deity. He afterward printed 
those compositions, and probably rested on them 
his chief claims to the name of a poet. In one 
of them he rather too loftily denominates himself 
" I lie poel of his Gad" From his verses upon the 
Eagle chained in a College Court, in which he 
addresses the bird, 

"Thou type of wit and sense, confined, 
Chaiu'd by th' oppressors of the miud," 

it does not appear that he had great respect for 
his college teachers; nor is it pretended that the 
oppressors of the mind, as he calls them, had 
much reason to admire the application of his 
eagle genius to the graver studies of the uni- 
versity ; for the life which he led was so dissii)a- 
ted, as to oblige him to sequester his fellowship 
for tavern debts. 

In the year 1753 he quitted college, upon his 
marriage with a Miss Carnan, the step-daughter 
of Mr. Newbery the bookseller. With Newbery 
he had already been engaged in several schemes 
of authorship, having been a frequent contri- 
butor to the " Student, or Oxford and Cambridge 
Miscellany," and having besides conducted the 
" Midwife, or Old Woman's Magazine." He had 
also published a collection of his poems, and 
having either detected or suspected that the 
notorious Sir John (formerly Dr.) Hill had re- 
viewed them unfavourably, he proclaimed war 
with the paper knight, and wrote a satire on 
him, entitled the Hdliad. One of the bad effects 
of the Dunciad had been to afford to indignant 
witlmgs, an easily copied example of allegory and 
vituperation. Every versifier, who could echo 
Pope's numbers, and add an iad to the name of 
the man or thing that offended him, thought 
himself a Pope for the time being, and however 
dull, an hereditary champion against the powers 
of Dulness. Sir .lohn Hdl, who wrote also a 
book upon Cookery, replied in a Smartiad ; and 
probably both of his books were in their d.lferent 
ways useful to the pastry-cooks. If the town 
was interested in such a warfare, it was to be 
pitied for the dearth of amusement. But though 
Smart was thus engaged, his manners were so 
agreeable, and his personal character so inoffen- 
sive, as to find friends among some of the most 
eminent men of his day, such as Dr. Johnson, 
Garrick, and Dr. Buriiey. Distress brought on 
by imprudence, and insanity, produced, by dis- 



CHRISTOPHER SMART. 



545 



tress, soon made him too dependent on the kind- 
ness of his friends. Some of them contrihuted 
money. Garriok gave him a free benefit at 
Drury-lane theatre, and Dr. Johnson furnished 
him with several papers for one of his periodical 
publications. During the confinement which his 
alienation of mind rendered necessary, he was 
deprived of pen and ink and paper; and used to 
indent his poetical thoughts with a key on the 
wainscot of the wall. On his recovery he re- 
sumed his literary employments, and for some 
time conducted himself with industry. Among 
the compositions of his saner period, was a verse 
translation of the Fables of Phiedrus, executed 
with tolerable spirit and accuracy. But he gave 
a lamentable proof of his declining powers in his 
translation of the Psalms, and in his " Parables 
of Jesus Christ, done into familiar verse," which 
were dedicated to Master Bonnel Thornton, a 
child in the nursery. He was also connnitted for 



debt to the King's Bench prison, within the Ruleb 
of which he died, after a short illness, of a dis 
order in the liver. 

If Smart had any talent above mediocrity, it 
was a slight turn for humour.* In his serious 
attempts at poetry, he reminds us of those 

"Whom Phoebus in his ire 
Hath blasted with poetic fire."t 

The history of his life is but melancholy. 
Such was his habitual imprudence, that he would 
bring home guests to dine at his house, when 
his wife and family had neither a meal, nor money 
to provide one. He engaged, on one occasion, to 
write the Universal Visitor, and for no other 
work, by a contract which was to last ninety-nine 
years. The publication stopped at the end of 
two years. During his bad health, he was ad- 
vised to walk for exercise, and he used to walk 
for that purpose to the ale-house; but he was ai- 
ways carried back. 



IN THE MOCK PLAY OF "A TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE, 
OR THE GRATEFUL FAIR." 

SOLILOQUY OP THE PRINCESS PERIWIXKLE. 

[Princess Periwinkle snla, attended by fourteen maids of 
great lionour.] 

Sure such a wretch as I was never bom, 
By all the world deserted and forlorn : 
This bitter-sweet, this honey-gall to prove, 
And all the oil and vinegar of love ; 
Pride, love, and reason, will not let me rest, 
But make a devilish bustle in my breast. 
To wed with Fizgig, pride, pride, pride denies, 
Put on a Spanish padlock, reason cries ; 
But tender, gentle love, with every wish com- 
plies. 
Pride, love, and reason, fight till they are cloy'd, 
And each by each in mutual wounds destroy'd. 
Thus when a barber and a collier 'fight, 
The barber beats the luckless collier — white ; 
The dusty collier heaves his ponderous sack, 
And, big with vengeance, beats the barber — black. 
In comes the brick-dust man, with grime o'er- 

spread. 
And beats the collier and the barber — red ; 
Black, red, and white, in various clouds are toss'd. 
And in the dust they raise the combatants are 
lost. 



* An instance of his wit is given in his extemporary 
gpondaio ou tlie three fat beadles of the university : 
" Pinguia tergeminorum abJomina beJellorum." 
[t See however an extract made by Mr. Poutliey from 
his " Soug of David," in the Quarterly Review, vol. xi. 
p. 497. 

He sun^r of Go'I the mighty source ' 

Of all things, the stupendous force 

On which all things depend : 
From whose rip;ht arm, beneath whose eyes. 
All perioi', power und enterprii-e, 
Commence and reign and end. 

The world, the clustering spheres He made, 
The glorious light, the soothing ^•badc, 



ON AN EAGLE CONFINED IN A COLLEGE COURT. 

Imperial bird, who wont to soar 

High o'er the rolling cloud. 
Where Hyperborean mountains hoar 

Their heads in ether shroud ; — 
Thou servant of almighty Jove, 
Who, free and swift as thought, couldst rove 

To the bleak north's extremest goal ; — 
Thou, who magnanimous couldst bear 
The sovereign thunderer's arms in air, 

And shake thy native pole ! 

Oh, cruel fate! what barbarous hand, 

What more than Gothic ire. 
At some fierce tyrant's dread command. 

To check thy daring fire 
Has placed thee in this servile cell. 
Where discipline and dullness dwell. 

Where genius ne'er was seen to roam ; 
Where every selfish soul's at rest, 
Nor ever quits the carnal breast, 

But lurks and sneaks at home! 

Though dimm'd thine eye, and dipt thy wing, 

So grov'ling ! once so great ; 
The grief-inspired Muse shall sing 

In tenderest lays thy fate. 



Dale, champaign, grove, and hill ; 
The multitudinous abyss 
Where secrecy remains in bliss, 
And wisdom hides her skill. 
Tell them I am, Jehovah said 
To Moses, while earth heard in dread. 

And smitten to the heart. 
At once above, beneath, around, 
All nature, without voice or sound, 
Replied. Lord, thou art! 
This Smart, when in a state of insanity, Indented with a 
key on the wainscot of a madhouse. Poor Nat. Lee when 
on the verge of mndness miide a sensible saying, "It is 
very difficult to write like a madman, but very easy to 
write like afooU"! 

2v 2 



646 



THOMAS GRAY. 



What time by thee scholastic pride 
Takes his precise pedantic stride, 

Nor on thy mis'ry casts a care, 
The stream of love ne'er from his heart 
Flows out, to act fair pity's part; 

But stinks, and stagnates there. 

Yet useful still, hold to the throng — 
Hold the reflecting glass, — 



That not untutor'd at thy wrong 

The passenger may pass ! 
Thou type of wit and sense confined, 
Cramp'd by the oppressors of the mind. 

Who study downward on the ground ! 
Type of the fall of Greece and Rome; 
While more than mathematic gloom 

Envelopes all around. 



THOMAS GRAY. 



[Born, 1716. Died, 1771.] 



Mr. Matthias, *he accomplished editor of 
Gray, in delineating his poetical character, dwells 
with peculiar emphasis on the charm of his lyri- 
cal versification, which he justly ascribes to the 
naturally exquisite ear of the poet having been 
trained to consummate skill in harmony, by long 
familiarity with the finest models in the most 
poetical of all languages, the Greek and Italian. 
"He was indeed (says Mr. Matthias) the inventor, 
it may be strictly said so, of a new lyrical metre 
in his own tongue. The peculiar formation of 
his strophe, antistrophe, and epode, was unknown 
before him ; and it could only have been planned 
and perfected by a master genius, who was equally 
skilled by long and repeated study, and by trans- 
fusion into his own mind of the lyric composi- 
tions of ancient Greece and of the higher ' can- 
zoni' of the Tuscan poets, uli maggiar carme e 
SKOuo,'' as it is termed in the commanding energy 
of their language. Antecedent to ' The Progress 
of Poetry,' and to ' The Bard,' no such lyrics 
had appeared. There is not an ode in the English 
language which is constructed like these two 
compositions •, with such power, such majesty, 
and such sweetness, with such proportioned 
pauses and just cadences, with such regulated 
measures of the verse, with such master principles 
of lyrical art displayed and exemplified, and, at 
the same time, with such a concealment of the 
difficulty, which is lost in the softness and unin- 
terrupted flowing of the lines in each stanza, 
with such a musical magic, that every verse in it 
in succession dwells on the ear and harmonizes 
with that which has gone before." 

8o far as the versification of Gray is con- 
cerned, I have too much pleasure in transcribing 
these sentiments of Mr. Matthias, to encumber 
them with any qualifying remarks of my own on 
that particular subject; but I dissent from him 
in his mpre general estimate of Gray's genius, 



[* For poetry in its essence, in its purest signification 
and realization. .lohn.'on had no kind of fouI. lie tried 
the creative flights of the fancy, the mid-air and heaven- 
ward .''oarings of the Muse, uy work-day-world rules : and 
that kind of ver-oe was with Uim the most eommend:ib'.e, 
v.hiuh contained tlie greatest quantity of foroiljle truth 
and reasoning elegantly and correctly set forth. The 



when he afterward speaks of it, as " second to 
none." 

In order to distinguish the positive merits of 
Gray from the loftier excellence ascribed to him 
by his editor, it is unnecessary to resort to the 
criticfsms of Dr. Johnson. Some of them may 
be just, but their general spirit is malignant and 
exaggerated. When we look to such beautiful 
passages in Gray's odes, as his Indian poet amidst 
the forests of Chili, or his prophet bard scattering 
dismay on the array of Edward and his awe- 
struck chieftains on the side of Snowdon — when 
we regard his elegant taste, not only gathering 
classical flowers from the Arno and Ilyssus, but 
revealing glimpses of barbaric grandeur amidst 
the darkness of Runic mythology — when we re- 
collect his ''tliougkis lIuU breathe, and ivords that 
burn" — his rich personifications', his broad and 
prominent images, and the crowning charm of 
his versification, we may safely pronounce that 
Johnson's critical fulminations have passed over 
his lyrical character with more noise than de- 
struction.* 

At the same time it must be recollected, that 
his beauties are rather crowded into a short com- 
pass, than numerous in their absolute sum. 'J'he 
spirit of poetry, it is true, is not to be com}iuted 
mechanically by tale or measure; and abundance 
of it may enter into a very small bulk of lan- 
guage. But neither language nor poetry are 
compressible beyond certain limits ; and the poet 
Whose thoughts have been concentrated into a 
few pages, cartnot be expected to have given a 
very full or interesting image of life in his com 
positions. A few odes, splendid, spirited, and 
harmonious, but by no means either faultless or 
replete with subjects that come home to universal 
sympathy, and an Elegy, unrivalled as it is in 
that species of composition, these achievements 
of our poet form, after all, no such extensive 



elder Warton tried a person's love for, and judgment in 
poetry, by a different standard — by his admiration of Ly- 
cidiis; nor could a better criterion be taken. 

t-peaking of the Reasoning aud the Imaginative Schools, 
Hallam Justly says that Johnson ailmiiej Dryden as much 
as he could admire any man. He seems to have read hia 
writings with the greatest attention.] 



THOMAS GRAY. 



547 



grounds of originality, as to entitle their author 
to be spoken of as in genius "second to nnne." 
He had not, like Goldsmith, the art of unbending 
from grace to levity.* Nothing can be more un- 
exhilarating than his attempts at wit and humour, 
either in his letters or lighter poetry. In his 
graver and better strains some of the most ex- 
quisite ideas are his own ; and his taste, for the 
most part, adorned, and skilfully recast, the forms 
of thought and expression which he borrowed 
from others. If his works often '< whisper whence 
they stole their balmy spoils," it is not from pla- 
giarism, but from a sensibility that sought and 
selected the finest impressions of genius from 
other gifted minds.f But still there is a higher 
appearance of culture than fertility, of acquisi- 
tion than originality, in Gray. He is not that 
heing of independent imagination, that native 
and creative spirit, of whom we should say, that 
he would have plunged into the flood of poetry 
had there been none to leap before him. Nor 
were his learned acquisitions turned to the very 
highest account. He was the architect of no 
poetical design of extensive or intricate compass. 
One noble historical picture, it must be confessed, 
he has left in the opening scene of his Bard; 
and the sequel of that ode, though it is not per- • 
haps the most interesting prophecy of English 



history which we could suppose Inspiration to 
pronounce, contains many richly poetical con 
ceptions. It is, however, exclusively in the 
opening of The Bard, that Gray can be ever 
said to have portrayed a grand, distinct, and he- 
roic scene of fiction.^ 

The obscurity so often objected to him is cer- 
tainly a defect not to be justified by the authority 
of Pindar, more than any thing else that is in- 
trinsically objectionable. But it has been exag- 
gerated. He is nowhere so obscure as not to be 
intelligilile by recurring to the passage. And it 
may be further observed, that Gray's lyrical ob- 
scurity never arises, as in some writers, from un- 
defined ideas or paradoxical sentiments. On the 
contrary, his moral spirit is as explicit as it is 
majestic; and deeply read as he was in Plato, he 
is never metaphysically perplexed. The fault of 
his meaning is to be latent, not indefinite or con- 
fused. When we give his beauties re-perusal 
and attention, they kindle and multiply to the 
view. The thread of association that conducts 
to his remote allusions, or that connects his ab- 
rupt transitions, ceases then to be invisible. His 
lyrical pieces are like paintings on glass, which 
must be placed in a strong light to give out the 
perfect radiance of their colouring. 



THE BARD: A PINDARIC ODE.? 
" Ruin seize thee, ruthless King ! 
Confusion on thy l)anners wait, 
Though fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing, 
They mock the air with idle state. 
Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail. 
Nor e'en thy virtues, 'J'yrant ! shall avail 
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears. 
From Cambria's curse, fom Cambria's tears!" — 
Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride 
Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay. 
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side 
He wound with toilsome march his long array. 
8tout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance: 
"To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch'd his 
quivering lance. 



[* Surely Gray is a sreater piet than Go'ilsmith. in their 
inilividual classes, ami Grays class of a higher order than 
Goldsmitli's. Nor i.< hvUi/ so desirable, uu.p.ss Mr. Camp- 
bell ine.ins the poet's letily : 

" From grave to gay, from Jively to severe ;" 
■which if Gray wants, Milton wants. Prior's levity and 
Goldrmi h"s liveline.^s are both proverbial.] 

[t From a memorv filed with tlie essence of universal 
fOni;, and from a mirtnist of his own powers, it, wns tli.it 
Gray composed his nio'aic-like pieces. Nature h;'d in- 
tended him to re!y on l,U own re-^ource.s, wlii h were lich 
enough to h.ave made him what he is; I ut Art gut tke 
bjiterof Natvire, and he wrote, it would seem, to exem- 
plify a line of Mar.ston and .-^liow us, 

Art above Nature. .Judgment above Art.] 

[J Gray's Elegy plea cd instantly and eternally. Ills 
Odes did not, nor do th^> yet, please like his lilegy.— 
brnoN, Wrks, \o\ v. p. 15. 

Had Gray wriiten nothing but his Elejy, hi;h as he 
stauds, I am not sure that he would not stand higher; it 



On a rock, whose haughty brow 
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flooi 
Robed in the sable garb of woe, 
With haggard eyes the poet stood ; 
(Loose his beard, and hoary hair 
Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air) 
And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire. 
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. 
" Hark, how each giant oak, and desert cave, 
Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath ! 
O'er thee, O King! their hundred arms they 

wave. 
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe ; 
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day. 
To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. 

" Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, 
That hush'd the stormy main ; 



IS the cornerstone of his glory; without it, his odes 
would be insufficient for his fame.— Uvron, WdHs, vol. 
vi. p. 5C9. 

It is v;iin to look for that period when the multitude 
will re i>h Gray s i des as they do his Elegy. They are 
above the level of ordinary comprehension.s audeveryn^ay 
tastes, in suljeit s.yle. language, and allusions; while liia 
Ele.j;y comes home to their sympathies and knowled^'e, in 
matter and in manner, '-in I'oetry it is urged,' says 
8hen-loi:e, '-thrt i lie vulgar discover the same beauties 
with tlie man of reading. Now half or more of the beau- 
ties of poetry depend on metaphf r or allusion, neiiher o' 
whi h by a mil d uncultivated, can be applied to ll.eir 
proper ccunter ) arts." Milton is less read than TIiom>oo. 
t'owiier, Kirke \\hi:e. or Bloomlield, but who would loui- 
pare tin m for a mi ment ?] 

[? Xouiided on a tiadilion current in Wales, that l"dwar> 
I., when he completed tlie conquest of that couuliy, or 
d red all the Ilaids that fell into hh hands to be nut li 
death. — Gray.] 



548 



THOMAS GRAY. 



Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy hod : 
Mountains, ye mourn in vain 
Modred, whose magic song 

Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topp'd head. 
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, 
8mear'(i with gore, and ghastly pale : 
Far, far aloof th' atiinghted ravens sail : 
The famish'd eagle screams and passes by. 
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art! 
Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, 
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, 
Ye died amidst your dying country's cries — 
No more I weep. They do not sleep. 
On yonder clifl's, a grissly band, 
I see them sit, they linger yet, 
Avengers of their native land : 
With me in dreadful harmony they join, 
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy 
line. 

" ' Weave the warp, and weave the woof. 
The winding-sheet of Edward's race. 
Give ample room, and verge enough 
The characters of hell to trace. 
Mark the year, and mark the night, 
When Severn shall re-echo with affright. 
The shrieks of death through Berkeley's roofs 

that ring ; 
Shrieks of an agonizing king ! 
She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs. 
That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate. 
From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs 
The scourge of Heaven. What terrors round 

him wait ! 
Amazement in his van, with Flight combined; 
And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. 

"'Mighty Victor, mighty Lord, 
Low on his funeral couch he lies ! 
No pitying heart, no eye aflbrd 
A tear to grace his obsequies. 
Is the sable warrior iled ] 
Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. 
Th.i swarm, that in the noon-tide beam were born? 
Gone to salute the rising morn. 
Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, 
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm 
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes; 
Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm ; 
Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's swa_^ , 
That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening 
prey. 

« ' Fill high the sparkling bowl. 
The rich repast prepare ; 
Reft of a crown, he may yet share the fea.^t : 
Close by the regal chair 
Fell thirst and Famine scowl 
A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. 
Heard ye the din of battle bray. 
Lance to lance, and horse to horse ! 
liOng years of havoc urge their destined course, 
Vnd through the kindred squadrons mow their 

way. 
Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, 
With many a foul and midnight murder fed. 
Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, 
And spare the meek usurper's holy head. 



Above, below, the rose of snow. 

Twined with her blushing foe we spread: 

The bristled boar in infant gore 

Wallows beneath the thorny shade. 

Now, brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom. 

Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. 

" 'Edward, lo ! to sudden fate 
(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.) 
Half of thy heart we consecrate, 
(The web is wove. The work is done.") 
' Stay, oh stay ! nor thus forlorn 
Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn: 
In yon bright track, that fires the western skies. 
They melt, they vanish from my eyes. 
But oh ! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height 
Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll 1 
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight ! 
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul ! 
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. 
All hail, ye genuine kiijgs; Britannia's issue, hail! 

" Girt with many a baron bold, 
Sublime their starry fronts they rear; 
And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old 
In bearded majesty appear. 
In the midst a form divine! 
Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line; 
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, 
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace. 
What strings symphonious tremble in the air ! 
What strains of vocal trr.isport round her play! 
Hear from the grave, gr^at Taliessin, hear; 
They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. 
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings. 
Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colour'd 

wings. 
" The verse adorn again 
Fierce War, and faithful Love, 
And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest. 
In buskin'd measures move 
Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, 
With Horror, tyratvt of the throbbing breast. 
A .'oice, as of the >:herub-choir, 
Ga'es from bloom 'jig Eden bear; 
Aiid distant warbl/.ngs lessen on my ear. 
That lost in long ■♦'uturity expire. 
Fond, impious me n, think'st thou yon sanguine 

cloud, • 

Raised by thy breith, has quench'd the orb of 
To-morrow he rep; irs the golden flood, [day 1 
And warms the nations with redoubled ray. 
Enough for me : with joy I see 
The different doom our fates assign. 
Be thine despair, ai. .1 sceptr'd care ; 
To triumph, 'and to die, are mine." [height 

He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's 
Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless 

night. 



TIIE ALLIANCE OF EDUCATION AND GOVERNMENT 

A FRAGMENT. 

As sickly plants betray a niggard earth. 
Whose barren bosom starves her gen'rous birtL 



THOMAS GRAY. 



541 



Nor genial warmth, nor genial juice retains 
Their roots to feed, and fill their verdant veins: 
And as in dimes, where winter holds his reign, 
The soil, though fertile, will not teem in vain, 
Forbids her germs to swell, her shades to rise, 
Nor trusts her blossoms to the churlish skies ; 
To draw mankind in vain the vital airs, 
Unform'd, unfriended, by those kindly cares, 
'I'hat health and vigour to the soul impart. 
Spread the young thought, and warm the opening 

heart : 
So fond instruction on the growing powers 
Of nature idly lavishes her stores. 
If equal justice, with unclouded face, 
Smile not indulgent on the rising race. 
And scatter with a free, though frugal hand, 
Light golden showers of plenty o'er the land : 
But tyranny has fix'd her empire there, 
To check their tender hopes with chilling fear, 
And blast the blooming promise of the year. 

This spacious animated scene survey. 
From where the rolling orb, that gives the day, 
His sable sons with nearer course surrounds, 
To either pole, and life's remotest bounds. 
How rude soe'er th' exterior form we find, 
Howe'er opinion tinge the varied mind, 
Alike to all the kind, impartial heav'n 
The sparks of truth and happiness has giv'n : 
With sense to feel, with memory to retain. 
They follow pleasure, and they fly from pain; 
Their judgment mends the plan their fancy draws, 
Th' event presages, and explores the cause; 
The soft returns of gratitude they know. 
By fraud elude, by force repel the {oe; 
While mutual wishes, mutual woes endear 
The social smile and sympathetic tear. 

Say, then, through ages by what fate confin'd 
To diti'erent climes seem different souls assign'd] 
Here measured laws and philosophic ease 
Fix, and improve the poLsh'd arts of peace. 
There industry and gain their vigils keep, 
Command the winds, and tuine th' unwilling deep. 
Here force and hardy deeds of blood prevail ; 
There languid pleasure sighs in every gale. 
Oft o'er the trembling nations from afar 
Has Scythia breath'd the living cloud of war; 
And, where the deluge burst, with sweepy sway, 
Their arms, their kings, their gods were roU'J 

away. 
As oft have issued, host impelling host. 
The blue-eyed myriads from the Baltic coast. 
The prostrate south to the destroyer yields 
Her boasted titles, and her gol.len fields; 
With grim delight the brood of winter view 
A brighter day, and heavens of azure hue, 
Scent the new fragrance of the breathing rose, 
And quaff the pendent vintage as it grows. 
Proud of the yoke, and pliant to the rod, 
Why yet does Asia dread a monarch's nod, 
Whde European freedom still withstands 
Th' encroaching tide, that drowns her lessening 
And sees far off with an indignant groan [lands, 
Her native plains, and empires once her own] 
Can opener skies and sons of fiercer flame 
O'erpower the fire that animates our frame ; 



As lamps, that shed at eve a cheerful ray. 
Fade and expire beneath the eye of day? 
Need we the influence of the northern star 
To string our nerves and steel our hearts to war ! 
And, where the face of nature laughs around, 
Must sick'ning virtue fly the tainted ground 7 
Unmanly thought ! what seasons can control, 
What fancied zone can circumscribe the soul. 
Who, conscious of the source from whence she 

springs. 
By reason's light, on resolution's wings, 
Spite of her frail companion, dauntless goes 
O'er Libya's deserts and through Zcmbla's snows ■* 
She bids each slumb'ring energy awake, 
Another touch, another temper take, 
Suspends th' inferior laws, that rule our clay : 
The stubborn elements confess her sway ; 
Their little wants, their low desires, refine, 
And raise the mortal to a height divine. 

Not but the human fabric from the birth 
Imbibes a flavour of its parent earth. 
As various tracts enforce a various toil. 
The manners speak the idiom of their soil. 
An iron-race the mountain-cliffs maintain. 
Foes to the gentler genius of the plain : 
For where unwearied sinews must be found 
With side-long plough to quell the flinty ground 
To turn the torrent's swift-descending flood, 
To brave the savage rushing from the wood, 
What wonder, if to patient valour train'd. 
They guard with spirit, what by strength they 

gain'd 1 
And while their rocky ramparts round they see, 
The rough abode of want and liberty, 
(As lawless force from confidence will grow) 
Insult the plenty of the vales below ? 
What wonder, in the sultry climes, that spread. 
Where Nile redundant o'er his summer bed 
From his broad bosom life and verdure flings. 
And broods o'er Egypt with his wat'ry wings. 
If with advent'rous oar and ready sail. 
The dusky people drive before the gale ; 
Or on frail floats to neigh'bring cities ride 
That rise and glitter o'er the ambient tide. 



ON VICISSITUDE. 

Now the golden morn aloft 

Waves her dew-bespangled wing, 

With vermil cheek, and whisper soft, 

She woos the tardy spring: 

Till April starts, and calls around 

The sleeping fragrance tVom the ground 

And lightly o'er the living scene 

Scatters his freshest, tenderest green. 

New-born flocks, in rustic dance, 
Frisking ply their feeiile feet; 
Forgetful of their wint'ry trance 
The birds his presence greet : 
But chief the sky-lark warbles high 
His trembling thrilling ecstasy , 
And. lessening from the dazzled sight. 
Melts into air and liquid light. 



550 



THOMAS GRAY. 



Yesterday the sullen year 
Saw the snowy whirlwind fly; 
Mute was the music of the air, 
The herd stood drooping by : 
Their raptures now that wildly flow, 
No yesterday, nor morrow know ; 
'Tis man alone that joy descries 
With forward and reverted eyes. 

Smiles on past misfortune's brow, 
Soft reflection's hand can trace; 
And o'er the cheek of sorrow throw 
A melancholy grace: 
"While hope prolongs our happier hour; 
Or deepest shades, that dimly lower 
And blacken round our weary way, 
Gilds with a gleam of distant day. 

Still, where rosy pleasure leads. 
See a kindred grief pursue; 
Behind the steps that misery treads 
Approaching comfort view: 
The hues of bliss more brightly glow. 
Chastised by sabler tints of woe; 
And blended form, with artful strife, 
The strength and harmony of life. 

See the wr«tch, that long has tost 
On the thorny bed of pain, 
At length repair his vigour lost, 
And breathe, and walk again : 
The meanest floweret of the v;ile, 
The simplest note that swells the gale, 
The common sun, the air, the skies. 
To him are opening Paradise. 

Humble Quiet builds her cell 
Near the course where pleasure flows ; 
She eyes the clear crystalline well. 
And tastes it as it goes. 



CHE TRAGEDY OF "AGRIPPINA," A FRAGMENT. 

ACT I. SCENE I. 

PersOTis — AoKiPPiNA the. Empress-mother, and Aceronia 
her Confidaute. 
Jlgrip. 'Tis well, begone ! your errand is per- 
form'd : [Speaks as to Anicetus entei-inr/. 

The message needs no comment. Tell your master. 
His mother shall obey him. Say you saw her 
Yielding due reverence to his high command : 
Alone, unguarded, and without a lictor. 
As fits the daughter of Germanicus. 
Say, she retired to Antium; there to tend 
Her household cares, a woman's best employment. 
W hat if you add, how she turn'd pale, and 

trembled ; 
Yon think you spied a tear stand in her eye, 
And would have dropp'd, but that her pride re- 

strain'd it 1 
(Go ! you can paint it well) 'twill profit you. 
And please the stripling. Yet 'twould dash his joy 
To hear the spirit of Britannicus 
Yet walks on earth; at least there are who know 



Without a spell to raise, and bid it fire 
A thousand haughty hearts, unused to shake 
When a boy frowns, nor to be lured with smiles 
To taste of hollow kindness, or partake 
His hospitable board : They ate aware 
Of th' unpledged bowl, they love not aconite. 
Acer. He's gone ; and much I hope these walls 
alone. 
And the mute air are privy to your passion. 
Forgive your servant's fears, who sees the danger 
Which fierce resentment cannot fail to raise 
In haughty youth, and irritated power. 

Jgrip. And dost thou talk to me, to me of 
danger. 
Of haughty youth, and irritated power. 
To her that gave it being, her that arm'd 
This painted Jove, and taught his novice hand 
To aim tlie forked bolt ; whilst he stood trembling. 
Scared at the sound, and dazzled with its bright- 
ness ? 
'Tis like thou hast forgot, when yet a stranger 
To adoration, to the grateful steam 
Of flattery's incense, and obsequious vows 
From voluntary realms, a puny boy, 
Deck'd with no other lustre than the blood 
Of Agrippina's race, he lived unknown 
To fame or fortune; haply eyed at distance 
Some edileship, ambitious of the power 
To judge of weights and measures; scarcely dared 
On expectation's strongest wing to soar 
High as the consulate, that empty shade 
Of long forgotten liberty : When I 
Oped hisyoungeye to bear the blaze of greatness; 
Show'd him where empire tower'd, and bade him 

strike 
The noble quarry. Gods! then was the time 
To shrink from danger; fear might then have 

worn 
The mask of prudence : but a heart like mine, 
A heart that glows with the ])ure Julian fire. 
If bright ambition from her craggy seat 
Display the radiant prize, will mount undaunted. 
Gain the rough heights, and grasp the dangerous 
honour. 
Acer. Through various life I have pursued your 
steps, 
Have seen your soul, and wonder'd at its daring; 
Hence rise my fears. Nor am I yet to learn 
How vast the debt of gratitude, which Nero 
I'osuch a mother owes; the world, you gave him. 
Suffices not to pay the obligation. 
I well remember too (for I was present) 
When in a secret and dead hour of night. 
Due sacrifice perform'd with barbarous rites 
Of mutter'd charms, and solemn invocation. 
You b.ide the magi call the dreadful powers, 
That read futurity, to know the fate 
Impending o'er your son : Their answer was, 
If the son reign, the mother perishes. 
Perish (you cried) the mother! reign the son! 
He reigns; the rest is heaven's ; who oft has liade, 
Even when its will seein'd wrote in lines of blood, 
Th' unthought event disclose a whiter meaning. 
Think too how oft in weak and sickly minds 
The sweets of kindness lavishly indulged 



THOMAS GRAY. 



551 



Rankle to gall; and benefits too great 
To be repaid, sit heavy on the soul, 
As unrequited wrongs. Tl\e willing homage 
Of prostrate Rome, the senate's joint applause, 
The riches of the earth, the train of pleasures, 
That wait on youth, and arbitrary sway ; 
These were your gift, and with them you bcstow'd 
The very power he has to be ungrateful. 

Jgnp. Thus ever grave, and undisturb'd re- 
flection 
Pours its cool dictates in the madding ear 
Of rage, and thinks to quench the fire it feels not. 
Say'st thou I must be cautious, must be silent 
And tremble at the phantom I have raised] 
Carry to him thy timid counsels. He 
Perchance may heed 'em: Tell him too, that one, 
Who had such liberal power to give, may still 
Witli equal power resume that gift, and raise 
A tempest that shall shake her own creation 
To its original atoms — tell me ! say. 
This mighty emperor, this dreaded hero, 
Has he beheld the glittering front of war ? 
Knows his soft ear the trumpet's thrilling voice, 
And outcry of the battle] Have his limbs 
Sweat under iron harness ] Is he not 
The silken son of dalliance, nurseil in ease 
And pleasure's flowery lap] — Rubellius lives, 
And Sylla has his friends, though school'd by fear 
To bow the supple knee, and court the times 
With shows of fair obeisance: and a call, 
liike mine, might serve belike to wake pretensions 
Drowsier than theirs, who boast the genuine blood 
Of our imperial house. 

^ce?: Did I not wish to check this dangerous 
passion, 
I might remind my mistress that her nod 
Can rouse eight hardy legions, wont to stem 
With stuliborn nerves the tide, and face the rigour 
Of bleak Germania's snows. Four, not less brave, 
That in Armenia quell the Parthian force 
Under the warlike Corbulo, by you 
Mark'd for their leader : These, by ties confirm'd. 
Of old respect and gratitude, are yours. 
Surely the Masians too, and those of Egypt, 
Have not forgot your sire: The eye of Rome 
And the prffitorian camp have long revered, 
With cu&tom'd awe, the daughter, sister, wife, 
And mother of their CsBsars. 

./igrip. Ha! by Juno, 
It bears a noble semblance. On this base 
My great revenge shall rise ; or say we sound 
The tiump of liberty ; there will not want, 
Even in the servile senate, ears to own 
Her spirit-stirring voice ; Soranus there, 
And Cassius: Vetus too, and Thrasea, 
Minds of the antique cast, rough stubborn souls, 
That struggle with the yoke. How shall the spark 
Unquenchable, that glows within their breasts, 
Blaze into freedom, when the idle herd 
(Slaves from the womb, created but to stare, 
And bellow in the Circus) yet will start, 
And shake em' at the name of liberty. 
Stung by a senseless word, a vain tradition. 
As there were magic in it] wrinkled beldams »^ 
Teach it their grandchildren, as somewhat rare 



That anciently appear'd, but when, extends 

Beyond their chronicle — oh ! 'tis a cause 

To arm the hand of childhood, and rebrace 

The slacken'd sinews of time-wearied age. 

Yes, we may meet, ingrateful boy, we may ! 

Again the buried genius of old Rome 

Shall from the dust uprear his reverend head. 

Roused by the shout of millions : There before 

His high tribunal thou and I appear. 

Let majesty sit on thy awful brow. 

And lighten from thy eye: Around thee call 

The gilded swarm that wantons in the sunshine 

Of thy full favour: t^eneca be there 

In gorgeous phrase of labour'd eloquence 

To dress thy plea, and Burrhus strengthen it 

With his plain soldier's oath, and honest seeming 

Against thee, liberty and Agrippina: 

The world, the prize ; and fair befall the victors. 

But soft! why do I waste the fruitless hours 

In threats unexecuted ] Haste thee, fly 

These hated walls, that seem to mock my shame, 

And cast me forth in duty to their lord. 

Jeer. 'Tis time we go, the sun is high advanced, 
And, ere mid-day, Nero will come to Baiae. 

Jlgrip. My thought aches at him ; not the basilisk 
More deadly to the sight, than is to me 
The cool injurious eye of frozen kindness. 
I will not meet its poison. Let him feel 
Before he sees me. 

Acer. Why then stays my sovereign, 
Where he so soon may 

Jlgrip. Yes, I will be gone, 

But not to Antium — all shall be confess'd, 
Whate'er the frivolous tongue of giddy fame 
Has spread among the crowd ; things that but 

whisper'd, 
Have arch'd the hearer's brow, and riveted 
His eyes in fearful ecstasy : No matter 
What; so't be strange, and dreadful. — Sorceries, 
AssassinaJ:ions, poisonings — the deeper 
My guilt, the blacker his ingratitude. 
And you, ye manes of ambition's victims. 
Enshrined Claudius, with the pitied ghosts 
Of the Syllani, doom'd to early death, 
(Ye unavailing horrors, fruitless crimes !) 
If from the realms of night my voice ye hear, 
In lieu of penitence, and vain remorse. 
Accept my vengeance. Though by me ye bled. 
He was the cause. My love, my fears for him. 
Dried the soft springs of pity in my heart, 
And froze them up with deadly cruelty. 
Yet if your injured shades demand my fate, 
If murder cries for murder, blood for blood. 
Let me not fall alone ; but crush his pride. 
And sink the traitor in his mother's ruin. 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE n. 

Otho. Popp^a. 

Olho. Thus far we're safe. Thanks to th** 
rosy queen 
Of amorous thefts : And had her wanton son 
Lent us his wings, we could not have beguiled 



b52 



CUTHBERT SHAW. 



With more elusive speed the dazzled sight 
Of wakeful jealousy. Be gay securely : 
Dispel, my fair, with smiles, the tim'rous cloud 
That liangs on thy clear brow. So Helen look'd, 
So her white neck reclined, so was she borne 



By the-j'oung Trojan to his gilded bark 
With fond reluctance, yielding modesty. 
And oft reverted eye, as if she knew not 
Whether she fear'd, or wish'd to be pursued. 



CUTHBERT SHAW. 



[Born, 1738. Died, 1771.] 



CuTHBERT Shaw was the son of a shoemaker, 
and was born at Ravensworth, near Richmond, 
in Yorkshire. He was for some time usher to 
the grammar-school at Darlington, where he 
published, in 1756, his first poem, entitled 
'• Liberty." He afterward appeared in London 
and other places as a player ; but having no re- 
commendations for the stage, except a handsome 
figure, he betook himself to writing for subsist- 
ence. In 1762 he attacked Colman, Churchill, 
Lloyd, and Shirley, in a satire, called " The Four 
Farthing Candles;"* and next selected the au- 
thor of the Rosciad as the exclusive subject of a 
mock-heroic poem, entitled, "The Race, by Mer- 
curius Spur, with Notes by Faustinus Scriblerus." 
He had, for some time, the care of instructing 
an infant son of the Earl of Chesterfield in the 
first rudi^nents of learning. He married a wo- 



man of superior connections, who, for his sake, 
forfeited the countenance of her family ; but who 
did not live long to share his affections and mis- 
fortunes. Her death, in 1768, and that of their 
infant, occasioned those well-known verses which 
give an interest to his memory. Lord liyttleton, 
struck by their feeling expres^ion of a grief simi- 
lar to his own, solicited his acquaintance, and 
distinguished him by his praise ; but rendered 
him no substantial assistance. The short re- 
mainder of his days was spent in literary 
drudgery. He wrote a satire on political corrup- 
tion, with many other articles, which appeared 
in the Freeholder's Magazine. Disease and dis- 
sipation carried him off in the prime of life, 
after the former had left irretrievable marks of 
its ravages upon his countenance. 



FROM " A MONODY TO THE MEMORY OF HIS 
WIFE." 
* * * Where'er I turn my eyes, 

Some sad memento of my loss appears; 
I fly the fated house — suppress my sighs. 
Resolved to dry my unavailing tears: 

But, ah ! in vain — no change of timeor place 
The memory can efface 
Of all that sweetness, that enchanting air. 
Now lost; and nought remains but anguish and 
despair. 

Where were the delegates of Heaven, oh where! 

App'^inted virtue's children safe to keep! 
Had innocence or virtue been their care. 

She had not died, nor had I lived to weep ; 
Moved by my tears, and by her patience moved, 
To see her force the endearing smile. 
My sorrows to beguile. 
When torture's keenest rage she proved ; 
Sure they had warded that untimely dart. 
Which broke her thread of life, and rent a hus- 
band's heart. 

How shall I e'er forget that dreadful hour, 
When, fr-eling death's resistless power, 
My hand she press'd, wet with her falling tears, 
And thus, in faltering accents, spoke her fears ! 
" Ah, my loved lord, the transient scene is o'er. 
And we must part (alas !) to meet no more ! 

[* A poem of which no copy is known to exist.] 



But, oh ! if e'er thy Emma's name was dear, 
If e'er thy vows have charm'd my ravish'd ear! 
If from thy loved embrace my heart to gain. 
Proud friends have frown'd, and fortune smiled in 
If it has been my sole endeavour still [vain; 

To act in all obsequious to thy will ; 
To watch thy very smiles, thy wish to know, 
Then only truly blest when thou wert so; 
If I have doated with that fond excess. 
Nor love could add, nor fortune make it less; 
If this I've done, and more — oh then be kind 
To the dear lovely babe I leave behind. 
When lime my once-loved memory shall efface. 
Some happier maid may take thy Emma's place, 
With envious eyes thy partial fondness see. 
And hate it for the love thou bore to me : 
My dearest Shaw, forgive a woman's fears. 
But one word more, (I cannot bear thy tears,) 

Promise and I will trust thy faithful vow, 

(Oft have I tried, and ever found thee true,) 
That to some distant spot thou wilt remove • 
This fatal pledge of hapless Emma's love. 
Where safe thy blandishments it may partake. 
And, oh ! be lender for its mother's sake. 

Wilt thou 

I know thou wilt — sad silence speaks assent. 
And in that pleasinghopethy Emma dies content." 

I, who with more than manly strength have bore 
The various ills imposed by cruel fate, 

Sustain the firmness of my soul no more — 
But sink beneath the weight: 



CUTHBERT SHAW. 



65a 



Just Heaven (I cried) from memory's earliest day 
No coint'ort has thy wretched suppliant known, 
Misfortune still with unrelenting sway 
Has claim'd me for her own. 

But O in pity to my grief, restore 

Phis only source of bliss; I ask — I ask no more — 
Vain hope — th' irrevocable doom is past. 

Even now she looks — she sighs her last 

Vainly I strive to stay her fleeting breath, 
And with rebellious heart, protest against her 
death. 

* * * * 

Perhaps kind Heaven in mercy dealt the blow, 

Some saving truth thy roving soul to teach ; 
To wean thy heart from grovelling views below, 

And point out bliss beyond misfortune's reach ; 
To show that all the flattering schemes of joy. 

Which towering hope so fondly builds in air, 
One fatal moment can destroy, 

And plunge th' exulting maniac in despair. 
Then oh ! with pious fortitude sustain 
Thy pre-ent loss — haply, thy future gain; 

Nor let thy Emma die in vain ; 
Time shall administer its wonted balm. 
And hush this storm of grief to no unpleasing calm. 

Thus the poor bird, by some disastrous fate 

Caught and imprison'd in a lonely cage. 
Torn from its native fields, and dearer mate, 

Flutters a while and spends its little rage: 
But. finding all its effbrts weak and vain. 

No more it pants and rages for the plain ; 
Moping a while, in sullen mood 

Droops the sweet mourner — but, ere long, 
Prunes its light wings, and pecks its food. 

And meditates the song: 
Serenely sorrowing, breathes its piteous case, 

And with its plaintive warblings saddens all 
the place. 

Forgive me, Heaven — yet — ^yet the tears will flow, 

To think how soon my scene of bliss is past! 
My budding joys just promising to blow. 

All nipt and wither'd by one envious blast! 
My hours, that laughing wont to fleet away, 
Move heavily along ; 
\\ here's now the sprightly jest, the jocund 

Time creeps unconscious of delight: [song. 
How shall I cheat the tedious day ] 

And O the joyless night ! 

Where shall I rest my weary head T 

How shall I find repose on a sad widow'd bed ] 

* * * * 

iSickness and sorrow hovering round my bed. 
Who now with anxious haste shall bring relief, 

With lenient hand support my drooping head. 
Assuage my pains, and mitigate my grief] 
70 



Should worldly business call away. 

Who now shall in my absence fondly mourn. 

Count every minute of the loitering day, 
Impatient for my quick return 1 

Should aught my bosom decompose. 
Who now with sweet complacent air 
Shall smooth the rugged brow of care. 
And soften all my woesi 

Too faithful memory Cease, O cease 

How shall I e'er regain my peace 1 

(0 to forget her!) — but how vain each art. 

Whilst every virtue lives imprinted on my heart. 

And thou, my little cherub, left behind, 

To hear a father's plaints, to share his woes. 

When reason's dawn informs thy infant mind. 

And thy sweet-lisping tongue shall ask the cause, 

How oft with sorrow shall mine eyes run o'er, 
When twining round my knees I trace 
Thy mother's smile upon thy face? 

How oft to my full heart shalt thou restore 

Sad memory of my joys — ah now no more ! 

By blessings once enjoy'd now more distress'd. 

More beggar by the riches once possess'd. 

My little darling ! dearer to me grown 

By all the tears thou'st caused — (O strange to 
hear !) 

Bought with a life yet dearer than thy own, 
Thy cradle purchased with thy mother's bier ! 
Who now shall seek, with fond delight, 
Thy infant steps to guide aright ] 
She who with doating eyes would gaze 
On all thy little artless ways, 
By all thy soft endearments blest. 

And clasp thee oft with transport to her breast, 

Alas ! is gone ^yet shalt thou prove 

A father's dearest, tenderest love; 

And oh sweet senseless smiler (envied state !) 

As yet unconscious of thy hapless fate, 

When years thy judgment shall mature. 

And reason shows those ills it cannot cure. 
Wilt thou, a father's grief to assuage, 

For virtue prove the phoenix of the earth ? 

(Like her, thy mother died to give thee birth) 
And be the comfort of my age ! 

When sick and languishing I lie. 

Wilt thou my Emma's wonted care supply? 

And oft as to thy listening ear 
Thy mother's virtues and her tate I tell. 

Say, wilt thou drop the tender tear, 
Whilst on the mournful theme I dwell 1 
Then, fondly stealing to thy father's side. 

Whene'er thou see'st the soft distress. 
Which I would vainly seek to hide, 

Say, wilt thou strive to make it less 1 
To soothe my sorrows all thy cares employ. 
And in my cup of grief infuse one drop of joy? 
2\V 



TOBIAS SMOLLETT. 



[Born, 1721. Died, 1771.] 



Tobias Smollett was the grandson of Sir 
James Smollett, of Bonhill, a member of the 
Scottish parliament, and one of the commission- 
ers for the Union. The father of the novelhst 
was a younger son of the knight, and had mar- 
ried without his consent. He died in the prime 
of life, and left his children dependent on their 
grandfather. Were we to trust to Roderick Ran- 
dom's account of his relations, for authentic 
portraits of the author's family, we should 
entertain no very prepossessing idea of the old 
gentleman ; but it appears that Sir James Smol- 
lett supported his son, and educated his grand- 
children. 

Smollett was born near Renton, in the parish 
of Cardross, and shire of Dumbarton, and passed 
his earliest years among those scenes on the 
banks of the Leven, which he has described with 
some interest in the Adventures of Humphrey 
Clinker. He received his first instructions in 
classical learning at the school of Dumbarton. 
He was afterward removed to the college of 
Glasgow, where he pursued the study of medi- 
cine; and, according to the practice then usual 
in medical education, was bound apprentice to a 
Mr. Gordon, a surgeon in that city. Gordon is 
generolly said to have been the original of Potion 
in Roderick Random. This has been denied by 
Smollett's biographers ; but their conjecture is of 
no more weight than the tradition which it con- 
tradicts. In the characters of a work, so com- 
pounded of truth and fiction, the author alone 
could have estimated the personality which he 
intended, and of that intention he was not pro- 
bably communicative. The tradition stdl remain- 
ing at Glasgow, is, that Smollett was a restive 
apprentice, and a mischievous strippling. While 
at the university he cultivated the study of lite- 
rature, as well as of medicine, and showed a dis- 
position for poetry, but very often in that bitter 
vein of satire wjiich he carried so plentifully into 
the temper of his future years. He had also, be- 
fore he was eighteen, composed a tragedy, entitled 
" The Regicide." 'J'his tragedy was not published 
till after the lapse of ten years, and then it pro- 
bably retained but little of its juvende shape. 
When printed, "to shame the rogues," it was 
ushered in by a preface, abusing the stage-mana- 
gers, who had rejected it, in a strain of indigna- 
tion with which the perusal of the play itself did 
not dispose the reader to sympathize. 

The death of his grandfather left Smollett 
without provision, and obliged him to leave his 
studies at Glasgow prematurely. He came to 
London, and obtained the situation of a surgeon's 
mate on board a ship of the line, which sailed in 
the unfortunate expedition to Carthagena. The 
strong picture of the discomforts of his naval life, 
5oi 



which he afterward drew, is said to have atrracted 
considerable attention to the internal economy 
of our ships of war, and to have occasioned the 
commencement of some salutary reformations. 
But with all the improvements which have been 
made, it is to be feared that the situation of an 
assistant surgeon in the navy is still less respect- 
able and comfortable than it ought to be made. 
He is still without equal advantages to those of 
a surgeon's mate in the army, and is put too low 
in the rank of officers. • 

Smollett quitted the naval service in the West 
Indies, and resided for some time in Jamaica. 
He returned to London in 1746, and in the fol- 
lowing year n)arried a Miss Lascelles, whom he 
had courted in Jamaica, and with whom he had 
the promise of 3000/. Of this sum, however, he 
obtained but a small part, and that after an ex- 
pensive lawsuit. Being obliged therefore to have 
recourse to his pen for his support, he, in 1748, 
published his Roderick Random, the most popular 
of all the novels on which his high reputation 
rests. Three years elapsed before the appear- 
ance of Peregrine Pickle. In the interval he 
had visited Paris, where his biographer. Dr. 
Moore, who knew him there, says that he in- 
dulged in the common prejudices of the English 
against the French nation, and never attained 
the language so perfectly as to be able to mix 
familiarly with the inhabitants. When we look 
to the rich traits of comic eliect, which his Eng- 
lish characters derive from transferring the scene 
to France, we can neither regard his journey as 
of slii;ht utility to his powers of amusement, nor 
regret that he attended more to the follies of his 
countrymen than to French manners and phrase- 
ology. After the publication of Peregrine Pickle 
he attempted to establish himself at Bath as a 
physician, but was not successful. His failure, 
has been attributed to the haughtiness of his 
manners. It is not very apparent, however, what 
claims to medical estimation he could advance; 
and the celebrity for aggravating and exposing 
personal follies, which he had acquired by his 
novels, was rather too formidable to recomuiend 
him as a confidential visitant to the sick cham- 
bers of fashion. To a sensitive valetudinarian 
many diseases would be less alarming than a 
doctor, who might slay the character by his ridi- 
cule, and might not save the body by his pre- 
scriptions. 

Returning disappointed from Bath, he fixed 
his residence at Chelsea, and supported himself 
during the rest of his life by his literary employ- 
ments. The manner in which he lived at Chel- 
sea, and the hospitality which he afforded to 
many of his poorer brethren of the tribe of litera- 
ture, have been somewhat ostentatiously descnoed 



TOBIAS SMOLLETT. 



555 



by his own pen ;* but Dr. Moore assures us, that 
the account of his lil)erality is not overcharged. 
In 1753 he produced his novel of "Count Fath- 
om;" and three years afterward, whilst confined 
in prison, for a hbel on Admiral Knowles, amused 
himself with writing the "Adventures of Sir 
Iiauncelot Greaves." In the following year he 
attempted the stage in a farce, entitled the "Re- 
prisals," which, though of no great value, met 
with temporary success. Prolific as his pen was, 
he seems from this period to have felt that he 
could depend for subsistence more securely upon 
works of industry than originality; and he en- 
gaged in voluminous drudgeries, which added 
nothing to his fame, whilst they made inroads on 
his health and equanimity. His conduct of the 
Critical Review, in particular, embroiled him in 
ramorous personalities, and brought forward the 
least agreeable parts of his character. He sup- 
ported the ministry of Lord Bute with his pen, 
but missed the reward which he expected, 'l^hough 
he had realized large sums by several of hisworks, 
he saw the evening of his life approach, with no 
provision in prospect, but what he could receive 
from severe and continued labours ; and with 
him, that evening might be said to approach 
prematurely, for his constitution seems to have 
begun to break down when he was not much 
turned of forty. The death of his only daughter 
obliged him to seek relief from sickness and 
melancholy by travelling abroad for two years ; 
and the Account of his Travels in France and 



Italy, which he published on his return, afforded 
a dreary picture of the state of his mind. Soon 
I after his return from the Continent, his health 
still decaying, he made a journey to Scotland, 
j and renewed his attachment to his friends and 
relations. His constitution again requiring a 
' more genial climate, and as he could ill support 
i the expense of travelling, his friends tried, in 
1 vain, to obtain for him from ministers, the situa- 
; tion of consul at Nice, Naples, or Leghorn. 
Smollett had written both for and against minis- 
ters, perhaps not always from independent mo- 
tives ; but to find the man, whose genius has 
I given exhilaration to millions, thus reduced to 
^ beg, and to be refused the means that might have 
smoothed the pillow of his death-bed in a foreign 
! country, is a circumstance which fills the mind 
rather too strongly with the recollection of Cer- 
vantes. He set out, however, for Italy in 1770, 
and, though debilitated in body, was able to com- 
pose his novel of "Humphrey Clinker." After 
a few months' residence in the neighbourliood 
of Leghorn,- he expired there, in his fifty-first 
year.f 

The few poems which he has left have a por- 
tion of delicacy which is not to be found in his 
novels : but they have not, like those prose fic- 
tions, the strength of a master's hand. Were 
he to live over again, we might wish him to write 
more poetry, in the belief that his poetical talent 
would improve by exercise; but we should be 
glad to have more of his novels just as they are.J 



THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND. 
Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn 
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn! 
Thy sons, for valour long renown'd. 
Lie slaughter'd on their native ground; • 
Thy hospitable roofs no more 
Invite the stranger to. the door; 
In smoky ruins sunk they lie, 
The monuments of cruelty. 

The wretched owner sees afar 
His all become the prey of war; 
Bethinks him of his babes and wife, 
Then smites his breast, and curses life. 
Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks. 
Where once they fed their wanton flocks; 
Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain; 
Thy infants perish on the plain. 

What boots it then, in every clime. 
Through the wide-spreading waste of time, 
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise, 
tstill shone with undiminish'd blaze ? 



Thy tow'ring spirit now is broke. 
Thy neck is bended to the yoke. 
What foreign arms could never quell. 
By civil rage and rancour fell. 

The rural pipe and merry lay 
No more shall cheer the happy day ■ 
No social scenes of gay delight 
Beguile the dreary winter night: 
No strains but those of sorrow flow, 
And nought he heard but sounds of woe, 
While the pale phantoms of the slain 
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain. 

Oh baneful cause, oh fatal morn, 
Accursed to ages yet unborn! 
The sons against their father stood, 
The parent shed his children's blood. 
Yet, wiien the rage of battle ceased, 
The victor's soul was not appeased: 
The naked and forlorn must feel 
Devouring flames, and murd'ring steel ! 

The pious mother, doom'd to death. 
Forsaken wanders o'er the heath. 



l"- In IIuin]ihrey CUnUer.] 

It Kiel. lint;- (ind Smollett wpiit abT-ond for health — but 
nliriiail to die — t!ie one at Lisl On, Ihe other at Jje^hnrn. 
Si^ir W a tiT Scott, who wrote (heir lives, was i^lpre^^i^ed 
with tlu'ir fites; souiht in vain'fnr heath where Ihey had 
soughl it, bul lived tj return, to relapse, and to die. There 



5s something melancholy in the similarity of their stories 
toward the close.] 

[t Thi.- piissaue is quoted by Sir Walter Scott in his Sle- 
moir of Smollett. " The truth is," he : dds, '■ th:il in these 
very novels are expended many of the ingredients bcitli 
of grave and humorous poetry." Misc. VH/rti-, vol.iii.p.lTO. | 



656 



TOBIAS SMOLLETT. 



The bleak wind whistles round her head, 
Her helpless orphans cry for bread ; 
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend, 
She views the shades of night descend ; 
And stretch'd beneath the inclement skies, 
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies. 

While the warm blood bedews my veins, 
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns, 
Resentment of my country's fate 
Within my filial breast shall beat ; 
And, spite of her insulting foe, 
My sympathizing verse shall flow: 
Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn 
Thy bahish'd peace, thy laurels torn.* 



ODE TO LEVEX-WATER. 

On Leven's banks, while fvee to rove, 
And tune the rural pipe to love, 
I envied not the happiest swain 
That ever trod the Arcadian plain. 

Pure stream, in whose transparent wave 
My youthful limbs I wont to lave; 
INo torrents stain thy limpid source ; 
No rocks impede thy dimpling course, 
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed, 
With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread; 
While, lightly poised, the scaly brood 
In myriads cleave thy crystal flood ; 
The springing trout in speckled pride; 
The salmon, monarch of the tide ; 
The ruthless pike, intent on war; 
The silver eel, and mottled par. 
Devolving from thy parent lake, 
A charming maze thy waters make. 
By bovvers of birch, and groves of pine, 
And edges flower'd with eglantine. 

Still on thy banks so gaily green, 
May numerous herds and flocks be seen. 
And lasses chaunting o'er the pail. 
And shepherds piping in the dale, 
And ancient faith that knows no guile. 
And industry embrown'd with toil, 
And hearts resolved, and hands prepared. 
The blessings they enjoy to guard. 



ODE TO INDEPENDENCE. 

STROPHE. 

Thy spirit. Independence, let me share, 
Lord of the lion-heart and eagle-eye, 
'J'hy steps I follow with my bosom bare, 
IVor heed the storm that howls along the sky.f 
Deep in the frozen regions of the North, 
A goddess violated brought thee forth, 
Imniortal Liberty, whose look suidime [clime. 
Hath bleach'd the tyrant's cheek in every varying 



[* This Ode by Dr. Smollett, does raher more honour to 
tlio !iu hir's feelinirs thanhi>t;i-te. 'Ihi'meihanioal part. 
Willi regard to num'iers and lan.^uaga i-< not so perfect as 
SI. fhoit a work as this n'quircs; liut the pathetic it pon- 
t:uns. particularly in the last stanza but oue,i^ exquisitely 

fine., -UOLJJSMITH.j 



What time the iron-hearfed Gaul 

With frantic superstition for his guide, 

Arm'd with the dagger and the pall. 

The sons of Woden to the field defied: 

The ruthless hag, by Weser's flood, 

In Heaven's name urged the infernal blow ; 

And red the stream began to flow : 

The vanquish'd were baptized with blood !J 

ANTISTROPHE. 

The Saxon prince in horror fled 
From altars stain'd with human gore; 
And Liberty his routed legions led 
In safety to the bleak Norwegian shore. 
There in a cave asleep she lay, 
LuU'd by the hoarse-resounding main ; 
When a bold savage pass'd that way, 
Impell'd by destiny, his name Disdain. 
Of ample front the portly chief appear'd: 
The hunted bear supplied a shaggy vest; 
The drifted snow hung on his yellow beard ; 
And his broad shoulders braved the furious blast. 
He stopped : he gazed : his bosom glow'd, 
And deeply felt the impression of her charms: 
He seized the advantage fate allow'd. 
And straight compress'd her in his vigorous arms. 

STROPHE. 

The curlew scream'd, the tritons blew 
Their shells to celebrate the ravish'd rite ; 
Old Time e.xulted as he flew; 
And Independence saw the light. 
The light he saw in Albion's happy plains, 
Where under cover of a flowering thorn. 
While Phdomel renew'd her warbled strains, 
The auspicious fruit of stolen embrace was born — 
The mountain dryads, seized with joy, 
The smiling infant to their charge consign'd ; 
The Doric Muse caress'd the favourite boy; 
The hermit Wisdom stored his opening mind. 
As rolling years matured his age, 
He flourish'd bold and sinewy as his sire ; 
\\ hile the mild passions in his breast assuage 
The fiercer flames of his maternal tire. 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Accomplish'd thus he wing'd his way, 
And zealous roved from pole to pole. 
The rolls of right eternal to display, 
And warm with patriot thoughts the aspiring 

soul. 
On desert isles 'twas he that raised 
Those spires that gild the Adriatic wave, 
Where tyranny beheld amazed 
Fair Freedom's temple, where he mark'd hei 

grave. 
He steei'd the blunt Batavian's arms 
To burst the Iberian's double chain ; 
And cities rear'd, and planted farms. 
Won from the skirts of Neptune's wide domain. 

[t Are not these noble vers^es? They are the introduc- 
tioo of Smollett's Ode to Independent e. — Burns.] 

II Smollett's Ode tu /»<i*7)«nd<'»ic<;, the most cburacteristic 
of his poetical w irks, wa< published two year.s after his 
dealh by the Messrs. Foulis of Glasgow; the mviholo- 
gical < ommeucemeut is eminently beautiful. — SiR Walter 
Scott.] 



JOHN CUNNINGHAM. 



55- 



He, with the generous rustics, sate 
On Uri's rocks in close divan; 
And wing'd that arrow sure as fate, 
Which ascertain'd the sacred rights of man. 



Arabia's scorching sands he cross'd, 
Where blasted nature pants supine, 
Conductor of her tribes adust. 
To freedom's adamantine shrine ; 
And many a Tartar horde forlorn, aghast! 
He snatch'd from under fell oppression's wing; 
And taught amidst the dreary waste 
The all-cheering hymns of liberty to sing. 
He virtue finds, like precious ore. 
Diffused through every baser mould. 
Even now he stands on Calvi's rocky shore, 
And turns the dross of Corsica to gold ; 
He, guardian genius, taught my youth 
Pomp's tinsel livery to despise : 
My lips by him chastised to truth. 
Ne'er paid that homage which the heart denies. 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Those sculptured halls my feet shall never tread, 
Where varnish'd Vice and Vanity combined, 
To dazzle and seduce, their banners spread ; 
And forge vile shackles for the free-born mind. 
While Insolence his wrinkled front uprears, 
And ail the flowers of spurious fancy blow; 
And Title his ill-woven chaplet wears, 
Full often wreathed around the miscreant's brow; 
Where ever-dimpling F'alsehood, pert and vain, 
Presents her cup of stale profession's froth ; 



And pale Disease, with all his bloated train, 
Torments the sons of gluttony and sloth. 

STROPHE. 

In Fortune's car behold that minion ride, 
With either India's glittering spoils opprest ; 
So n)oves the sumpter-mule, in harness'd pride. 
That bears the treasure which he cannot taste. 
For him let venal bards disgrace the bay, 
And hireling minstrels wake the tinkling string; 
Her sensual snares let faithless Pleasure lay ; 
And all her jingling bells fantastic Folly ring ; 
Disquiet, Doubt, and Dread shall intervene; 
And Nature, still to all her feelings just, 
In vengeance hang a damp on every scene, 
Shook from the baleful pinions of Disgust. 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Nature I'll court in her sequester'd haunts, 
By mountain, meadow, streamlet, grove, or cell. 
Where the poised lark his evening ditty chaunts. 
And Health, and Peace, and Contemplation 

dwell. 
There Study shall with Solitude recline ; 
And Friendship pledge me to his fellow-swains; 
And Toil and Temperance sedately twine 
The slender cord that fluttering life sustains: 
And fearless Poverty shall guard the door ; 
And Taste unspoil'd the frugal table spread ; 
And Industry supply the humble store; 
And Sleep uiibrii)ed his dews refreshing shed: 
White-mantled Innocence, etherial sprite. 
Shall chase far off the goblins of the night: 
And Independence o'er the day preside. 
Propitious power! my patron and my pride. 



JOHN CUNNINGHAM. 



tBorn, 1729. Died, 1773.] 



John Cunningham was the son of a wine- 
cooper in Dublin. Having written a farce, called 
"Love in a Mist," at the age of seventeen, he 
■ame to Britain as a strolling actor, and was for 
a long time a performer in Digges's company in 



Edinburgh, and for many years made his resi- 
dence at Newcastle-upon-Tyne. He died at 
that place, in the house of a benevolent printer, 
whose hospitality had for some time supported, 
him. 



CONTENT. A PASTORAL. 

O'er moorlands and mountains, rude, barren, 
and bare. 
As wilder'd and wearied I roam, 
A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair 
And leads me — o'er lawns — to her home: 
Yellow sheaves from rich Ceres her cottage had 
crown'd, 
Green rushes were strew'd on her floor, 
Her casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly 
round, 
And deck'd the sod seats at her door. 



We sate ourselves down to a cooling repast. 

Fresh fruits! and she cull'd me fhe best; 
While thrown from my guard by some glances 
she cast, 

Love slily stole into my breast! 
I told my soft wishes ; she sweetly replied, 

(Ye virgins, her voice was divine !) 
I've rich ones rejected, and great ones denied. 

But take me, fond shepherd — I'm thine. 

Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek ; 

So simple, yet sweet were her charms ! [cheek, 
I kiss'd the ripe roses that glow'd on her 

And lock'd the loved maid in my arms. 
' aw2 



eo8 



ANONYMOUS. 



IVovv jocund together we tend a few sheep, 
And if, by yon prattler, the stream, 

Reclined on her bosom, I sink into sleep. 
Her image still softens my dream. 

Together we range o'er the slow-rising hills. 

Delighted with pastoral views, 
^r rest on the rock whence the streamlet 
distils, 

And point out new themes for my Muse. 
To porpp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire, 

')'he damsel's of humble descent; 
Tho cottager, Peace, is well known for her sire, 

And shepherds have named her Content. 



MAY-EVE; OR, KATE OF ABERDEEN. 
The silver moon's enamour'd beam 

Steals softly through the night, 
To wanton with the winding stream, 

And kiss reflected light. 
To beds of state go, balmy sleep, 

('Tis where you've seldom been,) 
May's vigil whilst the shepherds keep 

With Kate of Aberdeen. 



Upon the green the virgins wait, 

In rosy chaplets gay. 
Till Morn unbar her golden gato> 

And give the promised May. 
Methinks I hear the maids declare, 

The promised May, when seen, 
Not half so fragrant, half so fair. 

As Kate of Aberdeen. 

Strike up the tabor's boldest notes. 

We'll rouse the nodding grove; 
The nested birds shall raise their throats, 

And hail the maid I love: 
And see — the matin lark mistakes. 

He quits the tufted green : 
Fond bird ! 'tis not the morning breaks, 

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. 

Now lightsome o'er the level mead. 

W^here midnight fairies rove, 
Like them the jocund dance we'll lead, 

Or tune the reed to love : 
For see the rosy May draws nigh ; 

She claims a virgin queen ! 
And hark the happy shepherds cry, 

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. 



ANONYMOUS. 



FROM THE SHASIROCK, OR HIBERNUN CROSSES. 
DUBLIN, 1772. 

Belinda's sparkling eyes and wit 

Do various passions raise ; 
And, like the lightning, yield a bright, 

But momentary blaze. 

Eliza's milder, gentler sway, 

Her conquests fairly won. 
Shall last till life and time decay, 

Eternal as the sun. 

Thus the wild flood with deaf'ning roar 
Bursts dreadful from on high: 

But soon its empty rage is o'er. 
And leaves the channel dry : 



While the pure stream, which still and slow 

Its gentler current brings, 
Through every change of time shall flow 

With unexhausted springs. 



EPIGRAM ON TWO MONOPOLISTS. 

FROM THE SAME. 

Bone and Skin, two Millers thin. 
Would starve us all, or near it ; 

But be it known to Skin and Bone, 
That Flesh and Blood can't bear it.' 



[* This is by Byrom, the author of Phoebe, a Pastorul; 
Bee ante, p. -190.] 



GEORGE LORD LYTTELTON. 



[Bom, 1T09.. Died, 177aj 



This nobleman's public and private virtues, 
and his merits as the historian of Henry II., will 
be remembered when his verses are forgotten. 
By a felicity very rare in his attempts at poetry, 
tin kids and fawns of his Monody do not entirely 
extinguish all appearance of that sincere feeling 
with which it must have been composed. Gray, in 
a letter to Horace Walpole, has justly remarked 
the beauty of the stanza beginning "In vain I 
look around." " If it were all like this stanza," 



he continues, "I should be excessively pleased. 
Nature, and sorrow, and tenderness are the true 
genius of such things, (monodies,) and something 
of these I find in several parts of it (not in the 
orange-tree.) Poetical ornaments are foreign to 
the purpose, for they only show a man is not 
sorry ; and devotion is worse, for it teaches him 
that he ought not to be sorry, which is all the 
pleasure of the thing."* 



FROM THE MONODY." 
At length escaped from every human eye. 

From every duty, every care, 
Thatinmy mournful thoughts might claim a share. 
Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry ; 
Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade. 
This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made, 
I now may give my burden'd heart relief; 

And pour forth all my stores of grief; 
'Of grief surpassing every other woe. 
Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love 

Can on th' ennobled mind bestow. 

Exceeds the vulgar joys that move 
Our gross desires, inelegant and low. 

* * * * 

In vain I look around 
O'er all the well-known ground. 
My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry ; 
Where oft we used to walk, 
Where oft in tender talk 
We saw the summer sun go down the sky ; 
Nor by yon fountain s side, 
Nor where its waters glide 
Along the valley, can she now be found : 
In all the wide-stretch'd prospect's ample bound 
No more my mournful eye 
Can aught of her espy. 
But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie. 



Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns, 
Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns 
By your delighted mother's side: 
Who now your infant steps shall guide? 
Ah ! where is now the hand whose tender care 
To every virtue would have form'd your youth. 
And strevv'd with flowers the thorny ways of truth 1 
loss beyond repair ! 
O wretched father ! left alone. 
To weep their dire misfortune and thy own: 

[* And in a letter to Wharton, he pays, " Have you 
seen Lyttelton's Monoily on his wife's death? there are 
purts of it too stiff and poetical, but others truly tender 
and elegiac as one would wish." — M'orl.s by Milfnrd, vol. 
ui. p. 49. — Among Smollett's Foems is a Burlesque on 



How shall thy weaken'd mind oppress'd with 
And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave, [woe, 
Perform the duties that you doubly owe ! 

Now she, alas ! is gone, [save 1 

From folly and from vice their helpless age to 



Oh best of wives ! Oh dearer far to me 

Than when thy virgin charms 

Were yielded to my arms : 
How can my soul endure the loss of thee? 
How in the world, to me a desert grown, 

Abandon'd and alone, 
Without my sweet companion can I live? 

Without thy lovely smile. 
The dear reward of every virtuous toil, 
What pleasures now can pali'd ambition give ? 
Ev'n the delightful sense of well-earn'd praise, 
Unshared by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts 

could raise. 

For my distracted mind 
What succour can I find ? 
On whom for consolation shall I call ? 

Support me, every friend ; 

Your kind assistance lend. 
To bear the weight of this oppressive woe. 

Alas! each friend of mine. 
My dear departed love, so much was thine, 
That none has any comfort to bestow. 

My books, the best relief. 

In every other grief. 
Are now with your idea sadden'd all : 
Each favourite author we together read 
My tortured memory wounds, and speaks of Lucy 

dead. 

We were the happiest pair of human kind ; 
The rolling year its varying course perfonu'd 

And back return'd again ; 
Another and other smiling came. 



Lytt( Iton's Ode, but a very poor one. It is nnt a little 
curious, we miiy add, that Tom Jorn-s is inscribed to Lyt- 
telton. and th:it the Gosling Scrag of I'eregrine fickle waa 
the patron of Jb'ieiding.j 

£59 



660 



ROBERT FERGUSSON. 



And saw 6ur happiness unchangeil remain : 

Still in her golden chain 
Harmonious concord did our wishes bind : 
Our studies, pleasures, taste, the same. 
O fatal, fatal stroke, 
That all this pleasing fabric love had raised 

Of rare felicity, 
On which ev'n wanton vice with envy gazed. 
And every scheme of bliss our hearts had form'd, 
With soothing hope, for many a future day. 

In one sad moment broke ! 
Yet, O my soul, thy rising murmurs stay; 
Nor dare the all-wise Disposer to arraign, 
Or against his supreme decree 
With impious grief complain. 
That all thy full-blown joys at once should fade; 
Was his most righteous will — and be that will 
obey'd. 



PROLOGUE TO CORIOLANUS* 
I COME not here your candour to implore 
For scenes whose author is, alas ! no more ; 
He wants no advocate his cause to plead ; 
You will yourselves be patrons of the dead. 
No party his benevolence confined. 
No sect — it flow'd alike to all mankind. 
He loved his friends — forgive this gushing tear: 
Alas ! I feel I am no actor here. 



He loved his friends with such a warfhth of heart 
So clear of interest, so devoid of art. 
Such generous friendship, such unshaken zeal, 
No words can speak it, but our tears may tell. 
Oh candid truth, Oh faith without a stain, 
Oh manners greatly firm and nobly plain, 
Oh sympathizing love of others' bliss, 
Where vvill you find another breast like hisi 
Such was the man, — the Poet well you know : 
Oft has he touch'd your hearts with tender woe: 
Oft in this crowded house, with just applause 
You heard him teach fair Virtue's purest laws ; 
For his chaste muse employ'd her heav'n-taught 

lyre 
None but the noblest passions to inspire : 
Not one immoral, one corrupted thought, 
One line which dying he could wish to blot. 
Oh may to-night your favourable doom 
Another laurel add to grace his tomb ! 
W^hilst he superior now to praise or blame. 
Hears not the feeble voice of human fame. 
Yet if to those, whom most on earth he loved, 
From whom his pious care is now removed, 
With whom his liberal hand and bounteous heart 
Shared all his little fortune could impart ; 
If to those friends your kind regard shall give 
What they no longer can from him receive. 
That, that, even now, above yon starry pole, 
I May touch with pleasure his immortal soul. 



ROBERT FERGUSSON. 



tBorn, 1750. Died, 1774.] 



This unfortunate young man, who died in a 
mad-house at the age of twenty-four, left some 
pieces of considerable humour and originality in 
the Scottish dialect. Burns, who took the hint 
of his Cotter's Saturday Night from Fergus- 
son's Farmer's Ingle, seems to have esteemed him 
with an exaggerated partiality, which can only 
be accounted for by his having perused him in 
/lis youth.f On his first visit to Edinburgh, 
Burns traced out the grave of Fergusson, and 
placed a head-stone over it at his own expense, 
inscribed with verses of appropriate feeling.J 

Fergusson was born at Edinburgh, where his 
father held the office of accountant to the British 
Linen-hall. He was educated partly at the high- 
school of Edinburgh, and partly at the grammar- 
school of Dundee, after which a bursary, or ex- 
hiliition, was obtained for him at the university 
of St. Andrew's, where he soon distinguished 
himself as a youth of promising genius. His 



[* Thomson's po.^thumoug play, and spoken by Quin. 
Tliis is ainonj; the best pr(iloi;iiea in our hinguage : and is 
excelled only by Pope's before Cato, and Johnson's Dtury 
Lane o|.ieniug.] 

[t Burns in one place prefers him to Allan Ramsay; 
"the excellent Ramsay," he says, "and the still more ex- 
cellent FerguKson." But he has found no follower. 
Burns' obligations to i'ergusson are certainly greater 



eccentricity was, unfortunately, of equal growth 
with his talents ; and on one occasion, having 
taken part in an affray among the students, that 
broke out at the distribution of the prizes, he 
was selected as one of the leaders, and expelled 
from college ; but was received back again upon 
promises of future good behaviour. On leaving 
college he found himself destitute, by the death of 
his father; and after a fruitless attempt to obtain 
support from an uncle at Aberdeen, he returned 
on foot to his mother's house at Edinburgh, half 
dead with the fatigue of the journey, which 
brought on an illness that had nearly proved 
fatal to his delicate frame. On his recovery he 
was received as a clerk in the commissary's clerk's 
office, where he did not continue long, but ex- 
changed it for the same situation in the office of 
the sheriff" clerk, and there he remained as long 
as his health and habits admitted of any appli- 
cation to business. Had he possessed ordinary 



than to Ramsay, and gratitude for once warped his gene- 
rally good, sound, and discriminating tuste iu poetic cri 
ticism.J 

[I No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, 
No storied urn nor animated liu<t; 
This simple stone directs pale S, otia'sway, 
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust.] 



ROBERT FERGUSSON. 



561 



prudence, he might have lived hy the drudgery 
of copying papers; but the appearance of some 
of his poems having gained him a flattering no- 
tice, he was drawn into dissipated company, and 
became a wit, a songster, a mimic, and a free 
liver; and finally, after fits of penitence and reli- 
gious despondency, went mad. When commit- 
ted to the receptacle of the insane, a conscious- 
ness of his dreadful fate seemed to come over 
him. At the moment of his entrance, he uttered 
a wild cry of despair, which was re-echoed by a 



shout from all the inmates of the dismal man- 
sion, and left an impression of inexpressible 
horror on the friends who had the task of attend- 
ing him. His mother, being in extreme poverty, 
had no other mode of disposing of him. A re- 
mittance, which she received a few days after, 
from a more fortunate son, who was abroad, 
would have enabled her to support the expense 
of aflfording him attendance in her own house ; 
but the aid did not arrive till the poor maniac had 
expired.* 



THE FARMER'S INGLE. 

Et multo imprimis hilarans con vi via Baccho, 
Ante focum, >i fiigus erit. — Vma. 

Whan gloamin grey out owre the welkin keeks;" 

Whan Batie ca's his owsen* to the byre; 
Whan Thrasher John, sair dung," his barn-door 
steeks,"^ 

An' lusty lasses at the dightin'" tire; 
What bangs^fu' leal the e'enin's coming cauld. 

An' gars snaw-tappit Winter freeze in vain ; 
Gars' dowie mortals look baith blithe an' bauld, 

Nor fley'd'' wi' a' the poortith o' the plain ; 

Begin, my Muse ! and chauntin hamely strain. 

Frae the big stack, weel winnow't on the hill, 

Wi' divots theekit' frae the weet an drift; 
Sods, peats, and heathery turfs the chimley^' fill. 

An' gar their thickening smeek* salute the lift. 
The gudeman, new come hame, is blithe to find. 

Whan he out owre the hallan' flings his een, 
That ilka turn is handled to his mind; 

That a' his housie looks sae cosh™ an' clean ; 

For cleanly house lo'es he, though e'er sae 
mean. 

Weel kens the gudewife, that the pleughs require 
A heartsome meltith," an' refreshin' synd° 

O' nappy liquor, owre a bleezin' fire : 

Sair vvark an' poortith downa^ weel be join'd. 

Wi' butter'd bannocks now the girdle' reeks; 
r the fair nook the bowie' briskly reams ; 

The readied kail' stands by the chimley cheeks. 
An' baud the riggin' het wi' welcome streams, 
Whilk than the daintiest kitchen' nicer seems. 

Frae this, lat gentler gabs" a lesson lear : 

Wad they to labouring lend an eident" hand, 

They'd rax fell Strang upo' the simplest fare, 
Nor find their stamacks ever at a stand. 

Fu' hale an' healthy wad they pass the day; 
At night, in calmest slumbers dose fu' sound; 

Nor doctor need their weary life to spae," 



[* thou my elrler brother in misfortune. 
By far my eliter brother in the muses, 
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate ? — Burns.] 

a Peeps. — 6 Oxen. — c Fatigued. — d Shuts.— « Winnpwini. — 
/ W/iiit bangs fu' leal — what shuts out most f omfortably. — 
f -Makes. — I' Frightened. — «Tliatched with tnvf.— jChimney 

— *!-miike. — 'the inner wall of a cottajre. — m ("'omfortalile. 

— " Meal.— oDriuk.— P Should not.— 9 A tlal iron for toast- 



Nor drogs their noddle and their sense confound. 
Till death slip sleely on, an' gie the hindmost 
wound. 

On sicken food has mony a doughty deed 

By Caledonia's ancestors been done ; 
By this did mony a wight fu' weirlike bleed 

In brulzies'^ frae the dawn to set o' sun. 
'Twas this that braced their gardies^ stiff an' 
Strang ; 

That bent the deadly yew in ancient days; 
[•aid Denmark's daring sons on yird' alang; 

Garr'd Scottish thristles bang the Roman bays ; 

For near our crest their heads they dought iia 
raise. 

The couthy cracks'" begin whan supper's owre; 

The cheering bicker' gars them glibly gash" 
O' Simmer's showery blinks, an' Winter's sour, 

Whase floods did erst their mailin's produce 
hash."* 
'Bout kirk an' market eke their tales gae on ; 

How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride ; 
An' there, how Marion, for a bastard son, 

Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride; 

The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to bide. 

The fient a cheep 's* arnang the bairnies now; 

For a' their anger's wi' their hunger gane : 
Ay maun the childer, wi' a fastin' mou. 

Grumble an' greet, an' mak an unco maen/ 
In rangles" round, before the ingle's low, 

Frae gudame's* mouth auld warld tales they 
hear, 
O' warlocks loupin round the wirrikow :* 

O' ghaists, that win-'' in glen an kirkyard drear, 

Whilk touzles a' their tap, an' gars them shake 
wi' fear! 

For weel she trows, that fiends an' fairies be 
Sent frae the deil to flcetch* us to our ill ; 

That ky hae tint' theiV milk wi' evil ee; 

An' corn been scowder'd" on the glowin' kiln. 



ing eakes.— >• Beer-barrel. — » Broth with greens. — « Kitchen 
here means what is eaten with bread: there is no English 
word f Tit; ohsnn-iiim in the Latin. — « Palates. — "Assidu- 
ous. — w Foretell. — x In fontc>ts. — y Arms. — i Earth. — 
a I'leasant talk. — i The cup. — cf'hat. — d Destroy the pro- 
duce of their farms. — e Not a whimper.— / Moan.^ Circles. 
— A Grandame. — •' Si are-crow.— i Abide. — ' Entice.--* Lost 
— ni Scorched. 



562 



PHILIP DORMER STANHOPE. 



O mock nae this, my friends ! but rather mourn, 
Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear ; 

Wi' eild" our idle fancies a' return, 

And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly" fear; 
The mind's ay cradled whan the grave is near. 

Yet Thrift, industrious, bides her latest days. 
Though Age her sair-dow'd front wi' runcles 
wave ; 

Yet frae the russet lap the spindle plays ; 

Her e'enin' stent^ reels she as weel's the lave.« 

fin some feast-day, the wee things buskit braw, 
Shal' heese her heart up wi' a silent joy, 

Fu' eadgie that her head was up an' saw 
Her ain spun cleedin' on a darlin' oy f 
Careless though death shou'd mak the feast 
her foy.' 

In its auld lerroch* yet the deas" remains, [ease. 
Where the gudeman aft streeks" him at his 

A warm and canny lean for weary banes 
O' labourers doylt upo' the wintry leas. 

Round him will baudrins" an' the collie come. 
To wag their tail, and cast a thankfu' ee. 

To him wha kindly flings them mony a crum 
0' kebbuck'whang'd, an' dainty fadge»to prie;' 
This a' the boon they crave, an' a' the fee. 

Frae him the lads their mornin' counsel tak : [till; 
What stack she wants to thrash; what rigs to 



How big a birn" maun lie on hassle's' back, 

For meal an' mu'ter" to the thirlin' mill. 
Niest, the gudewife her hirelin' damsels bids 

Glowr through the byre, an' see the hawkies* 
bound; 
Tak tent, case Crummy tak her wonted tid^,' 

An' ca' the iaiglen's-^ treasure on the ground ; 

Whilk spills a kebbuck nice, or yellow pound. 

Then a' the house for sleep begin to green," 
Their joints to slack frae industry a while; 

The leaden god fa's heavy on their e'en. 

An' hafflins steeks them frae their daily toil : 

The cruizy,* too, can only blink and bieer; 
The reistit ingle's done the maist it dow ; 

Tacksman an' cottar eke to bed maun steer, 
Upo' the cod' to clear their drumly pow,'' 
Till wauken'd by the dawnin's ruddy glow. 

Peace to the husbandman, an' a' his tribe, [year! 

Whase care fells a' our wants frae year to 
Lang may his sock* and cou'ter turn the gleyb,' 

An' banks o' corn bend down wi' laded ear! 
May Scotia's simmers ay look gay an' green ; 

Her yellow ha'rsts frae scowry blasts decreed ! 
May a' her tenants sit fu' snug an' bien," 

Frae the hard grip o' ails, and poortith freed ; 

An' a lang lasting train o' peacefu' hours 
succeed ! 



PHILIP DORMER STANHOPE 

EARL OF CHESTERFIELD. 



[Born, 1694. Died, 1773.] 



ON MR. NASH'S PICTURE, AT FULL LENGTH, BE- 
TWEEN THE BUSTS OF SIR I. NEWTON 
AND MR. POPE, AT BATH.* 

The old Egyptians hid their wit 

In hieroglyphic dress, 
To give men pains in search for it. 

And please themselves with guess. 

Moderns, to hit the self-same path, 

And exercise our parts, 
Place figures in a room at Bath — 

Forgive them, God of Arts ! 

Newton, if I can judge aright. 
All wisdom docs express; 

n Age.— Childish.— P Task.— « The rest.-f Grandchild.— 
' Iler farewell entertainment. — « Corner. — « Bench.— 
t> Stretches.— «» The rat.—* Cheese.- y Loaf.— J To taiite.— 
o Burd.m. — * The hor^e. — c The miller's perquisite. — 
d Cows.— < Fits.— /The milk-pail.—? To long.— A'lhe lamp. 
— t Pillow. — j Thii k head?. — * Ploughshare. — ' Soil. — 
"1 Comfortable. 

I* To arid to his honours, the corporation of Bath 
placed a fuU-Iength statue of liim in Wiltshire's Ball- 
room, between the busts of Newton and Pope. It was 
upon Ihis o casion that the Farl of Che^tei field wrote that 
severe but witty epigram, the last lines of which were so 
deservedly admired, and ran thus: 

The statue placed the busts between 
Adds to the satire strength ; 



His knowledge gives mankind new light, 
■ Adds to their happiness. 
Pope is the emblem of true wit, 

'l^he sunshine of the mind; 
Read o'er his works for proof of it. 

You'll endless pleasure find. 
Nash represents man in the mass. 

Made up of wrong and right ; 
Sometimes a knave, sometimes an ass, 

Now blunt, and now polite. 
The picture placed the busts between 

Adds to the thought much strength ; 
Wisdom and Wit are little seen, 

But Folly's at full length. 



Wisdom and wit are little seen, 
But Folly at full length. 

Goldsmith, Life of Kash (Prior,) 

vol. iii. p. 314. 

Mr. Prior says that the first version of this celebrated 
epigram appeared in the Gentleman's Magazine for 1741, 
but we find it in Mr. Dyce's Specimens of Bri.ish Poetesses, 
as by Jane Brereton, who died in 1740, and simong her 
poems collected by Cave in 1741. It was soon after 1735 
that the statue, not the picture, was put up at Bath. 
Go< d sayings fly loose on the surface of sociity, and are 
generally assigned to men whom it is the fai-hion to cele- 
brate, and who accept in silence all such felicities.] 



THOMAS SCOTT. 



17—. Died, 17—.] 



FROM "LYRIC POEMS, EEVOTIONAL AND MORAL.' 

LONDON, 1773. 

GOVERNMENT OF THE MIND. 

Imperial Reason, hold thy throne, 
Conscience to censure and approve 

Belongs to thee. Ye Passions, own' 
Subjection and in order move. 



Enchanting order ! Peace how sweet ! 

Delicious harmony within ; 
Blest self-command, thy power I greet. 

Ah ! when shall I such empire win ! 

The hero's laurel fades , the fame 
For boundless science is but wind; 

And Samson's strength a brutal name, 
Without dominion of the mind. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



[Born, Not. 10, 1728. Died, 1774.] 



Oliver Goldsmith was born at a place called 
Pallas, in the parish of Forney, and county of 
Longford, in Ireland. His fiither held the living 
of Kdkenny West, in the county of VVestineath.* 
There was a tradition in the fomily, that they were 
descended from Juan Romeiro, a Spanish gentle- 
man, who had settled in Ireland, in the sixteenth 
century, and had married a woman whose name 
of Goldsmith was adopted by their descendants. 
Olii'er was instructed in reading and writing by 
Thomas Byrne, a schoolmaster in his father's 
parish, who had been a quarter-master in the 
wars of Queen Anne; and who, being fond of 
relating his adventures, is supposed to have com- 
municated to the young mind of his pupil the 
romantic and wandering disposition which showed 
itself in his future years. He was next placed"!" 
under the Rev. Mr. Griffin, schoolmaster of Elphin, 
and was received into the house of his father's 
brother, Mr. Goldsmith of Ballyoughter. Some 
relations and friends of his uncle, who were met 
on a social party, happening to be struck with 
the sprigluliness of Oliver's abilities, and knowing 
the narrow circumstances of his father, otfered to 
join in defraying the expense of giving him a 
liberal education. The chief contributor was the 
Rev. Thomas Contarine.J who had married our 
poet's aunt. He was accordingly sent, for some 
time, to the school of Athlone, and afterward to 
an academy at Edgeworthstown, where he was 

[* Ilis mother, bv name Ann Jones, was mirrieil to 
Charles Gold.-^mith on the ith of May, 1718.— I'RlOK, vol. i. 
p. U.] 

(t.An attack of confluent small pox. which had nearly 
deprived liim of life, and lef traies of it-i ravages in his 
face ever after, first oau-eJ him to be taken fiom under 
the ( are of liyrne. — I'RIOR, vol. i. p. 2S.] 

i 'Ibis benevolent man was dei-cended from the noble 
f.imi y of the Contarini of Venice. Ili.s ancestor, having 
m Fried a nun in his native country. Wiis ol ligi'd to t!y 
wi h her into Frame, whore .'■he died of the .- mall-po.\. 
llein;: pursued by ecrle i:,slical censure-, C'nt m id c.-mc 
to t-ngand: but the iniriianical manncis which ih.'n 
prevai.ed, having alibrded hl\n but a co d reoe(itini. he 
was on his way to Ireland, when at Chester, be met with 



fitted for the university. He was admitted a 
sizer or servitor of Trinity College, Dul)lin, in his 
sixteenth year, [llth June, 1745,] a circumstance 
which denoted considerable proficiency ; and three 
years afterward was elected one of the exhibition- 
ers on the foundation of Erasmus Smith. 5 But 
though he occasionally distinguished himself by 
his translations from the classics, his general ap- 
pearance at the university corresponded neither 
with the former promises, nor future development 
of his talents. He was, like Johnson, a lounger 
at the college-gate. He gained neither premiums 
nor a scholarship, and was not admitted to the 
degree of bachelor of arts till two years after the 
regular time. His backwardness, it would ap})ear, 
was the effect of despair more than of wilful 
negligence.il He had been placed under a savage 
tutor, named Theaker Wilder, who used to insult 
him at public examinations, and to treat his de- 
linquencies with a ferocity that broke his spirit. 
On one occasion poor Oliver was so imprudent 
as to invite a company of young people, of both 
sexes, to a dance and supper in his rooms ; on 
receiving intelligence of which, Theaker grimly 
repaired to the place of revelry, belaboured him 
before his guests, and rudely broke up the assem- 
bly. The disgrace of this inhuman treatment 
drove hi.Ti for a time from the university. He 
set out from Dublin, intending to sail from 
Cork for some other country, he knew not 



a young laly of the name of Chaloner, whom he niarriel. 
Having af.erwarJ confoimed to th; eslabli.~h d c.iur h, 
he, through the interest of his wife's family, obtaimd 
ecole.-^ia tical prefdrment in the diocese of Elphin. Their 
lineal descendant was the benefactor of Goldsmith. — ^''''J" 
I'Riou. vol. 1. p. 61.] 

[§ Out of nineteen elected on the occasion, his name 
sands seventeen h on the list: the emolument was trilling 
being no more than abo it ihirly i-hilling-i; but the cre.it 
somothin;;, lor it was the fir.-t Uistii.ction he had ob.amed 
in his college career. — I'rior, vol. i. p. &7.J 

[|i Mr. I'rior disiovered several notices of Go'd niith in 

the College books. On the !)tb if May, 171!^, lie was/;«r«c'i 

down; twice hti W3.S cuutinved f.r neglecting a i.iroek leo 

tui-e, and thrice coniinenUed for did^ience in att.n;dlDg ic.l 

&G3 



564 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



whither ; but, after wandering about till he 
was reduced to such famine, that he thought 
a handful of gray peas, which a girl gave him 
at a wake, the sweetest repast he had ever tasted, 
he returned home like the prodigal son, and 
matters were adjusted for his being received again 
at college. 

About the time of his finally leaving the uni- 
versity his father died.* His uncle Contarine, 
from whom he experienced the kindness of a 
father, wished him to have taken orders, and 
Oliver is said to have applied for them, but to 
have been rejected ; though for what reason is 
not sufficiently known. f He then acceiited the 
situation of private tutor in a gontleman's family, 
and retained it long enough to save about 30/., 
with which he bought a tolerable horse, and went 
forth upon his adventures.J At the end of six 
weeks his friends, having heard nothing of him, 
concluded that he had left the kingdom, when he 
returned to his mother's house, without a penny, 
upon a poor little horse, which he called Fiddle- 
back, and which was not worth more than 
twenty shillings. The account which he gave of 
himself was, that he had been at Cork, where he 
had sold his former horse, and paid his passage 
to America ; but the ship happening to sail whilst 
he was viewing the curiosities of the city, he had 
just money enough left to purchase Flddleback, 
and to reach the house' of an old acquaintance on 
the road. This nominal friend, however, had 
received him very coldly ; and, in order to evade 
his application for pecuniary relief, had advised 
him to sell his diminutive steed, and promised 
him another in its place, which should cost him 
nothing either for price or provender. To con- 
firm this promise he pulled out an oaken staff 
from beneath his bed. Just as this generous offer 
had been made, a neighbouring gentleman came 
in, and invited both the miser and Goldsmith to 
dine with him. Upon a short acquaintance, 
Oliver communicated his situation to the stranger, 
and was enabled, by his liberality, to proceed 
upon his journey. This was his story. His 
mother, it may be supposed, was looking rather 
gravely upon her pruilent child, who had such 
adventures to relate, when he concluded them by 
saying, "and now, my dear mother, having 
struggled so hard to come home to you, I wonder 
that you are not more rejoiced to see me." Mr. 
Contarine next resolved to send him to the Tem- 
ple; but on his way to London he was fleeced of 
all his money in gaming, and returned once more 
to his mother's house in disgrace and affliction. 
Again was his good uncle reconciled to him, and 
equipped him for Edinburgh, that he might pur- 
sue the study of medicine. 



I* Ilis father dieU o;irlv in 1747, before he had become 
an fxhibitiuner ou Smith's fouud;ition. On the 27 Ih of 
Fibruary, 1749, alter a residence of four years, he was 
aduiitteii to the dcree of lia-helor of arts.] 

[t liy the iiccouiit of liis sister, he was rejected on the 
plea uf being tuo joung; whatever was the cau.^e of his 
ri'jcclion, he does uol seem to have made a second attempt. 

— t'KIOR.] 

[J Mr. Prior says he was a year there ; surely oOl. was a 
large sum to save in so short a period.] 



On his arrival at Edinburgh, in the autumn of 
1752, he took lodgings, and sallied forth to take 
a view of the city ; but, at a late hour, he recol- 
lected that he had omitted to inform himself of 
the name and address of his landlady ; and would 
not have found his w-^ back, if he had not for- 
tunately met with the porter who had carried 
his luggage. After attending two winter courses 
of medical lectures at Edinburgh, he was per- 
mitted, by his uncle, to repair to Leyden, for the 
sake of finishing his studies, when his departure 
was accelerated by a debt, which he had con- 
tracted by becoming security for an acquaintance, 
and from the arrest attending which, he was oidy 
saved by the interference of a friend. If Ley- 
den, however, was his ol)ject, he with the usual 
eccentricity of his motions, set out to reach it by 
way of Bordeaux, and embarked in a ship which 
was bound thither from Leith ; but which was 
driven, by stress of weather, into Newcastle- 
upon-Tyne. His fellow-passengers were some 
Scotchmen, who had been employed in raising 
men in their own country for the service of the 
king of France. They were arrested, by orders 
from government, at Newcastle; and Goldsmith, 
who had been committed to prison with them, 
was not liberated till after a fortnight's confine- 
ment. By this accident, however, he was even- 
tually saved from an early death. This vessel 
sailed during his imprisonment, and was wrecked 
at the mouth of the Garonne, where every soul 
on board perished. 

On being released, he took shipping for Hol- 
land, and arrived at Leyden, where he continued 
about a twelvemonth, and studied chemistry and 
anatomy. At the end of that time, having ex- 
hausted his last farthing at the gaming-table, 
and expended the greater part of a supply, wjiich 
a friend lent him, in purchasing some costly Dutch 
flower-roots, which he intended for a present to 
his uncle, he set out to make the tour of Europe 
on fool, unincumbered at least by the weight of 
his money. The manner in which he occasion- 
ally subsisted, during his travels, by playing his 
flute among the peasantry, and by disputing at 
the different universities, has been innumerable 
times repeated. In the last, and most authentic 
account of his life,§ the circumstance of his 
having ever been a travelling tutor, is called in 
question. Assistance from his uncle must have 
reached him, as he remained for six months at 
Padua, after having traversed parts of Flanders, 
France, Germany and Switzerland, in the last of 
which countries he wrote the first sketch of his 
" Traveller." 

His uncle having died while he was in Italy, he 
was obliged to travel on foot through France to 

g Since Mr. Campbell wrote, the Life of Goldsmith has 
been written by Mr. I'rior in two elaborate octavo volume.s, 
full of new facts and new matter, that attest what un- 
wearied rcsearcb and well-directed diUigence may achieve. 
But Mr. l'ri'>r, like Mr. Campbell, has given an undue im- 
portance to Goldsmith. The circumstsmce, however, to 
which Mr. Campbell alludes, is left by Pricr in th< same 
obscurity.] 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



565 



England, and arrived in London in extreme dis- 
tress.* He was for a sliort time usher in an 
academy, and was afterward found and relieved, 
by his. old friend Dr. Sleigh, in the situation of 
journeytnaa to a chemist.! t5y 'i'** friend's as- 
sistance he was enabled to take lodgings in the 
city, and endeavoured to estabLsh himself in 
medical practice. In this attempt he was unsuc- 
cessful; but through the interest of Dr. Milner, 
a dissenting clergyman, he obtained the appoint- 
ment of a physician to one of the factories in 
India; and, in order to defray the expense of 
getting thither, prepared to publish, by subscrip- 
tion, his '-Enquiry into the Present State of 
Polite Literature in Europe." For some un- 
known reason his appointment to India was 
dropped;! and we find him, in April 1757, 
writing in Dr. Griffiths' Monthly Review, for a 
salary, and his board and lodging in the proprie- 
tor's house. Leaving this employment, he went 
into private lodgings, and finished his "Enquiry 
into the State of Literature," which was pub- 
lished in 1759. The rest of his history from this 
period becomes chiefiy that of his well-known 
works. His principal literary employments, pre- 
vious to his raising himself into notice by his 
poetry, were conducting the Laily's Magazine, 
writing a volume of essays, called " the Bee," 
"Letters on English History," "Letters of a 
Citizen of the World," and the " Vicar of Wake- 
field." Boswell has related the aflecting circum- 
stances in which Dr. Johnson found poor Gold- 
smith in lodgings at Wine-office court. Fleet- 
street, where he had finished the Vicar of Wake- 
field, immured by bailitis from without, and 
threatened with expulsion by his landlady from 
within. The sale of the novel for 60/. brought 
him present relief; and within a few years from 
that time, he emerged f.om his obscurity to the 
best society and literary distinction. But what- 
ever change of public estimation he experienced, 
the man was not to be altered ; and he continued 
to exhibit a personal character which was neither 
much reformed by experience, nor dignified by 
reputation. It is but too well known, that with 
all his original and refined faculties, he was often 
the butt of witlings, and the dupe of impostors. 
He threw away his money at the gaming-table, 
and ziiight also be said to be a losing gambler in 
conversation, for he aimed in all societies at being 
brilliant and argumentative; but generally chose 
to dispute on the subjects which he least under- 
stood, and contrived to forfeit as much ciedif for 
common sense as could be got rid of in colloquial 
intercourse. After losing his appointment to 
India, he applied to Lord Bute for a salary, to be 
enabled to travel into the interior of Asia. The 
petition was neglected because iie was then un- 
known. The same boon, however, or some 
adequate provision, might have been obtaint-d 

[* Karlv in the year 175 '. — Pm ir.] 

[t Named .lacob, and re.-idiiiK at tlie corner of Monument 
or Bell Yard, on Fish Streut Hill. — l*ril0R.) 

[i. On the Jlst of December, I'uf, ho presented himself 
at 8urj;eo'ti 8 Hall, l>ondoii. for ex;iiniiia!ion as an hiispital- 
mate; but uas Ibuud not qualified. Mr. i'ripr, who dis- 



for him afterward, when he was recommended to 
the Earl of Northumberland, at that time lord- 
lieutenant of Ireland. But when he waited on 
the earl, he threw away his prepared compliments 
on his lordship's steward, and then retrieved the 
mistake by telling the nobleman, for whom he 
had meditated a courtly speech, that he had no 
confidence in the patronage of the great, but 
would raiher rely upon the booksellers. Therw 
must have been something, however, with al' 
his peculiarities, still endearing in his personal 
character. Burke was known to recall his me- 
mory with tears of affection in his eyes. It can- 
not be believed that the better genius of his 
writings was always absent from his conversa- 
tion. One may conceive graces of his spirit to 
have been drawn forth by Burke or Reynolds, 
which neither Johnson nor Garrick had the sen- 
sibility to appreciate. 

For the last ten years of his life he lived in the 
Temple. He was one of the earliest members 
of the Literary Club. At the institution of the 
Royal Academy, Sir Joshua Reynolds procured 
for him the honorary appointment of professor 
of ancient history. Many tributes, both of envy 
and respect, were paid to bis celebrity ; among 
the latter, an address is preserved, which was 
sent to him as a public character, by the since 
celebrated Thomas Paine. Paine was at that 
time an officer of excise, and was the principal 
promoter of an application to parliament lor 
increasing the salaries of excisemen. He had 
written a pamphlet on the subject, which he 
sent to Goldsmith, and solicited an interview 
for the sake of interesting him farther in the 
scheme. In the year 1770, he visited France; 
but there is nothing in his correspondence to 
authenticate any interesting particulars of his 
journey. 

'I'he three important eras of his literary life 
were those of his appearance as a novelist, a 
poet, and a dramatic writer. The " Vicar of 
Wakefield" was finished in 1766; but was not 
printed till three years after, when his '• Travel- 
ler," in 1764, had established his fame.§ The 
ballad of " Edwin and Angelina," came out in 
the following year; and in 1766 the appearance 
of his "Good Natured Man" made a bold and 
happy change in the reigning fashion of comedy, 
by substituting merriment for insipid sentiment. 
His " Deserted Village" appeared in 1770; and 
his second comedy, " She Stoops to Conquer," 
in 1773. At intervals between those works he 
wrote his "Roman and English Histories," be- 
sides biographies and introductions to books. 
These were all executed as tasks for the book- 
sellers; but with a grace which no other man 
could give to task-work. His " History of the 
Earth and Animated Nature," was the last, and 
most amusing of these prose undertakings. In 

covered this (urioiis fa't, suppoes that his Ii.di.i ]iliy 
sicianship was too e.xpeusive an outfiL for his purse, and 
as a la,-t re.surt ha'l tvii d lo p i.-s as an ho.-pit: l-m;ite.J 

[g The Vicar of Wakefield was first published on the iltl-. 
ofMarih, 176ii.— Pki,.k.J 



566 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



the mean time he had consumed more than the 
gains of all his lahours by imprudent manage- 
ment, and had injured his health by occasional 
excesses of application. His debts amounted to 
4000/. " Was ever poet,'' said Dr. Johnson, 
"so trusted before?" To retrieve his finances 
he contracted f>)r new works to the booksellers, 
engaged to write comedies for both the theatres, 
and projected a "Universal Dictionary of the 
Sciences." But his labours were terminated by 
a death not wholly unimputable to the impru- 
dence which had pervaded his life. In a fever, 
induced i)y strangury and distress of mind, he 
made use of Dr. James's powders under cir- 
cumstances which he was warned would render 
them dangerous. The symptoms of his disease 
grew immediately more alarming, and he ex- 
pired at the end of a few days, in his forty-sixth 
year. 

Goldsmith's poetry enjoys a calm and steady 
popularity. It inspires us, indeed, with no ad- 
miration of daring design, or of fertile invention ; 
but it presents, within its narrow limits, a dis- 
tinct and unbroken view of poetical delightful- 
r.ess. His descriptions and sentiments have the 
pure zest of nature. He is refined without false 
delicacy, and correct without insipidity. Perhaps 
there is an intellectual composure in his manner, 
which may, in some passages, be said to approach 
to the reserved and prosaic; but he unbends 
from this graver strain of reflection to tender- 
ness, and even to playfulness, with an ease and 
grace almost exclusively his own; and connects 
extensive views of the happiness and interests 
of society, with pictures of life, that touch the 
heart by their familiarity. His' language is cer- 
tainly simple, though it is not cast in a rugged 
or careless mould. He is no disciple of the gaunt 
and famished school of simplicity. Deliberately 
as he wrote, he cannot be accused of wanting 
natural and idiomatic expression ; but still it is 
select and refined expression. He uses the or- 
naments which must always distinguish true 
poetry from prose ; and when he adopts collo- 
quial plainness, it is with the utmost care and 
skill to avoid a vulgar humanity. There is more 
of this sustained simplicity, of this chaste economy 
and choice of words in Goldsmith, than in any 
modern poet, or perhaps than would be attainable 
or desirable as a standard for every writer of 
rhyme. In extensive narrative poems such a 
style would be too (fifficult. There is a noble 
propriety even in the careless strength of great 
poems, as in tbe roughness of castle walls; and, 
generally speaking, where there is a long course 
of story, or observation of life to be pursued, 
such exquisite touches as those of Goldsmith 
woufd be too costly materials for sustaining it. 



* Tlieru ).< perhiips no rouplet in Eng'ish rhyme more 
]ier.-iiiieulously oondensid thin those two Iine< of "The 
Traveller," in which he de.-crilie-i (he ome flatteriQ;;, vain, 
an J hapjy chiracter of the French : 

" Tliey pleafe, are pleased, they give to set esteem. 
Till, seeming blest, they giow to what they eeem." 



But let us not imagine that the serene graces of 
this poet were not admirably adapted to his sub- 
jects. His poetry is not "that of impetuous, but 
of contemplative sensibility ; of a spirit breathing 
its regrets and recollections, in a tone that has no 
dissonance with the calm of philosophical reflec- 
tion. He takes rather elevated speculative views 
of the causes of good and evil in society; at the 
same time the objects which are most endeared 
to his imagination are those of familiar and 
simple interest ; and the domestic aflcctions may 
be said to be the only genii of his romance. The 
tendency toward abstracted observation in his 
poetry agrees peculiarly with the compendious 
form of expression which he studied ;* whilst 
the homefelt joys, on which his fancy loved to 
repose, required at once the chastest and sweetest 
colours of language to make them harmonize 
with the dignity of a philosophical poem. His 
whole manner has a still depth of feeling and 
reflection, which gives back the image of nature 
unruffled and minutely. He has no redundant 
thoughts or false transports ; but seems, on every 
occasion, to have weighed the impulse to which 
he surrendered himself. Whatever ardour or 
casual felicities he may have thus sacrificed, he 
gained a high degree of purity and self-posses- 
sion. His chaste pathos makes him an insinuat- 
ing moralist, and throws a charm of Claude-like 
softness over his descriptions of homely objects 
that would seem only fit to be the subjects of 
Dutch painting. But his quiet enthusiasm leads 
the affections to humble things without a vulgar 
association; and he inspires us with a fondness 
to trace the simplest recollections of Auburn, 
till we count the furniture of its ale-house and 
listen tot 

" The varnish'd clock, that tick'd behind the door." 
He betrays so little effort to make us visionary 
by the usual and palpable fictions of his art ; he 
keeps apparently so close to realities, and draws 
certain conclusions, respecting the radical in- 
terests of man, so boldly and decidedly, that we 
pay him a compliment, not always extended to 
the tuneful tribe, that of judging his sentiments 
by their strict and logical interpretation. In 
thus judging him by the test of his philosophical 
spirit, I am not prepared to say that he is a 
purely impartial theorist. He advances general 
positions respecting the happiness of society, 
founded on limited views of truth, and under the 
bias of local feelings. He contemplates only one 
side of the question. It must always be thus in 
poetry. Let the mind be ever so tranquilly dis- 
posed to reflection, yet if it retains poetical sen- 
sation, it will embrace only those speculative 
opinions that fall in with the tone of the imagi- 
nation. Yet I am not disposed to consider his 



[t Compnre the 1 omelines.'-e.s of rusticity in G(.ld<nii;h 
with tl.o e in B!o"mlielil and cithers, and see lii.s supeiio- 
rit.v in uniiitu i\e art. natural ele;.'an<e, simplicity, and 
p tlii.i--, cif nil ciur (■•Hiplet writers Gold miih be:ir,s uu- 
q;.e-ili miiljly Ih'' f ■we^t marks of hibour ; there i.s a secret 
1 appiiiess nl out m11 lie wio.e, that seems tii hiive cost nr, 
truuljle, no eiue to coudeu.se, to strengthen or 'eiouuh.] 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



567 



principles as absurd, or his representations of life 
as the mere reveries of fancy. 

In "The Deserted Village," he is an advocate 
for the agricultural, in preference to the commer- 
cial prosperity of a nation ; and he pleads for 
the blessings of the simpler state, not with tl>e 
vague predilection for the country which is com- 
mon to poets, but with an earnestness that pro- 
fesses to challenge our soberest belief. Between 
Rousseau's celebrated letter on the influence of 
the sciences, and this popular poem, it will not 
be difficult to discover some resemblance of prin- 
ciples. They arrive at the same conclusions 
against luxury : the one from contemplating the 
ruins of a village, and the other from reviewing 
the downfall of empires. But the English poet 
is more moderate in his sentiments than the 
philosopher of Geneva; he neither stretches them 
to such obvious paradox, nor involves them in so 
many details of sophistry : nor does he blaspheme 
all philosophy and knowledge in pronouncing a 
malediction on luxury. Rousseau is the advocate 
of savageness. Goldsmith only of simplicity. 
Still, however, his theory is adverse to trade, and 
wealth, and arts. He delineates their evils, and 
disdains their vaunted benefits. This is certainly 
not philosophical neutrality; but a neutral balanc- 
ing of arguments would have frozen the spirit 
of poetry. We must consider him as a pleader 
on that side of the question, which accorded with 
the predominant state of his heart; and, con- 
sidered in that light, he is the poetical advocate 
of many truths. He revisits a spot consecrated 
by his earliest and tenderest recollections ; he 
misses the bloomy flush of life, which had marked 
its once busy, but now depopulated scenes; he 
beholds the inroads of monopolizing wealth, 
which had driven the peasant to emigration ; and 
tracing the sources of th^ evil to " 'I'rade's proud 
empire," which has so often proved a transient 
glory, and an enervating good, he laments the 
stale of society, " where wealth accumulates and 
men decay." Undoubtedly, counter views of the 
sul>ject might have presented themselves, both to 
the poet and philosopher. The imagination of 
either might have contemplated, in remote per- 
spective, the replenishing of empires beyond the 
deep, and the diffusion of civilized existence, as 
eventual consolations of futurity, for the present 
surterings of emigration. But those distant and 
cold calculations of optimism would have been 
wholly foreign to the tone and subject of the 
poem. It was meant to fix our patriotic sym- 
pathy on an innocent and sufl'ering class of the 
community, to refresh our recollections of the 
simple joys, the sacred and strong local attach- 
ments, and all the manly virtues of rustic life. 
Of such virtues the very remembrance is by de- 
grees obliterated in the breasts of a commercial 
people. It was meant to rebuke the luxurious 
»nd selfish spirit of opulence, which, imitating 



the pomp and solitude of feudal abodes, without 
their hospitality and protection, surrounded itself 
with monotonous pleasure grounds, which indig- 
nantly "spurned the cottage from the green." 

On the subject of those mis-named improve- 
ments, by the way, in which 

" Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose, 
UuwielJy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose," 

the possessors themselves of those places have 
not been always destitute of compunctions simi- 
lar to the sentiments of the poet. Mr. Potter, in 
his " Observations on the Poor Laws," has re- 
corded an instance of it. " When the late Earl 
of Leicester was complimented upon the com- 
pletion of his great design at Holkham, he re- 
plied, ' It is a melancholy thing to stand alone in 
one's country. I look round, not a house is to 
be seen but mine. I am the Giant of Giant 
Castle ; and have eat up all my neighbours.' " 

Although Goldsmith has not examined all the 
points and bearings of the question suggested by 
the changes in society which were passing before 
his eyes, he has strongly and affectingly pointed 
out the immediate evils with which those changes 
were pregnant. Nor while the picture of Au- 
burn delights the fancy, does it make a useless 
appeal to our moral sentiments. It may be well 
sometimes that society, in the very pride and 
triumph of its improvement, should be taught to 
pause and look back upon its former steps: to 
count the virtues that have been lost, or the vic- 
tims that have been sacrificed by its changes. 
Whatever may be the calculations of the political 
economist as to ultimate ertt?cts, the circumstance 
of agricultural wealth being thrown into large 
masses, and of the small farmer exiled from his 
scanty domain, foreboded a baneful influence on 
the independent character of the peasantry, 
which it is by no means clear that subsequent 
events have proved to be either slight or 
imaginary. 

Pleasing as Goldsmith is, it is impossible to 
ascribe variety to his poetical character ; and Dr. 
Johnson has justly remarked something of an 
echoing resemblance of tone and sentiment be- 
tween " The Traveller" and " Deserted Village." 
But the latter is certainly an improvement on its 
predecessor. The field of contemplation in 
" The Traveller," is rather desultory. The other 
poem has an endearing locality, and introduces 
us to beings with whom the imagination con- 
tracts an intimate friendship. Fiction in poetry 
is not the reverse of truth, but her soft and en- 
chanted resemblance ; and this ideal beauty of 
nature has been seldom united with so much 
sober fidelity as in the groups and scenery of 
"The Deserted Village."* 

[* Where i-i the poetry of whic h one half !.■< good ? Is 
it the ..liniad y Is it Milton's? Is it Dryden's? Is it any 
one's except Pope's and Gold-imith"s, of which all is good. 
— Uyron's Wvrlcs, vol. iv. p. 306.1 



568 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



THE TRAVELLER; OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY. 

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, 
Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po ; 
Or onward, where the rude Cerinthian boor 
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door; 
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
A weary waste expanding fo the skies ; 
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, 
My heart untraveli'd fondly turns to thee; 
Stdl to my Brother turns, with ceaseless pain. 
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. 

Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend. 
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend; 
Bless'd be that spot, where cheerful guests retire 
To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire; 
Bless'd that abode, where want and pain repair, 
And every stranger finds a ready chair; 
Bless'd be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, 
Where all the ruddy family around 
Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, 
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; 
Or press the bashful stranger to his food, 
And learn the luxury of doing good. 

But me, not destined such delights to share, 
My prime of life in wandering spent and care: 
Impell'd with steps unceasing, to pursue 
Some fleeting good, that mocks me vvith the view ; 
That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, 
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies ; 
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone. 
And find no spot of all the world my own. 

Even now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 
And, ])laced on high above the storui's career. 
Look downward where a hundred realms appear: 
Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide. 
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler 
pride. 

When thus creation's charms around comlnne, 
Auiidst the store, should thankless pride repine! 
Say. should the philoso|jhic mind disdain 
Thatgood which makes each humbler bosom vain] 
Let scho'ol-taught pride dissemble all it can, 
Those little things are great to little man ; 
And wiser he whose sympathetic mind 
Exults in all the good of all mankind. 
Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendour 

crown'd ; 
Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round; 
Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale ; 
Ye bending swains, that dress the fiowery vale ; 
For me your tributary stores combine : 
Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine. 
As some lone miser, visiting his store, 
Bends at his treasure, couuts, recounts it o'er; 
Hoarils after hoards his rising raptures fill. 
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still: 
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 
Pleased with each good that Heaven to man 

supplies : 
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall. 
To see the hoard of hunian bli.ss so small; 
And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find 
Some spot to real happiness cousign'd, 



Wheremy worn soul, each wandering hope at rest 
May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. 

But where to find that happiest spot below, 
Who can direct, when all pretend to know 1 
The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone 
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own; 
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 
And his long nights of revelry and ease; 
The naked negro, panting at the line, 
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, 
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave. 
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. 
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, 
His first, best country, ever i.s at home. 
And yet, perhap,s, if countries we compare, 
And estimate the blessings which they share, 
Though patriots flatter, still shall wi.sdora find 
An equal portion dealt to all mankind; 
As difl'erent good, by art or nature given, 
To ditterent nations makes their blessings even. 

Nature, a mother kind alike to all. 
Still grants her bliss at labour's earnest call ; 
With food as well the peasant is supplied 
On Idra's clilf as Arno's sheivy side ; 
And though the rocky crested summits frown, 
'i'hese rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down. 
From art more various are the blessings sent ; 
Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content. 
Yet these each other's power so strong contest. 
That either seems destructive of the resL 
Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment 

fails; 
And honour sinks where commerce long prevails. 
Hence every state to one loved blessing' prone, 
Conforms and models lile to that alone. 
Each to the fav'rite happiness attends, 
And spurns the plan that aims at other's ends; 
Till carried to excess in each domain. 
This fav'rite good begets peculiar pain. 

But let us try these truths with closer eyes, 
And trace them through the prospect as it lies : 
Here for a while my proper care's resign'd. 
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind ; 
Like yon neglected shrub at random cast. 
That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. 

Far to the right where Apennine ascends, 
Bright as the summer, Italy extends ; 
Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, 
Woods over woods in gay theatric pride ; * 
While oft some temple's mould'ring tops between, 
With venerable grandeur mark the scene. 

Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breastj 
The sons of Italy were surely blest. 
Whatever fruits in different climes were found. 
That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground; 
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear. 
Whose bright succession decks the varied year; 
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die; 
These here disporting own the kindred soil. 
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil; 
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand 
To winnow fragrance round the sinihng laud. 

But small the bliss that sense alone liestows. 
And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



509 



In florid beauty groves and fields appear, 

Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. 

Contrasted faults through all his manners reign; 

Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain ; 

Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue ; 

And even in penance planning sins anew. 

AH evils here contaminate the mind, 

That opulence departed leaves behind ; 

For wealth was theirs, not far removed the date, 

When commerce proudly flourish'd through the 

state; 
At her command the palace learn'd to rise, 
Again the long-fall'n column sought the skies; 
The canvas glow'd beyond even nature warm. 
The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form. 
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale. 
Commerce on other shores display'd her sail ; 
While nought remain'd of all that riches gave, 
But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave: 
And late the nation found with fruitless skill 
Its former strength was but plethoric ill. 

Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied 
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride ; 
Fronj these the feeble heart and long-fallen mind 
An easy compensation seem to find. 
Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array 'd, 
The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade; 
Processions form'd for piety and love, 
A mistress or a saint in every grove. 
By s[iorts like these are all their cares beguiled. 
The sports of children satisfy the child ; 
Each nobler aim, represt by long control, 
]\ow sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; 
While low delights, succeeding fast behind, 
In happier meanness occupy the mind : 
As in those domes, where Caesars once bore sway. 
Defaced by time and tott'ring in decay, 
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, 
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed; 
And, wondering man could want the larger pile, 
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 

My soul, turn from them ! turn we to survey 
Where rougher climes a nobler race display. 
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion 

tread, 
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread ; 
]\o ]iroduct here the barren hills aflbrd. 
But man ami steel, the soldier and bis sword. 
No ternal blo.jins their torpid rocks array, 
But winter lingering chills the lap of May ; 
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast. 
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 

Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm, 
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 
Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though 

small, 
He sees his little lot the lot of all ; 
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head 
To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; 
No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal 
To make him loath his vegetable meal ; 
But calm, and bred in ijiuorance and toil, 
Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. 
Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose. 
Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes ; 
72 



With patient angle trolls the finny deep. 
Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the steep 
Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way 
And drags the struggling savage into day. 
At night returning, every labour sped. 
He sits him down the monarch of a shed ; 
Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys 
His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze; 
While his loved partner, boastful of her hoard, 
Displays her cleanly platter on the board : 
And haply too some pilgrim, thither led. 
With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 

Thus every good his native wilds impart 
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; 
And even those ills, that round his mansion rise, 
Eidiance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. 
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, 
And dear that hill which lifts hitu to the storms; 
And as a child, when scaring sounds molest. 
Clings close and closer to the mother's breast. 
So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, 
But bind him to his native mountains more. 

Such are the charms to' barren states assign'd ; 
Their wants but few, their wishes all confined. 
Yet let them only share the praises due, 
If few their wants, their pleasures are but few ; 
For every want that stimulates the breast 
Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest. 
Whence from such lands each pleasing science 

flies. 
That first excites desire, and then supplies ; 
Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, 
To fill the languid pause with finer joy; 
Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, 
Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame 
Their level life is but a mouldering fire, 
Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire ; 
Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer 
On some high festival of once a year. 
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, 
Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. 

But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow: 
Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low; 
For, as refinement stops, from sire to son 
Unalter'd, unimproved the manners run ; 
And love's and friendship's finely-pointed dart 
Fall blunted from each indurated heart; 
Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast 
May sit, like falcons cowering on the nest; 
But all the gentler morals, such as play 
Through life's more cultured walks, and charm 

the way. 
These far dispersed on timorous pinions fly. 
To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 

To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, 
I turn : and France displays her bright domain. 
Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease. 
Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can 

please. 
How often have I led thy sportive choir, 
With tuneless pipe, beside the muriuuring Loire? 
Where shading elms along the margin grew. 
And freshen'd from the wave the zephyr flew; 
And haply, though my harsh touch, fault' ring still, 
But aiock'd ali tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill , 
2x2 



670 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



Vet would the village praise my wontlrous power, 
And dance forgetful of the noon-tide hour. 
Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days 
Have led their children through the mirthful maze, 
And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, 
Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore. 

So blest a life these thoughtless realms display. 
Thus idly busy rolls their world away: 
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear. 
For honour forms the social temper here. 
Honour, that praise which real merit gains. 
Or e'en imaginary worth oittains. 
Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand, 
It shifts in splendid traffic round the land: 
From courts to camps, to cottages it strays, 
And all are taught an avarice of praise ; 
They please, are pleased, they give to get esteem. 
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. 

But while this softer art their bliss supplies. 
It gives their follies also room to rise ; 
For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought, 
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought. 
And the weak soul, within itself unblest. 
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. 
Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art. 
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart; 
Here vanity assumes her pert grimace. 
And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace; 
Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer. 
To boast one splendid banquet once a j'ear; 
The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws. 
Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. 

To men of other minds my fancy flies, 
Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. 
Methinks her patient sons before me stand, 
M'here the broad ocean leans against the land, 
And, sedulous to stop the coming tide. 
Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. 
Onward, methinks, and diligently slow. 
The firm connected bulwark seems to grow ; 
Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar, 
Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore. 
While the pent ocean rising o'er the pile. 
Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile ; 
The slow canal, the yellow blossom'd vale. 
The willow tufted bank, the gliding sail. 
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, 
A new creation rescued from his reign. 

Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil 
Impels the native to repeated toil. 
Industrious habits in each bosom reign. 
And industry begets a love of gain. 
Hence all the good from opulence that springs. 
With all those ills superfluous treasure brings. 
Are here display'd. Their much-loved wealth 

imparts 
Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts ; 
But view them closer, craft and fraud appear, 
Even liberty itself is barter'd here. 
At gold's superior charms all freedom flies. 
The needy sell it, and the rich man buys; 
A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves. 
Here wretches seek dishonourable graves. 
And cahniy bent, to servitude coni'orm. 
Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. 



Heavens ! how unlike their Belgic sires of old ! 
Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold ; 
War in each breast, and freedom on each brow ; 
How much unlike the sons of Britain now ! 

Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, 
And flies where Britain courts the western spring; 
Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride. 
And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide ; 
There all around the gentlest breezes stray. 
There gentle music melts on every spray ; 
Creation's mildest charms are there combined, 
Extretnes are only in the master's mind. 
Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state. 
With daring aims irregularly great; 
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 
I see the lords of humankind pass by ; 
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, 
By forms unfashion'd, fresh from nature's hand; 
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul. 
True to imagined right above controul. 
While even the peasant boasts these rights to scan. 
And learns to venerate himself as man.* 

Thine, freedom, thine the blessings pictured 
here : 
Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear ; 
Too blest indeed, were such without alloy ; 
But foster'd even by freedom, ills annoy ; 
That independence Britons prize too high. 
Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie • 
The self-dependent lordlings stand alone. 
All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown, 
Here by the bonds of nature feebly held, 
Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd. 
Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, 
Represt ambition struggles round her shore, 
Till over-wrought, the general system feels 
Its motion stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. 

Nor this the worst. As Nature's ties decay, 
As duty, love, and honour fail to sway, 
Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, 
Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. 
Hence all obedience bows to thee alone. 
And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown ; 
Till time may come, when, stripp'd of all her 

charms. 
The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms. 
Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame. 
Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame, 
One sink of level avarice shall lie. 
And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd die. 

Yet think not, thus when Freedom's ills I state 
I mean to flatter kings, or court the great ; 
Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire. 
Far from my bosom drive the low desire ! 
And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel 
The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel ; 
Thou transitory flower, alike undone 
By proud contempt, or favour's fostering sun. 
Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure, 
I only would repress them to secure; 

[* We tiilked of Goldsmilfs Traveller, of wliiili Dr. 
John>on .«poke hi^jhly ; ami while I wa.s lieliiin;; him oq 
with his greati-cat. he repealtdly quoted from it the 
character of the liliti^ll naiion: «hi(h he did wilh su- h 
energy, that the tears started ia his e>e, — l<Os\vux'tj J"A«»- 
sun, vol. V. p. S5, ed, 1835.] 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



571 



For just experience tells in every soil, 
That those who think must govern those that toil ; 
And all that Freedotn's highest aims can reach, 
Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each. 
Hence, should one order disproportion'd grow, 
Its double weight must ruin all Lielovv. 

O then how blind to all that truth requires, 
Who think it freedom when a part aspires! 
Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, 
Except when fast approaching danger warms: 
But when contending chiefe blockade the throne, 
Contracting regal power to stretch their own. 
When I behold a factious band agree 
To call it freedom when themselves are free ; 
Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, 
Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law ; 
The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam, 
Pillaged from slaves to purchase slaves at home ; 
Fear, pity, justice, indignation start, - 
'J'ear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart ; 
Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, 
I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. 

Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour, 
When first ambition struck at regal power; 
And thus polluting honour in its source, 
Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. 
Have we not seen, round Briton's peopled shore, 
Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore 1 
Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, 
Like flaring tapers bright'ning as they waste ; 
Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain. 
Lead stern depopulation in her train, 
And over fields where scatter'd hamlets rose. 
In barren solitary pomp repose 1 
Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call, 
The smiling long-frequented village fall; 
Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd. 
The modest matron, and the blushing maid, 
Forced from their homes, a melancholy train, 
'I'o traverse climes beyond the western main ; 
Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, 
And Niagara stuns with thund'ring sound? 

Even now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim 

strays [ways ; 

Through tangled forests, and through dangerous 

Where beasts with man divided empire claim. 

And the brown Indian marks with murd'rous 

aim ; 
There, while above the giddy tempest flies, 
And all around distressful yells arise, 
The pensive exile, bending with his woe, 
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go. 
Casts a long look where England's glories shine, 
And bids his bosom sympathise with mine. 

Vain, very vain, my weary search to find 
That bliss which only centres in the mind: 
Why have I stray'd, from pleasure and repose. 
To seek a good each government bestows ] 

("In the "Rt'pulilica Ilunsarica:" thi're is an a'-count 
of a desperate nbellinii in the year 1511. headed by two 
brothers of tht iiarie of Zeck, Ueorire and laiUe, wlieu it 
was quelled George, not Luke, wiis punislieil ly his he:.d 
beinn enciicleil 1 y a red hot iron crown. — 15 isw ki.i,.| 

[t "'the Traveller" appeared in December. 17(34, and 
w: 8 reviewed in the Critii-al lieview fir that month I y 
Dr. .Johnson, "i^ufh is the poem," he concludes his ex- 
tracts by saying, "on which we now congratulate the pub- 



In every government, though terrors reign. 
Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain. 
How small of all that human hearts endure. 
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure ! 
Still to ourselves in every place consign'd, 
Our own felicity we make or find : 
With secret course, which no loud storms annoy 
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. 
The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 
Luke's* iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel, 
To men remote from power but rarely known, 
Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own."! 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain, 

Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring 

swain. 
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid. 
And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd. 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease. 
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, 
How often have I loitered o'er thy green. 
Where humble happiness cndear'd each scene ! 
How often have I paused on every charm. 
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm. 
The never-failing brook, the busy mill, [hill, 

The decent church that topp'd the neighb'ring 
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade. 
For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made Tt 
How often have I bless'd the coming day. 
When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 
And all the village train, from labour free. 
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree. 
While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
The young contending as the old survey'd ; 
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground. 
And sleights of art and feats of strength went 
And still as each repeated pleasure tired, [round. 
Succeeding sports the mirthful band nispired ; 
The dancing pair that simply sought renown, 
By holding out, to tire each other down ; 
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 
While secret laughter titter'd round the place; 
The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love. 
The matron's glance that would those looks 

reprove. 
These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like 

these. 
With sweet succession, taught ev'n toil to please, 
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence 

shed, [fled. 

These were thy charms — But all these charms are 

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; 
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
And desolation saddens all thy green: 

lie, as on a proJuition to whi' h. .-^ince the de.ith of Pope, 
it will not be .a.-yti find any thing equal."] 

[t Lissoy, ne.nr Bill.mahou. where the poet's brother, 

the j^poi. fn m wliich tlie l0'rliii.>.< of the Dcrertid Village 
are derived, 'th' churi'h which tnp^ the neig.ib luriu'g 
hill, the mill, and the lin.olc, are stiil pniuted out— SlR 
Walter Scott, JUisc. U'uiKs, vol. iii. p. '^iO. I 



572 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



One only master grasps the whole domain, 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain; 
No more thy glassy brook reilects the day. 
But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way; 
Along thy glades, a solitary guest, 
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; 
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. 
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all. 
And the long grass o'ertops the mould'ring wall, 
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
Far, far away, thy children leave the land. 

Ill fares the land, to hast'ning ills a prey, 
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay; 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade: 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made; 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
When once destroy 'd, can never be supplied. • 

A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 
When every rood of ground maintain'd its man ; 
For him light labour spread her wholesome store, 
lust gave what life required, but gave no more: 
His best companions, innocence and health, 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 

But times are alter'd ; trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; 
Along the lawn, where scatler'd hamlets rose, 
Unwieldy wealth and cunib'rous po;np repose 
And every want to luxury allied. 
And every pang that folly pays to pride, 
'i'hose gentle hours that plenty bade to Moom, 
Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, 
'i'hose healthful sports that graced the peaceful 

scene, 
Lived in each look, and brighten'd all the green; 
'J'hesc, tar departing, seek a kinder shore. 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour, 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
Here, as I take my solitary rounds, 
Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds, 
And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train. 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 

In all my wand'rings round this world of care, 
In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
I still had hopes my latest hours to crown. 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; 
To liusl)and out life's taper at the close. 
And keep the flame from wasting by repose: 
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, 
Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill, 
Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; 
And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue, 
Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past. 
Here to return — and die at home at last. 

O blest retirement, friend to life's decline. 
Retreats from care that never must be mine. 
How blest is he who crowns in shades like these 
A youth of labour with an age of ease ; 
VV !io quits a world vvhefe strong temptations try, 
A.ni since 'tis hard to combat, iuarns to fly ! 



For him no wretches, born to work and weep. 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dang'rous deep; 
Ko surly porter stands in guilty state, 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate; 
But on he moves to meet his latter end, 
Angels around befriending virtue's friend; 
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay, 
While resignation gently slopes the way; 
And, all his prospects bright'ning to the last. 
His heaven commences ere the world be past !* 
Sweet was the sound, when, oft at ev'ning's close, 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, 
The mingling notes came soften'd from below ; 
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung. 
The sober herd that low'd to meet their young, 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
The playful children just let loose from'school. 
The watchtlog's voice that bay'd the whisij'ring 

wind. 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind; 
These all in sweet confusion sought the sliatle, 
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. 
But now the sounds of population fail, 
Ko cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, 
No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, 
But all the bloomy flush of life is fled. 
All but yon widow'd, solitary thing. 
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; 
irhe, wretched matron ! forced, in age, tor bread 
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 
To pick her wint'ry faggot from the thorn, 
'J'o seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; 
She only left of all the harmless train, 
The sad historian of the pensive plain, [smiled. 
Near yonder copse, where once the garden 
And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
The village preacher's modest mans. on rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear. 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year; 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race. 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change his 

place ; 
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, 
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; 
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, 
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train, 
He chid their wand'rings, but relieved their pain ; 
The long-rem^nber'd beggar was his guest. 
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast: 
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claim kindred there, and had his claims allow'd, 
The broken soldier, kindly bid to stay. 
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away 
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, 
Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields 

were won. 
Pleased with h.s guests, the good man learn'd to 

glow, 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe; 

[* This pi ture of resignation gave ri.«e to KcynolilKslte- 
sii;niitioii, an attempt. ;ig i^ir Joshua hiui.-elf ■ alls it, Ic 
express a character ia " The Deserted Village."] 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



573 



Careless their merit.-, or their faults to scan, 

His pity gave ere charity hegan. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 

And even his failings lean'd to virtue's side ; 

But in his duty prompt at every call. 

He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all. 

And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, 

To tempt its new fledg'd offspring to the skies, 

He tried each art, reproved each dull delay. 

Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid. 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd. 
The reverend champion stood. At his control 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise. 
And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd praise. 

At church, with meek and unatfected grace. 
His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; 
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, 
And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray. 
The service past, around the pious man, 
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran : 
Even children foUow'd with endearing wile. 
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's 

smile. 
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest. 
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest; 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
As some tall cliff' that lifts its awful form. 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm. 
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. [spread, 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way. 
With blossom'd furze uprofitably gay. 
There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, 
The village master taught his little school ; 
A man severe he was, and stern to view, 
I knew him well, and every truant knew; 
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face; 
Full well they laugh'd, with counterfeited glee, 
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; 
Full well the busy whisper circling round, 
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd; 
Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught. 
The love he bore to learning was in fault ; 
The village all declared how much he knew: 
'Twas certain he could write, and cypher too; 
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 
And even the story ran that he could guage : 
Li arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill. 
For even though vanquish'd, he could argue still ; 
W hile words of learned length, and thund'ring 

sound. 
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around. 
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew. 
That one small head could carry all he knew. 
— But past is all his fame. The very spot. 
Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. 

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye. 
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts 

inspired, 
WK^re grav-beard mirth, and smiling toil retired, 



Where village statesmen talk'd with looks pro- 
found. 
And news much older than their ale went round 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlour splendours of that festive place; 
The while-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor. 
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door; 
The chest contrived a double debt to pay, 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 
The pictures placed for ornament and use. 
The Twelve Good Rules, the Royal Game of 

Goose ; 
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day. 
With aspen boughs, and flowers and fennel gay, 
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show. 
Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. 

Vain transitory splendour ! could not all 
Reprieve the tott'ring mansion from its fall ! 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart ; 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair, 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale. 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear; 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest. 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 

Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
These simple blessings of the lowly train. 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art; 
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play. 
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway 
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. 
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade. 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array 'd, 
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 
And, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy 1 

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey 
The rich man's joy increase, the poor's decay, 
'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand 
Between a splendid and a happy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore. 
And shouting folly hails them from her shore ; 
Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound. 
And rich men flock from all the world around. 
Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name 
That leaves our useful product still the same. 
Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 
Takes up a space that many poor supplied; 
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds. 
Space for his horses, equipage and hounds; 
The robe that wra])s his limbs in silken sloth 
Has robb'd the neighbouring fields of half theii 

growth; 
His seat, where solitary sports are seen, 
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; 
Around the world each needful product flies, 
For all the luxuries the world supplies. 



674 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasure all, 
In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. 

As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, 
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, 
Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies. 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes: 
But when those charms are past, for charms are 
When time advances, and when lovers fail, [frail, 
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, 
In all the glaring impotence of dress. 
Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd, 
In nature's simplest charms at first array'd, 
But verging to decline, its splendours rise, 
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise; 
While, scourged by famine from the smiling land, 
The mournful peasant leads his humble band; 
And while he sinks, without one arm to save, 
The country blooms — a garden, and a grave. 

Where then, ah ! where shall poverty reside, 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride 1 
If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd, 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade. 
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
And even the bare-worn common is denied. 

If to the city sped — What waits him there 1 
To see profusion that he must not share ; 
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind; 
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know 
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. 
Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, 
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade; 
Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps 

display. 
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign. 
Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train; 
Tumultuous grandeur crowns the blazing square, 
The rattling chariots clash, -the torches glare. 
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 
Sure these denote one universal joy ! 
Are these thy serious thoughts ] — Ah, turn thine 

eyes 
W'here the poor houseless shiv'ring female lies. 
She once, perhaps, in village plenty bless'd. 
Has wept at tales of innocence distress'd ; 
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn. 
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn: 
Now lost to all ; her friends, her virtue fled, 
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head. 
And, pinch 'd with cold, and shrinking from the 

shower. 
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour 
When idly, first ambitious of the town, 
She left her wheel and robes ot country brown. 

Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ] [Ivain, 
Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led. 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread ! 

Ah, no. To distant climes a dreary scene. 
Where half the convex world intrudes between. 
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, 
Where wild Altama* murmurs to their woe. 

f* A KiTer in Georgia, North America.] 



Far difTerent there from all that charm'd before, 
The various terrors of that horrid shore ; 
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray. 
And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, 
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; 
Those poisonous fields, with rank luxuriance 

crown'd. 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey. 
And savage men more murderous still than they; 
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies. 
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 
Far different these from every former scene. 
The cooling brook, the grassy vested green, 
The breezy covert of the warbling grove. 
That only shelter'd thefts of harndess love. 
Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloom'd that 

parting day. 
That call'd them from their native walks away; 
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past. 
Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their 

last. 
And took a long fiircwell, and wish'd in vain 
For seats like these beyond the western main ; 
And shudd'ring still to face the distant deep, 
Keturn'd and wept, and still return'd to weep. 
The good old sire the first prepared to go 
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe; 
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave. 
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave. 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears. 
The fond companion of his helpless years, 
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 
And left a lover's for a father's arms. 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, 
And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose: 
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a 

tear. 
And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear; 
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
In all the silent manliness of grief. 

O Luxury ! thou cursed by Heaven's decree, 
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! 
How do thy potions, with insidious joy, 
DiH'use their pleasures only to destroy ! 
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 
Boast of a florid vigour not their own. 
At every draught more large and large they 

grow, 
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe; 
Till sapp'd theirstrength,and every part unsound, 
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 

Even now the devastation is begun. 
And half the business of destruction done; 
Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 
I see'the rural virtues leave the land. 
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail 
That idly waiting flaps with every gale, 
Downward they move, a melancholy band. 
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
Contented Toil, and hospitable Care, 
And kind connubial Tenderness are there ; 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



And Piety with wishes placed above. 
And steady Loyalty, and faithful Love. 
And thou sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, 
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; 
Unfit in these degenerate times of shame 
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; 
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, 
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride; 
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe. 
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ; 
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel. 
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well ; 
Farewell, and oh ! where'er thy voice be tried, 
On Torno's clifis, or Pambamarca's side. 
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, 
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 
Redress the rigours of the inclement clime; 
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; 
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
Teach him, that states of native strength possest. 
Though very poor, may still be very blest; 
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay. 
As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away ; 
While self-dependent power can time defy, 
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.* 



THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 

A POETICAL EPISTLE TO ROBERT NUGENT LORD CLARE.f 

Thanks, my Lord, for your venison, for finer or 

fatter 
Never ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter ; 
The haunch was a picture for painters to study. 
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy: 
Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce 

help regretting 
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating; 
I had thoughts, in my chambers, to place it in 

view. 
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtu : 
As in some Irish houses, where things are so-so. 
One gammon of bacon hangs up tor a show : 
But, iijr eating a rasher of what they take pride in. 
They'd as soon think ofeatingthe pan itisfriedin. 
But hold — let me pause — don't I hear you pro- 
nounce. 
This tale of the bacon a damnable bounce; 
Well ! suppose it a bounce — sure a poet may try, 
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. 
But, my lord, it's no bounce : I protest in my 
turn, 
Its a truth — and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn. 



[* The four last lines were supplied by Dr. ■Tohnson.] 
[t 'Ihc leading idea of thi.i poem is from Uoileau's tbird 
Satire, and several of the p;.Bsa^es are fom the same 
quarter. The truth is that Go dsmith, with his many 
merits and great oiigiuality. wsus an unsparing plagiarist. 
We shall instance here one of his thefts, the more so that 
it is uunoticeJ liy Mr. I'lior, am! is as yet we believe un- 
known. -'I'ainting and -Music," he pays in his dedication 
of The Trayeller, "at first rival ioetry,aud at leng h sup- 
plant hir; they engross all that favour onceshoivu to her, 
and thouiih but younger sisters, seize upon the elder's 
birth rij,'!.!.'- This is wholesale from Oryden : 

Our arts are sisters though not twins in birth; 
For hyn. ns were sung in Jblden's happy earth : 



To go on with my tale — as I gazed on the haunch, 
I thought of a friend that was trusty and 

staunch. 
So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest. 
To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best. 
Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose; 
'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival 

Monroe's : 
But in parting with these I was puzzled again. 
With the how, and the who, and the where, and 

the when. 
There's H— d, and C— y, and H— rth, and H— flf, 
I think they love venison — •! know they love beef. 
There's my countryman Higgins — Oh ! let him 

alone 
For making a blunder, or picking a bone. 
But hang it — to poets who seldom can eat, 
Your very good mutton's a very good treat; 
Such dainties to them their health it might hurt. 
It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a 

shirt. J 
While thus I debated, in reverie center'd. 
An acquaintance, a friend, as he call'd himself, 

enter'd ; 
An under-bred, fine spoken fellow was he. 
And he smiled as he look'd at the venison and me. 
" What have we got here T — why, this is good 

eating ! 
Your own I suppose — or is it in waiting!" 
" Why, whose should it be?" cried I with a flounce, 
"I get these things often ;" but that wasa bounce ; 
"Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the 

nation, 
Are pleased to be kind; but I hate ostentation." 
" If that be the case then," cried he very gay, 
" I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. 
To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me; 
No words — I insist on't — precisely at three: 
We'll have Johnson, and Burke ; all the wits will 

be there ; 
My acquaintance is slight or I'd ask my Lord Clare. 
And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner, 
We wanted this venison to make out a dinner! 
What say you — 'a pasty, it shall and it must. 
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. 
Here, porter — this venison with me to Mile-end ; 
No stirring, I beg, my dear friend, my dear 

friend !" 
Thus snatching his hat, he brushed off like the 

wind, 
And the porter and eatables follow'd behind. 

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, 
And " nobody with me at sea but myself:" 



But oh, the painter Muse, though last in place, 
Has seized the blessing flr8t,Iike Jacolvs race. 

To Sir G'lifrey Kneller.] 
[J This was an o'd ."aying with Goldsmith. "The king," 
he writes to his brother, "has lately Leen (leased to make 
me Professor of Ancient History in a 1 oyal Academy ot 
Painting;, which he has just eslabli hed, but lht<re is uc 
salary annexed: and 1 tmk it rather as a (■omp:iment to 
the institution than any benefit to myself Iluiiours to one 
in my situation, are something like ruffle- to one that 
wanti a shirt." This is not noticed by Mr. Prior, who hM 
traced many of (ioldmith's thoughts from verse to prose 
and from prose to versc.J 




Though I could not help thinking my gentleman 

hasty, 
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and agood venison pasty. 
Were things that I never disliked in my life, 
Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. 
So next day in due splendour to make my ap- 
proach, 
I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach. 
When come to the place where we all were to 

dine, 
(A chair-lumlier'd closet just twelve feet by nine,) 
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite 

dumb. 
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not 

come; 
" For I knew it," he cried, "both eternally fail, 
The one with his speeches, and t'other with 

Thrale : 
But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the 

party. 
With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. 
The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, 
They're both of them merry, and authors like you ; 
The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge ; 
Some thinks he writes Cinna — he owns to Pa- 

nurge." 
While thus he described them by trade and by 

name. 
They enter'd, and dinner was served as they came. 

At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen. 
At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen ; 
At the sides there were spinnach and pudding 

made hot ; 
In the middle a place where the pasty — was not. 
Now, my lord, as for tripe its my utter aversion. 
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian ; 
So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound. 
While the hacon and liver went merrily round ; 
But what vex'd me most, was that d 'd Scot- 

ish rogue. 
With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and 

his brogue; [poison, 

^nd, "Madam," quoth he, "may this bit be my 



A prettier dinner I never set eyes on ; 
Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst, 
But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst." 
" The tripe," quoth the Jew, with his chocolate 

cheek, 
" I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week : 
I like these here dinners so pretty and small; 
But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing 

at all." 
" O — ho !" quoth my friend, " he'll come on in a 

trice, 
He's keeping a corner for something that's nice : 
There's a pasty" — " A pasty," repeated the Jew ; 
" I don't care if I keep a corner for't too." 
" What the de'il, mon, a pasty !" re-echoed the 

Scot; 
" Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that." 
" We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out; 
" We'll all keep a corner," was echoed about. 
While thus we resolved, and the pasty delay'd. 
With looks that quite petrified enter'd the maid: 
A visage so sad and so pale with affright. 
Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night. 
But we quickly found out, for who could mistake 

her] 
That she came with some terrible news from the 

baker : 
And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven 
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. 
Sad Philomel thus — but let similes drop — 
And now that I think on't, the story may stop. 
To be plain, ray good lord, its but labour mis- 
placed, 
To send such good verses to one of your taste ; 
You've got an odd something — a kind of discern- 
ing— 
A relish — a taste — sicken'd over by learning ; 
At least, it's your temper, as very well known, 
That you think very slightly of all that's your 

own: 
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, 
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of 
this. 



PAUL WHITEHEAD. 



[Born, 1710. Died, 1774.] 



Paul Whitehead was the son of a tailor in 
London ; and, after a slender education, was 
placed as an apprentice to a woollen-draper. 
He afterward went to the Temple, in order to 
study law. Several years of his life (it is not 
quite clear at what period) were spent in the 
Fleet-prison, owing to a debt which he foolishly 
contrai'ted, by putting his name to a joint secu- 
rity for 3000/. at the request of his friend Fleet- 
wood, the theatrical manager, who persuaded 
him that his signature was a mere matter of 
form. How he obtained his Hberation we are not 
informed. 

In the year 1735 he married a Miss Anne 



Dyer, with whom he obtained ten thousand 
pounds. She was homely in her person, and 
very weak in intellect ; but Whitehead, it ap- 
pears, always treated her with respect and ten- 
derness. 

He became, in the same year, a satirical 
rhymer against the ministry of Walpole ; and 
having published his " State Dunces," a weak 
echo of the manner of the " Dunciad," he was 
patronized by the opposition, and particularly by 
Bubb Doddington. In 1739 he published" the 
" Manners," a satire, in which Mr. Chalmers 
says, that he attacks every thing venerable in 
the constitution. The poem is not worth dis- 



WALTER HARTE. 



57/ 



puting about ; but it is certainly a mere personal 
lampoon, and no attack on the constitution. For 
this invective he was summoned to appear at 
the bar of the House of Lords, but concealed 
himself for a time, and the affair was dropped. 
The threat of prosecuting him, it was suspected, 
was meant as a hint to Pope, that those who 
satirised the great might bring themselves into 
danger; and Pope (it is pretended) became more 
cautious. There would seem, however, to be 
nothing very terrific in the example of a prose- 
cution, that must have been dropped either from 
clemency or conscious weakness. The ministerial 
journals took another sort of revenge, by accus- 
ing him of irreligion ; and the evidence which 
they candidly and consistently brought to sub- 
stantiate the charge, was the letter of a student 
from Cambridge, who had been himself expelled 
from. the university for atheism. 

Li 1744 he published another satire, entitled 



the " Gymnasiad," on the most renowned boxers 
of the day. It had at least the merit of being 
harmless. 

By the interest of Lord Despenser, he obtained 
a place under government, that of deputy trea- 
surer of the chamber ; and retiring to a hand- 
some cottage, which he purchased atTwickenham, 
he lived in comfort and hospitality, and suffered 
his small satire and politics to be equally forgot- 
ten. Churchill attacked him in a couplet, — 

" May I (can worse disgrace on manhood fall ?) 
Be born a Whitehead, and baptized a Paul." 

But though a libertine like Churchill, he seems 
not to have been the worse man of the two. Sir 
John Hawkins gives him the character of being 
good-hearted, even to simplicity ; and says, that 
he was esteemed at Twickenham for his kind 
offices, and for composing quarrels among his 
neighbours. 



HUNTING SONG. 

The sun from the east tips the mountains with 

gold ; 
The meadows all spangled with dew-drops behold ! 
Hear ! the lark's early matin proclaims the new 

day, [delay. 

And the horn's cheerful summons rebukes our 

CHORUS. 

With the sports of the field there's no pleasure 

can vie, 
While jocund we follow the hounds in full cry. 

Let the drudge of the town make riches his 

sport ; 
The slave of the state hunt the smiles of the court : 
No care and ambition our pastime annoy. 
But innocence still give a zest to our joy. 

With the sports, &c. 



Mankind are all hunters in various degree ; 
The priest hunts a living — the lawyer a fee, 
The doctor a patient — the courtier a place. 
Though often, like us, he's flung out in the chase. 
With the sports, &c. 

The cit hunts a plumb — while the soldier hunts 
The poet a dinner — the patriot a name ; [fame, 
And the practised coquette, though she seems to 

refuse, 
In spite of her airs, still her lover pursues. 

With the sports, &c. 

Let the bold and the busy hunt glory and wealth ; 
All the blessing we ask is the blessing of health. 
With hound and with horn through the woodlands 

to roam, 
And, when tired abroad, find contentment at home 
With the sports, &c 



WALTER HARTE. 



[Born, about 1707. Died, 1774.3 



The father of this writer was a fellow of 
Pembroke college, Oxford, prebendary of Wells, 
and vicar of St. Mary's at Taunton, in Somer- 
setshire. When Judge Jefferies came to the 
assizes at Taunton, to execute vengeance on the 
sharers of Monmouth's rebellion, Mr. Harte 
waited upon him in private, and remonstrated 
against his severities. The judge listened to him 
attentively, though he had never seen him be- 
fore. It was not in Jefferies'nature to practise 
humanity; but, in this solitary instance, he 
showed a respect for its advocate ; and in a few 
mouths advanced the vicar to a prebendal stall 
m the cathedral of Bristol. At the Revolution 
ihe aged clergyman resigned his preferments, 
73 



rather than take the oath of allegiance to King 
William ; an action which raises our esteem of 
his intercession with Jefferies, while it adds to the 
unsalutary examples of men supporting tyrants, 
who have had the virtue to hate their tyranny. 

The accounts that are preserved of his son, 
the poet, are not very minute or interesting. 
The date of his birth has not even been settled. 
A writer in the Gentleman's Magazine fixes it 
about 1707; but by the date of his degrees at 
the university, this supposition is utterly inad- 
missible; and all circumstances considered, it is 
impossible to suppose that he was born later than 
1700. He was educated at Marlborough college, 
and took his degree of master of irts at Oxfod, 
•2 V 



WALTER HARTE. 



in 1720.* He was introduced to Pope at an 
early period of his life ; and, in return for the 
abundant adulation which he offered to that poet, 
was rewarded with his encouragement, and even 
his occasional assistance in versification. Yet, 
admirer as he was of Pope, his manner leans 
more to the imitation of Dryden. In 1727 he 
published, by subscription, a volume of poems, 
which he dedicated to the Earl of Peterborough, 
who, as the author acknowledges, was the first 
patron of his muse. In the preface it is boasted, 
that the poems had been chiefly written under 
the age of nineteen. As he must have been 
several years turned of twenty, when he made 
this boast, it exposes eilh<.r his sense or veracity 
to some suspicion. He either concealed what 
improvements he had made in the poems, or 
showed a bad judgment in not having improved 
them. 

His next publications, in 1730 and 1735, were 
an "Essay on Satire," and another on " Reason," 
to both of which Pope is supposed to have con- 
tributed many lines. Two sermons, which he 
printed, were so popular as to run through five 
editions. He therefore rose, with some degree 
of clerical reputation, to be principal of St. Mary 
Hall, Oxford ; and was so much esteemed, that 
Lord Lyttelton recommended him to the Earl 
of Chesterfield, as the most proper tutor and 
travelling companion to his son. Harte had, 
indeed, every requisite for the preceptorship of 
Mr. Stanhope, that a Graevius or Gronovius could 
have possessed ; but none of those for which we 
should have supposed his father to have been 
most anxious. He was profoundly learned, but 
ignorant of the world, and awkward in his person 
and address. His pupil and he, however, after 
having travelled together for four years, parted 
with mutual regret; and Lord Chesterfield 
showed his regard for Harte by procuring for 
him a canonry of Windsor. 

During his connection with Lord Peterborough, 
that nobleman had frequently recommended to 
him to write the life of Gustavus Adolphus. For 
this historical work he collected, during his 
travels, much authentic and original information. 
It employed him for many years, and was pub- 
lished in 1759; but either from a vicious taste, 
or from his having studied the idioms of foreign 
languages till he had forgotten those of his own, 
he wrote his history in a style so obscure and 
uncouth, that its merits, as a woik of research, 
were overlooked, and its reception from the pub- 
lic was cold and mortifying. Lord Chesterfield, 
in speaking of its being translated into German, 
piously wishes " that its author had translated it 



r* This according to Mr.Croker's showing, {BnswcH, vol. 
;. p. 3(7) is not the case. The Walter Harte who trok his 
aegrce of A.M. at Pembroke Collesre, Oxford, iu 1720, was 
not the poet; for he was of St. Mary's Hall, and made 
A.M. on the 21et January 1730. 'Ihis one tact removes 
Mr. Campbell's after difficulties.] 

[t Boswell by Crokcr, vol. iv. p. 449.] 

f* '• Ilai te's Life of Gustavu,s Adoliihus, Mr. Chalmers 
♦ells us, was 'a very unfortunale publiialion. Hume's 
Uouse of Tudor came out the same week, and Kobertson's 



into English ; as it was full of Germanisms, 
Latinisms, and all isms but Anglicisms." All the 
time, poor Harte thought be was writing a style 
less laboured and ornate than that of his cotem- 
porarics ; and when George Hawkins, the book- 
seller, objected to some of his most violent phrases, 
he used to say, " George, that is what we call 
writing." This infatuation is the more surprising, 
that his Sermons, already mentioned, arc marked 
by no such affectation of manner ; and he pub- 
lished in 1764 "Essays on Husbandry," which 
are said to be remarkable for their elegance and 
perspicuity. 

Dr. Johnson, according to Boswell, said, "that 
Harte was exce.ssively vain: that he left London 
on the day his ' Life of Gustavus' was published, 
to avoid tlie great praise he was to receive ; but 
Robertson's ' History of Scotland' having come 
out the same day, he was ashamed to return to 
the scene of his mortification."! This sarcastic 
anecdote comes in the suspicious company of a 
blunder as to dates, for Robertson's " History of 
Scotland" was published a month after [before?] 
Harte's " Life of Gustavus ;" and it is besides 
rather an odd proof of a man's vanity, that he 
should have run away from expected compli- 
ments.J 

The failure of his historical work is alleged to 
have mortified him so deeply, as to have affected 
his health. All the evidence of this, however, is 
deduced from some expressions in his letters, in 
which he complains of frequent inilisposition. 
His biographers, first of all take it for granted, 
that a man of threescore could not possibly be 
indisposed from any other cause than from read- 
ing harsh reviews of his "Life of Gustavus;" 
and then, very consistently, show the folly of his 
being grieved at the fate of his history, by proving 
that his work was reviewed, on the whole, rather 
in a friendly and laudatory manner. Harte, 
however, was so far from being a martyr, either 
to the justice or injustice of criticism, that he 
prepared a second edition of the " Life of Gusta- 
vus" for the press; and announced, in a note, 
that he had finished the "History of the thirty 
Years War in Germany." His servant Dore, 
afterward an innkeeper at Bath, got possession 
of his MSS. and this work is supposed to be 
irrecoverably lost. In the mean time, he was 
struck with a palsy in 1766, which attacked him 
again in 1769, and put a period to his life five 
years after. At the time of his death he was 
vicar of St. Austel and Blazy in Cornwall. 

His poetry is little read; and I am aware of 
hazarding the appearance of no great elegance 
of taste, in professing myself amused and in- 



Ilistory of Scotland only a month before ; and after pe- 
rusing Ihese, poor Harte's ftyle coud not certainly be 
endured.' Mr.Cba!mers perhaps may require to be told 
that industry in collecting, examining, ai.d arranging the 
materials of history, and fdelity in using tbem, are the 
first qualities of an historian : that in tho.se qualities 
Harte has not been surpassed; that in the opiuion of mili- 
tary men Harte's is the liest military bistf.iy in our lan- 
guage, and that it is rising and will conliiiue to rise in 
repute." — SouiHiiY, ^uar. .Reit.vol. xi. p. 497.1 



WALTER HARTE. 



679 



terested by several parts n( it. particularly by his 
'Amaranth." In spite of pedantry and gro- 
tesqueness, he appears, in numerous passages, 
to have condensed the reflection and information 
of no ordinary mind. If the reader dislikes his 



story of "Eulogius," I have only to ir.form him, 
that I have taken some pains to prevent its being 
more prolix than is absolutely necessary, by the 
mechanical reduction of its superfluities. 



EULOGIUS: OR, THE CIIAKITABLE MASOX. 

FROM THE GREEK OP PAULUS STLLOOUS. 

In ancient times scarce talk'd of, and less known, 
When pious Justin fill'd the eastern throne. 
In a small dorp, till then for nothing famed, 
And by the neighbouring swains Thebais named, 
Eulogius lived: an humble mason he; 
In nothing rich but virtuous poverty. 
From noise and riot he devoutly kept, 
Sigh'd with the sick, and with the mourner wept; 
Half his rarn'd pittance to poor neighbours went; 
They had his alms and he had his content. 
Still from his little he could something spare 
To feed the hungry, and to clothe the bare. 
He gave, whilst aught he had, and knew no 

bounds ; 
The poor man's drachms stood for rich men's 

pounds; 
He learnt with patience, and with meekness taught, 
His life was but the comment of his thought. 
* * * * 

On the south aspect of a sloping hill, 
Whose skirts meandering Penus washes still. 
Our pious labourer pass'd his youthful days 
In peace and charity, in prayer and praise. 
No theatres of oaks around him rise, 
Whose roots earth's centre touch, whose head 

the skies ; 
No stately larch-tree there expands a shade 
O'er half a rood of Larrissean glade : 
No lofty poplars catch the n)urmuring breeze, 
Which loitering whispersonthecloud-capp'd trees; 
Such imagery of greatness ill became 
A nameless dwelling, and an unknown name! 
Instead of forest-monarclis, and their train. 
The unambitious rose bedeck'd the plain ; 
On skirting heights thick stood the clustering vine, 
And here and there the sweet-leaved eglantine; 
One lilac only, with a statelier grace, 
Presumed to claim the oak's and cedar's place. 
And, looking round him with a monarch's care, 
Spread his exalted houghs to wave in air. 

This spot, for dwelling fit, Eulogius chose, 
And in a month a decent homestall rose. 
Something between a cottage and a cell — ■ 
Yet virtue here could sleep, and peace could dwell. 
From living stone (but not of Parian rocks,) 
He chipp'd his pavement, and he squared his 

blocks : 
And then, without the aid of neighi)ours' art, 
Perform'd the carpenter's and glazier's part. 
The site was neither granted him nor giv'n ; 
'Twas nature's ; and the ground-rent due to 

heav'n. 
Wife he had none : nor had he love to spare ; 
\n aged nioiher wonted all his care. 



They thank'd their Maker for a pittance sent, 
Supp'd on a turnip, slept upon content. 

Four rooms, above, below, this mansion graced. 
With white-wash deck'd, and river-sand o'ercastt 
The first, (forgive my verse if too diffuse,) 
Perform'd the kitchen's and the parlour's use; 
The second, better bolted and immureil, 
From wolves his out-door family secured : 
(For he had twice three kids, besides their dams; 
A cow, a spaniel, and two fav'rite lambs:) 
A third, with herbs perfumed, and rushes spread, 
Held, for his mother's use, a feather'd bed: 
Two moss-mattresses in the fourth were shown ; 
One for himself, for friends and pilgrims one. 

No flesh from market-towns our peasant sought: 
He rear'd his frugal meat, but never bought: 
A kid sometimes for festivals he slew ; 
The choicer part was his sick neighbours' due : 
Two bacon-flitches made his S(mday's cheer, 
Some the poor had, and some out-lived the year: 
For roots and herbage, (raised at hours to spare,) 
With humble milk, composed his usual fare. 
(The poor man then was rich, and lived with 

glee; 
Each barley-head untax'd, and daylight free:) 
All had a part in all the rest could spare, 
The common water, and the common air. 

Meanwhile God's blessings made Eulogius 
thrive, 
The happiest, most contented man alive. 
His conscience cheer'd him with a life well spent, 
His prudence a superfluous something lent, 
Which made the poor who took, and poor who 

gave, content. 
Alternate were his labours and his rest. 
For ever blessing, and for ever blest. 

Eusebius, hermit of a neighh'ring cell. 
His brother Christian mark'd, and knew him well : 
With zeal unenvying, and with transport fired. 
Beheld him, praised him, loved him, and admired. 

" Then hear me, gracious Heaven, and grant my 
prayer ; 
Make yonder man the fav'rite of thy care: 
Nourish the plant with thy celestial dew. 
Like manna, let it fall, and still be new : 
Expand the blossoms of his gen'rous mind. 
Till the rich odour reaches half mankind. 
Then may his soul its free-born range enjoy, 
Give deed to will, and every power employ." 

The hermit's pr;iyer permitted, not approved ; 
Soon in a higher sphere Eulogius moved. 

One day, in turning some uncultured ground, 
(In hopes a freestone quarry might he found,) 
His mattock met resistance, and behold 
A casket burst, with di'monds fill'd, and gold. 
He cramm'd his pockets with the precious store. 
And every night review'd it o'er an J o'er; 



680 



WALTER HARTE. 



Till a ^ay conscious pride, unknown as yet, 
Touch'd a vain heart, and taught it to forget: 
And what still more his staggring virtue tried, 
His mother, tut'ress of that virtue, died. 

A neigli'ring matron, not unknown to fame, 
(Historians give her Teraminta's name,) 
The parent of the needy and distress'd, [blest: 
With large demesnes and well saved treasure 
(For, like th' Egyptian prince, she hoarded store 
To feed at periodic dearths the poor:) 
This matron, whiten'd with good works and age, 
Approach'd the sai)l)ath of her pilgrimage ; 
Her spirit to himself th' Almighty drew ; — 
Breath'd on th' alembic, and exhaled the dew. 
In souls prepared, the passage is a breath 
From time t' eternity, from life to death. 
But first, to make the poor her future care. 
She left the good Eulogius for her heir. 

Who but Eulogius now exults for joy 1 
New thoughts, new hopes, new views his mind 

employ. 
Pride push'd forth buds at every branching shoot. 
And virtue shrunk almost beneath the root. 
High raiged on Fortune's hill, new Alps he spies, 
O'ershoots the valley which beneath him lies. 
Forgets the depths between, and travels with his 
The tempter saw the danger in a trice, [eyes. 
(For the man slidder'd upon Fortune's ice:) 
And, having found a corpse, half dead, half warm, 
Revived it, and assumed a courtier's form; 
Swift to Thebais urged his airy flight; 
And measured half the globe in half a night. 
Libanius-like,* he play'd the sophist's part, 
And by soft marches stole upon the heart: 
Maintain'd that station gave new birth to sense, 
And call'd forth manners, courage, eloquence: 
Then touch'd with sprightly dashes here and there, 
(Correctly strong, yet seeming void of care,) 
The master-topic, which may most men move. 
The charms of beauty and the joys of love ! 
Eulogius falter'd at the first alarms. 
And soon the 'wakened passions buzz'd to arms ; 
Nature the clam'rous bell of discord rung, 
And vices from dark caverns swift upsprung. 
So, when hell's monarch did his summons make. 
The slumb'ring demons started from the lake. 
And now, the treasure found, and matron's 
store, 
Sought other objects than the tatter'd poor; 
Part to humiliated Apicius went, 
A part to gaming confessors was lent. 
And part, oh virtuous Thais, paid thy rent. 
Poor folks have leisure hours to fast and pray; 
Our rich man's business lay another way : 
No farther intercourse with heaven had he. 
But left good works to men of low degree : 
Warm as himself pronounced each ragged man, 
\nd bade distress to prosper as it can : 
Till, grown obdurate by mere dint of time. 
He deem'd all poor men rogues, and want a crime. 
Fame, not contented with her broad highway. 
Delights, for change, through private paths to 
stray ; 



* A famous Greek rhetorician in the fourth century, 
I'hose orations are still extant. 



And, wand'ring to the hermits distant cell. 
Vouchsafed Eulogius' history to tell. 

At night a dream confirm'd the hermit more ; 
He 'spied his friend on beds of roses laid: 
Round him a crowd of threat'ning furies stands, 
With instruments of vengeance in their hands. 

He waked aghast: he tore his hair. 
And rent his sackcloth garments in despair; 
Walk'd to Constantinople, and inquired 
Of all he met; at length the house desired 
By chance he found, but no admission gain'd ; 
A Thracian slave the porter's place maintain'd, 
(Sworn foe to thread-bare suppliants,) and with 

pride 
His master's presence, nay, his name denied. 

There walk'd Eusebius at the dawn of light. 
There walk'd at noon, and there he walk'd at night. 
In vain. — ^At length, by Providence's care. 
He found the door unclosed, nor servants near. 
He enter'd, and through several rooms of state 
Pass'd gently ; in the last Eulogius sat. 
Old man, good morrow, the gay courtier cried ; 
God give you grace, my son, the sire replied: 
And then, in terms as moving and as strong. 
As clear as ever fell from angel's tongue, 
Besought, reproved, exhorted, and condemn'd : 
Eulogius knew him, and, though known, con 
temn'd. 
The hermit then assumed a bolder tone; 
His rage was kindled, and his patience gone. 
Without respect to titles or to place, 
I call fhee (adds he) miscreant to thy face. 
My prayers drew down heaven's bounty oi. thv 

head, 
And in an evil hour my wishes sped. 
Ingratitude's black curse thy steps attend, 
Monster to God, and faithless to thy friend ! 
* * * The hermit went 

Back to Thebais full of discontent ; 
Saw his once impious rashness more and more. 
And, victim to convinced contrition, bore 
With Christian thankfulness the marks he wore. 
And then on bended knees with tears and sighs, 
He thus invoked the Ruler of the skies : 
" My late request, all-gracious Power, forgive ! 
And — that yon miscreant may repent, and live. 
Give him that poverty which suits him best. 
And leave disgrace and grief to work the rest." 

So pray'd the hermit, and with reason pray'd. — 
Some plants the sunshine ask, and some the shade. 
At night the nure-trees spread, but check theii 

bloom 
At morn, and lose their verdure and perfume. 
The virtues of most men will only blow, 
Like coy auric&Ias, in Alpine snow : 
Transplant them to the equinoctial line. 
Their vigour sickens and their tints decline. 
Meanwhile Eulogius, unabash'd and gay. 
Pursued his courtly track without dismay : 
Remorse was hoodwink'd, conscience charm'd 

away; 
Reason the felon of herself was made. 
And nature's substance hid by nature's ^hade ! 
Uur fine man, now completed, quickly found 
Congenial friends in Asiatic ground. 



WALTER HARTE. 



581 



The advent'rous pilot in a single year 
Learn'd his state cock-boat dext'rously to steer. 
By other arts he learns the knack to thrive; 
IMie most obsequious parasite alive : 
Chameleon of the court, and country too; 
Pays Caesar's tax, but gives the mob their due; 
And makes it, in his conscience, tlie same thing 
To crown a tribune, or behead a king. 

On less important days, he pass'd his time 
In virtuoso-ship, and crambo-rhyme: 
In gaining, jobl)ing, fiddling, painting, drinking, 
And every art of using time, but thinking. 
He gives the dinners of each upstart man, 
As costly, and luxurious, as he can ; 
Then weds an heiress of suburbian mold. 
Ugly as apes, but well endow'd with gold; 
There fortune gave him his full doze of strife, 
A scolding woman, and a jealous wife! 

T' increase this load, some sycophant report 
Destroy'd his int'rest und good grace at court. 
At this one stroke the man look'd dead in law: 
His flatt'rers scamper, and his friends withdraw. 

And now (to shoi ten my disastrous tale) 
Storms of affronts pour'd in as thick as hail. 
Each scheme for safety mischievously sped. 
And the drawn sword hung o'er him by a thread. 
Child he had none. His wii'e with sorrow died; 
Few women can survive the loss of pride. 

The Demon having tempted Euli'gius to engaj;e in rebel- 
lion against his Prime, he is cast into prison. 

Here, were it not too long, I might declare 
The motives and successes of the war; 
The prowess of the kn ghts, their martial deeds. 
Their swords, their shields, their surcoats, and 
Till Belisarius at a single blow [their steeds ; 
Suppress'd the faction and re|)eird the foe. 
By a quick death the traitors he relieved ; 
Condemn'd, if taken ; famish'd, if reprieved. 

Now see Eulogius (who had all betray'd 
Whate'er he knew) in loathsome dungeon laid: 
A pris'ner, first of war, and then of state: 
Rebel and traitor ask a double fate ! 
But good Justinian, whose exalted mind, 
(In spite of what Pirasmus urged,) inclined 
To mercy, soon the fijrfeit-life forgave, 
And freed it from the shackles of a slave. 
Then spoke with mild, but in majestic strain, 
Repent, and haste thee to Larissa's plain. 
Or wander through the world, another Cain. 
Thy lands and goods shall be the |)oor man's lot. 
Or feed the or[)hans you've so long forgot. 

Forsaken, helpless, recognised liy none 
Proscribed Eulogius left the unprosp'rous town: 
For succour at a thousand doors he knock'd ; 
Each heart was harden'd, and each door was 

lock'd. 
A pilgrim's staff he bore, of humble thorn ; 
Pervious to winds his coat, and saJly torn : 
Shoes be had none : a beggar gave a pair. 
Who saw fieet poorer than his own, and bare. 
He drank the stream, on dewberries he fed, 
A.nd wildings harsh supplied the place of bread ; 
Thus homeward urged h.s siilitary way ; 
(Four years he had been absent to a day.) 



Fame through Thebai's his arrival spread. 
Half his old friends reproach'd him, and half fled 
Of help and common countenance bereft. 
No creature own'd him, but a dog he left. 
Compunction touch'd his soul, and, wiser made 
By bitter sufi''rings he resumed his trade : 
Thank'd Heaven for want of power and want of 

pelf. 
That he had lost the world and found himself. 
Conscience and charity revived their part, 
And true humility enrich'd the heart. 
While grace celestial, with enlivening ray 
Beain'd forth, to gild the evening of his day. 
His neighbours niark'd the change, and each man 

strove 
By slow degrees t' applaud him, and to love. 
So Peter, when his tim'rous guilt was o'er. 
Emerged and stood twice firmer than before. 



CONTENTMENT, INDUSTRY, AND ACQUIESCENCE 
UNDER TUE DIVINE WILL. 



Why dwells my unofiended eye 
On yon blank desert's trackless waste ; 
All dreary earth, or cheerless sky. 
Like ocean wild, and bleak, and vast 1 
There Lysidor's enamour'd reed 
Ne'er taught the plains Eudosia's praise! 
There herds were rarely known to feed, 
Or birds to sing, or flocks to graze. 
Yes does my soul complacence find ; 
All, all from thee. 
Supremely gracious Deity, 
Corrector of the mind ! 



Tremble, and yonder Alp behold, 
Where half dead nature gasps below, 
Victim of everlasting cold, 
Entomb'd alive in endless snow. 
The northern side is horror all ; 
Against the southern PhcEbus plays ; 
In vain th' innoxious glimm'rings fall, 
The frost outlives, outshines the rays. 
Yet consolation still I find ; 
And all from thee. 
Supremely gracious Deity, 
Corrector of the mind ! 



For nature rarely form'd a soil 
Where diligence subsistence wants: 
Exert but care, nor spare the toil. 
And all beyond, th' Almighty grants. 
Each earth at length to culture yields, 
Each earth its own manure contains; 
'J'hus the Corycian nurst his fields. 
Heaven gave th' increase, and he the pains 
Th' industrious peace and p^^nty find; 
All due to thee. 
Supremely gracious Deity, ' 
Composer of the mind ! 



582 



ANONYMOUS. 



Scipio sought virtue in his prime, 
And, having early gain'cl the prize, 
Stole frorii th' ungrateful world in time, 
Contented to hf- low and wise I 
He served the Ntate with zeal and force, 
And then with dignity retired; 
Dismounting fiom th' unruly horse, 
To rule himself, as sense required, 

Without a sigh, he pow'r resign'd. 

All, all from thee, 
Supremely gracious Deity, 
Corrector of the mind ! 

When Diocletian sought repose, 

Cloy'd and fatigued with nauseous pow'r, 

He left his empire to his foes. 

For fools t' admire, and rogues devour: 

Rich in his poverty, he bought 

Retirement's innocence and health, 

With his own hands the monarch wrought, 

And changed a throne for Ceres' wealth. 

Toil soothed his cares, his blood refined 

And all from thee. 
Supremely gracious Deity, 
Composer of the mind ! 

He, who had ruled the world, exchanged 
His sceptre for the peasant's spade. 
Postponing (as through groves he ranged,) 
Court splendour to the rural shade. 
Child of his hand, th' engrafted thorn 
More than the victor laurel pleased : 



Heart's-ease, and meadow-sweet adorn 
The brow, from civic garlands eased. 

Fortune, however poor, was kind 

All, all from thee. 
Supremely gracious Deity, 
Corrector of the mind ! 

Thus Charles, with justice styled the great 

For valour, piety, and laws, 

Resign'd two empires to retreat. 

And from a throne to shades withdraws, 

In vain (to soofh a monarch's pride,) 

His yoke the willing Persian bore : 

In vain the Saracen complied. 

And fierce Northumbrians stain'd with gore. 

One Gallic farm his cares confined ; 

And all from thee. 

Supremely gracious Deity, 

Composer of the mind ! 

Observant of th' almighty will, 
Prescient in faith, and pleased with toil, 
Abram Chaldea left, to till 
The moss-grown Haram's flinty soil; 
Hydras of thorns absorb'd his gain. 
The commonwealth of weeds rebell'd, 
But labour tamed th' ungrateful plain. 
And famine was by art repell'd ; 

Patience made churlish nature kind. 

All, all from thee. 
Supremely gracious Deity, 
Corrector of the mind ! 



ANONYMOUS. 



FROM THE ANNUAL REGISTEK FOR 1774. 



Copied from the window of an obscure lodging-house in 
the neighbourhood of London. 

Stranger! whoe'er thou art, whose restless 
mind, 
liike me within these walls is cribb'd, confined ; 
Learn how each want that heaves our mutual sigh 
A woman's soft solicitudes supply. 
From her white breast retreat all rude alarms, 
Or fly the magic circle of her arms ; 
While souls exchanged alternate grace acquire, 
\nd passions catch from passions glorious fire : 



What though to deck this roof no arts combine, 
Such forms as rival every fair but mine; 
INo nodding plumes, our humble couch above. 
Proclaim each triumph of unbounded love; 
No silver lamp with sculptured Cupids gay. 
O'er yielding beauty pours its midnight ray; 
Yet Fanny's charms could Time's slow flight 

beguile. 
Soothe every care, and make each dungeon 

smile: 
In her, what kings, what saints have wish'd, \s 

given. 
Her heart is empire, and her love is heaven. 



EDWARD LOVIBOND. 



[Born, . Died, 1775.] 



Edwaed Lovibond was a gentleman of fortune, 
who lived at Hampton, in Middlesex, where he 
chiefly amused himself with the occupations of 
rural economy. According to the information 
of Mr. Chalmers, he was a director of the East 



India Company. He assisted Moore in his ]ii'- 
riodical paper called the " World," to which he 
contributed " The Tears of Old May-Day," and 
four other papers. 



TUE TEARS OF OLD MAY-DAY. 

WRITTEN OH THE REFORMATION OF THE CALENDAR IN 1754. 

Led by the jocund train of vernal hours 
And vernal airs, up rose the gentle May; 

Blushing she rose, and blushing rose the flow'rs 
That sprung spontaneous in her genial ray. 

Her locks with heaven's ambrosial dews were 
bright. 

And am'rous zephyrs flutter'd on her breast: 
With every shifting gleam of morning light, 

The colours shifted of her rainbow vest. 

Imperial ensigns graced her smiling form, 
A golden key and golden wand she bore ; 

This charms to peace each sullen eastern storm, 
And that unlocks the summer's copious store. 

Onward in conscious majesty she came. 
The grateful honours of mankind to taste: 

To gather fairest wreaths of future fame. 

And blend fresh triumphs with her glories past. 

Vain hope! no more in choral bands unite 
Her virgin vot'ries, and at early dawn. 

Sacred to May and love's mysterious rite, flawn. 
Brush the light dew-drops from the spangled 

To her no more Augusta's wealthy pride 
Pours the full tribute from Potosi's mine : 

Nor fresh-blown garlands village maids provide, 
A purer off'ring at her rustic shrine. 

No more the Maypole's verdant height around 
To valour's games th' ambitiousyouth advance; 

No merry bells and tabor's spriglulicr sound 
Wake the loud carol, and the sportive dance. 

Sudden in pensive sadness droop'd her head. 
Faint on her cheeks the blushing crimson died — 

" Oh ! chaste victorious triumphs, whither fled ? 
My maiden honours, whither gone 1" she cried. 

Ah ! once to fame and bright dominion born, 
The earth and smiling ocean saw me rise, 

With time coeval and the star of morn, 
The first, the fairest daughter of the skies. 

Then, when at heaven's prolific mandate sprung 
The radiant beam of new-created day, 

Celestial harps, to airs of triumph strung, 

Hail'd the glad dawn, and angels call'd me May. 



Space in her empty regions heard the sound. 
And hills, and dales, and rocks, and valleys 

The sun exulted in his glorious round, [rung; 
And shouting planets in their courses sung. 

For ever then I led the constant year ; 

Saw youth, and joy, and love's enchanting wiles, 
Saw the mild graces in my train appear. 

And infant beauty brighten in my smiles. 

No Winter frown'd. In sweet embrace allied, 
Three sister seasons danced th' eternal green ; 

And Springs retiring softness gently vied [mien. 
With Autumn's blush, and Summer's lofty 

Too soon, when man profaned the blessings given, 
And vengeance arm'd to blot a guilty age, 

With bright Astrea to my native heaven 
I fled, and flying saw the deluge rage ; 

Saw bursting clouds eclipse the noontide beams, 
While sounding billows from the mountains ' 
roU'd, 
With bitter waves polluting all my streams. 
My nectar'd streams, that flow'd on sands of 
gold. 

Then vanish'd many a sea-girt isle and grove. 
Their forests floating on the wat'ry plain : 

Then, famed for arts and laws derived from Jove, 
My Atalantis sunk beneath the main. 

No longer bloom'd primeval Eden's bow'rs, 
Nor guardian dragons watch'd th' Hesperian 
steep : 

With all their fountains, fragrant fruits and flow'rs, 
Torn from the continent to glut the deep. 

No more to dwell in sylvan scenes I deign'd, 
Yet oft descending to the languid earth, 

With quick'ning powers the fainting mass sus- 
tain'd, 
And waked her slumb'ring atoms into birth. 

And ev'ry echo taught my raptured name, 
And ev'ry virgin breath'd her am'rous vows, 

And precious wreaths of rich immortal fame, 
Shower'd by the Muses, crown'd by lofty brows. 

But chief in Europe, and in Europe's pride, 
My Albion's favour'd realms, I rose adored; 

And pour'd my wealth, to other climes denied ; 
From Amalthea's horn with plenty stored. 
683 



FRANCIS FAWKES. 



Ah me ! for now a younger rival claims 
My ravish'd honours, and to her belong 

My choral dances, and victorious games, 
To her my garlands and triumphal song. 

Oh say what yet untasted beauties flow, 
What purer joys await her gentler reign 1 

Do lilies fairer, vi'lets sweeter blow 1 
And warbles Philomel a softer strain 1 

Do morning suns in ruddier glory rise ? 

Does ev'ning fan her with serener gales'? 
Do clouds drop fatness from the wealthier skies, 

Or wantons plenty in her happier vales ? 

Ah ! no : the blunted beams of dawning light 
Skirt the pale orient with uncertain day ; 

And Cynthia, riding on the car of night. 
Through clouds embattled faintly wings her way. 

Pale, immature, the blighted verdure springs, 
Nor mounting juices feed the swelling flower; 

Mute all the groves, nor Philomela sings 
When silence listens at the midnight hour. 

Nor wonder, man, that nature's bashful face, 
And op'ning charms her rude embraces fear: 

[s she not sprung from April's wayward race. 
The sickly daughter of th' unripen'd year 1 

With show'rs and sunshine in her fickle eyes. 
With hollow smiles proclaiming treach'rous 
peace. 

With blushes, harb'ring, in their thin disguise, 
The blasts that riot on the Spring's increase 1 



Is this the fair invested with my spoil 

By Europe's laws, and senates' stern command! 

Ungen'rous Europe ! let me fly thy soil, 
And waft my treasures to a grateful land ; 

Again revive, on Asia's drooping shore. 

My Daphne's groves, or Lycia's ancient plain ; 

Again to Afric's sultry sands restore 

Embow'ring shades, and Ly bian Ammon's fane. 

Or haste to northern Zembla's savage coast, 
There hush to silence elemental strife ; 

Brood o'er the regions of eternal frost, 

And swell her barren womb with heat and life. 

Then Britain — Here she ceased. Indignant grief, 
And parting pangs, her falt'ring tongue sup- 
press'd : 

Vail'd i»i an amber cloud she sought relief, 
And tears and silent anguish told the rest. 



SONG TO * * * * 
What ! bid me seek another fair 

In untried paths of female wiles 1 
And posies weave of other hair. 

And bask secure in other smiles'? 
Thy friendly stars no longer prize. 
And light my course by other eyes 1 

Ah no ! — my dying lips shall close, 
Unalter'd love, as faith, professing; 

Nor praising him who life bestows, 

Forget who makes that gift a blessing. 

My last address to Heaven is due ; 

The last but one is all — to you. 



FRANCIS FAWKES. 



[Born, 1721. Died, 1777.] 



Francis Fawkes made translations from some 
of the minor Greek poets (viz. Anacreon, Sappho, 
Bion, and Moschus, Museeus, Theocritus, and 
Apollonius,) and moderni7.ed the description of 
" May and Winter," from Gawain Douglas. He 
was born in Yorkshire, studied at Cambridge, 
was curate of Croydon, in Surrey, where he ob- 



tained the friendship of Archbishop Herring, and 
by him was collated to the vicarage of Orpington, 
in Kent. By the favour of Dr. Plumptre, he 
exchanged this vicarage for the rectory of Hayes, 
and was fin.illy made chaplain to the Princess of 
Wales. He was the friend of Johnson, and 
Warton; a learned and a jovial parson. 



THE BKOWN JUG. 
Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with 

mild ale, 
(In which I will drink to sweet Nan of the Vale,) 
Was once Toby Fillpot, a thirsty old soul 
As e'er drank a bottle, or fathom'd a bowl ; 
In boosing about 'twas his praise to excel. 
And among jolly topers he bore off the bell. 

It chanced as in dog-days he sat at his ease 
In his flower-woven arbour as gay as you 
please, 



With a friend and a pipe puffing sorrows away 
And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay 
His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut, 
And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt. 

His body, when long in the ground it had lain. 

And time into clay had resolved it again, 

A potter found out in its covert so snug 

And with part of fat Toby he form'd this brown 

jug. 
Now sacred to friendship, and mirth, and mild ale, 
So here's to my lovely swxet Nan of the Valo 



ANONYMOUS. 



THE OLD BACHELOR. 

AFTER THE MANNER OF SPENSER. 

In Phcebus' region while some bards there be 

That sing of battles, and the trumpet's roar; 
Yet these, I ween, more powerful bards than me. 

Above my ken. on eagle pinions soar ! 
Haply a scene of meaner view to scan. 

Beneath their laurel'd praise my verse may give, 
To trace the features of unnoticed man ; 

Deeds, else forgotten, in the verse may live! 
Her lore, mayhap, instructive sense may teach, 
From weeds of humbler growth within my lowly 
reach. 

A wight there was, who single and alone 

Had crept from vigorous youth to waning age, 
J\or e'er was worth, nor e'er was beauty known 

His heart to captive, or his thought engage : 
Some feeble joy aunce, though his conscious mind 

Might female worth or beauty give to wear, 
Yet to the nobler sex he held confined 

The genuine graces of the soul sincere, 
And well could show with saw or proverb quaint 
All semblance woman's soul, and all her beauty 
paint. 

In plain attire this wight apparell'd was, 

(For much he conn'd of frugal lore and knew) 
Nor, till some day of larger note might cause, 

From iron-bound chest his better garb he drew: 
But when the Sabbath-day mightchallenge more. 

Or feast, or birth-day, should it chance to be, 
A glossy suit devoid of stain he wore, 

And gold his buttons glanced so fair to see. 
Gold clasp'd his shoon, by maiden brush'd so 
sheen. 
And his rough beard he shaved, and donn'd his 
linen clean. 

But in his common garb a coat he wore, 

A faithful coat that long its lord had known. 
That once was black, but now was black no 

Attinged by various colours not itsown. [more. 
All fioai his nostrils was the front iinbrown'd, 

And down the back ran many a greasy line, 
While, here and there, his social moments ovvn'd 

The generous signet of the purple wine. 
Blown o'er the bent of eld his wig appear'd. 
Like fo.\'s trailing tail by hunters sore atieir'd. 

One only maid he had. like turtle true. 

But not like turtle gentle, soft, and kind; 
For many a time her tongue bewray'd the shrew, 
\nd in meet words unpack'd her peevish mind. 
Ne tbrm'd was she to raise the soft desire. 

That stirs the tingling blood in youthful vein, 
Ne form'd was she to light the tender lire, 

By many a bard is sung in many a strain : 
H 3ok'd washer nose, and countl iss wrinklestold 
What no man durst to her, I ween, that she 
was old. 

74 



When the clock told the wonted hour was come 
When from his nightly cups the wight with- 
drew. 
Right patient would she watch his wending home, 
His feet she heard, and soon the bolt she drew. 
If long his time was past, and leaden sleep 
O'er her tired eye-lids 'gan his reign to stretch, 
Oft would she curse that men such hours should 
keep, 
And many a saw 'gainst drunkenness would 
preach ; 
Haply if potent gin had arm'd her tongue. 
All on the reeling wight a thundering peal she 
rung. 

For though the blooming queen of Cyprus' isle 
O'er her cold bosom long had ceased to reign, 
On that cold bosom still could Bacchus smile. 

Such beverage to own if Bacchus deign : 
For wine she prized not much, for stronger drink 

Its medicine, oft a cholic-pain will call, 
And for the medicine's sake, might envy think, 

Oft would a cholic-pain her bowels enthral; 
Yet much the proffer did she loath and say 
No dram might maiden taste, and often anawer'd 
nay. 

So as in single animals he joy'd, 

One cat, and eke one dog, his bounty fed ; 
The first the cate-devouring mice destroy'd, 

'J'hieves heard the last, and from his threshold 
All in the sun-beams bask'd the lazy cat, [fled: 

Her mottled length in couchant posture laid ; 
On one accustoin'd chair while Pompey sat. 
And loud he bark'd should Puss his right 
invade. 
The human pair oft mark'd them as they lay, 
And haply sometimes thought like cat and dog 
were they. 

A room he had that faced the .southern ray. 

Where oft he walk'd to set his thoughts in tune, 
Pensive he paced its length an hour or tway, 

All to tlie music of his creeking shoon. 
And at the end a darkling closet stood. 

Where books he kept of old research and new, 
In seemly order ranged on shelves of wood, 

And rusty nails and phials not a few ; 
Thilk place a wooden box beseemeth well, [tell. 
And papers squared and trimm'd for use unmeet to 

For still in form he placed his chief delight. 

Nor lightly broke his old accustom'd rule, 
And much umourteous would behold the wight 

That e'er displaced a table, chair, or stool ; 
And oft in meet array their ranks he placed, 

And oft with careful eye their ranks review'd ; 
For novel forms, though much those forms had 

Himself and maiden-ministereschew'd: [graced. 
One path he trod, nor ever would decline 
A hair's unmeasured breadth from ofl" the even line. 



586 



JOHN ARMSTRONG. 



A Club select there was, where various talk 

On various chapters pass'd the ling'ring hour, 
And thither oft he bent his evening walk, 
And warni'd to mirth by wine's enlivening 
povv'r. 
And oft on politics the preachments ran, 

If a pipe lent its thought-begetting fume: 
And oft important matters would they scan. 

And deep in council fix a nation's doom ; 
And oft they chuckled loud at jest or jeer, 
Or bawdy tale the most, thilk much they loved 
to hear. 

For men like him they were of like contort, 
Thilk much the honest muse must needs con- 
demn, 
Who made of women's wiles their wanton sport. 
And bless'd their stars that kept the curse from 
thern ! 
No honest love they knew, no melting smile 
'I'hat shoots the transports to the throbbing 
heart! 
Thilk knew they not but in a harlot's guile 

Lascivious smiling through the mask of art: 
And so of women deem'd they as they knew. 
And from a Demon's traits an Angel's picture 
drew. 



But most abhorr'd they Hymeneal rites. 

And boasted oft the freedom of their fate : 
]\or 'vail'd, as they opined, its best delytes 

Those ills to balance that on wedlock wait ; 
And often would they tell of hen-peck'd fool 

Snubb'd by the hard behest of sour-eyed dame. 
And vow'd no tongue-arm'd woman's freakisli 
rule 
Their mirth should quail, or damp their gener- 
ous flame : 
Then pledi<ed their hands, and toss'd their 
bumpers o'er, 
And lo! Bacchus ! sung, andown'd no other pow'r. 

If e'er a doubt of softer kind arose 

Within some breast of less obdurate frame, 
Lo! where its hideous form a Phantom shows 

Full in his view, and Cuckold is its name. 
Him Scorn attended with a glance askew. 

And Scorpion Shame for delicts not his own, 
Her painted bubbles while Suspicion blew, 
And vex'd the region round the Cupid's 
throne : 
" Far be from us," they cried, " the treach'rous 
bane, 
" Far be the dimply guile, and far the flowery 
chain!" 



JOHN ARMSTRONG. 



John Armstrong was born in Roxburghshire, 
in the parish of Castleton, of which his father 
was the clergyman. He completed his education, 
and took a medical degree, at the university of 
Edinburgh, with much reputation, in the year 
1732. Amidst his scientific pursuits, he also 
cultivated literature and poetry. One of his 
earliest productions in verse, was an " Imitation 
of the Style of Shakspere," which received the 
approi)ation of the poets Young and 'I'homson ; 
although humbler judges will perhaps be at a loss 
to perceive in it any striking likeness to his great 
original. Two other sketches, also purporting 
to be imitations of Shakspere, are found among 
his works. They are the fragments of an un- 
finished iragedy. One of them, the " Dream of 
Progiie," is not unpleasing. In the other, he be- 
gins the descrijition of a storm by saying, that 

" The sun went dnivn in wrath, tfte skies foam'd brass." 
It is uncertain in what year he came to Lon- 
don ; but in 1735 he published an anonymous 
pamphlet, severely ridiculing the quackery of 
untaught practitioners. He dedicated this per- 
formance lo Joshua 'Ward, John Moore, and 
others, whom he styles "the Antacademic phi- 
osopheis, and the generous despisers of the 
schools." As a jihysieian he never obtained ex- 
tensive practice. This he himself imimicd to h s 
contempt of the little artifices, which, he alleges, 



were necessary to popularity : by others, the 
failure was ascribed to his indolence and literary 
avocations; and there was probably truth in both 
accounts. A disgraceful poem, entitled, " The 
CEconomy of Love," which he published after 
coming to London, might have also had its share 
in impeding his professional career. He cor- 
rected the nefarious production, at a later period 
of his life, betraying at once a consciousness of 
its impurity, and a hankering after its reputation. 
So unflatterint! were his prospects, after several 
years residence in the metropolis, that he ap- 
plied (it would scein without success) to be put 
on the medical stafT of the forces, then going 
out to the West Indies. His " Art of Preserving 
Health" appeared in 1744, and justly fixed his 
poetical reputation. In 1746 he was apjiointed 
physician to the hospital for sick sold.ers, behind 
Buckingham House. In 1751 he published his 
poem on "Benevolence;" in 1753 his "Epistle 
on Taste;" and in 1758 his prose "Sketches by 
Launcelot Temple.' Certainly none of these 
productions exalted the literary character which 
he had raised to himself by his "Art of Pre- 
serving Health." The poems " Taste" and "Be- 
nevolence" are very insipid. His "Sketches" 
have been censured more than they seem to de- 
serve for "oaths and exclamations,* and for a 

• Chalmers's Biographical Dictiomiry. 



JOHN ARMSTRONG. 



587 



constant struggle to say smart things." They 
contain indeed some expressions which might be 
wished away, but these are very few in numlier; 
and several of his essays are plain and sensible, 
without any ettort at humour. 

In 1760 he was appointed physician to the 
forces that went over to Germany. It is at this 
era of his life that we should expect its history 
to be the most amusing, and to have furnished 
the most important relics of observation, from his 
having visited a foreign country which was the 
scene of war, and where he was placed, by his 
situation, in the midst of interesting events. It 
may be pleasing to follow heroes into retirement ; 
but we are also fond of seeing men of literary 
genius amidst the action and busine.-^s of lite. 
Of Dr. Armstrong in Germany, however, we 
have no other information than what is attbrded 
by his epistle to Wilkes, entitled "Day," which 
is by no means a bright production, and chiefly 
devoted to subjects of eating. With Wilkes he 
was, at that time, on terms of friendship ; but 
their cordiality was afterward dissolved by poli- 
tics. Churchill took a share in the quarrel, and 
denounced our author as a monster of ingratitude 
toward Wilkes, who had been his benefactor ; 
and Wilkes, by subsequently attacking Armstrong 
in the Daily Advertiser, showed that he did not 
disapprove of the satirist's reproaches. To such 
personalities Armstrong might have replied in 
the words of Prior, 

"To Juhn I o.ved great obli;;ation, 
liut John uuhappily thoas'lit fit 
To |jub i^li it to iill the mitioii; 

Sure Joliu and 1 are more th;in quit."' 

But though his temper was none of the mildest, 
he had the candour to speak with gratitude of 
Wilkes's former kindness, and acknowledged 
that he was indebted to him for his appointment 
in the army. 

After the peace he returned to London, where 
his practice, as well as acquaintance, was con- 
fined to a small circle of friends ; but among 
whom he was esteemed as a man of genius. 
From the original. ty of his mind, as well as from 
his reading, and more than ordinary taste in the 
fine arts, his conversation is said to have been 
richly entertaining. Yet if the character which 
is su[)posed to apply to him in the "Castle of 
InJolence""!" describes him justly, his colloquial 
delighifulness must have been intermittent. In 
1770 he jiublished a collection of his Miscella- 
nies, containing a new prose piece, " The Uni- 
versal Almanack," and " The Forced Marriage," 
a tragedy which had been offered to Garrick, but 
refused. The whole was ushered in by a preface, 
lull of arrogant defiance to public opinion. "He 
had never courted the public," he said, "and if 
it was true what he had been told, that the best 
judges were on his side, he desired no more in 



* Arm.stroiig's character is said to liave 1 een painted in 
Ue t.t,ii.za ol' Lhe " Ciislie uf ludoleiico' begiui.iuj; 
"Willi liim w;\8 soinetime.-J joined in silent walk 
(Profoundly .silent, for they never s) oke) 
One fihyur »lill, who quile detested t.dk." &o. 

See ante, p. 450. 



the article of fame as a writer." There was a 
good deal of matter in this collection, that ought 
to have rendered its author more modest. The 
"Universal Almanack" is a wretched production, 
to wh.ch the objections of his propensity to 
swearing, and abortive eflTorts at humour, apply 
more justly than to his "Sketches;" and his 
tragedy the " Forced Marriage," is a niortuum 
cdjiut of insipidity. In the following year he 
visited France and Italy, and published a short, 
but splenetic account of his tour, under his old 
assumed name of Launcelot Temple. His last 
production was a volume of " Professional Es- 
says," in which he took more trouble to abuse 
quacks than became his dignity, and showed 
himself a man to whom the relish of life was not 
improving, as its feast drew toward a close. He 
died in September, 1779, of a hurt, which he ac- 
cidentally received in stepping out of a carriage; 
and, to tlie no small surprise of his friends, left 
behind him more than 3000/., saved out of a very 
moderate income, arising principally from his 
half-pay. 

His " Art of Preserving Health" is the most 
successful attempt, in our language, to incorpo- 
rate material science with poetry. Its sutiject 
had the advantage of being generally interesting; 
for there are few things that we shall be more 
willing to learn, either in prose or verse, than the 
means of preserving the outward bulwark of all 
other blessings. At the same time, the difficulty 
of poetically treating a subject, which presented 
disease in all its associations, is one of the most 
just and ordinary topics of his praise. Of the 
triumphs of poetry over such dilficulty, he had 
no doubt high precedents, to show that strong 
and true delineations of physical evil are not 
without an attraction of fearful interest and cu- 
riosity to the human mind; and that the enjoy- 
ment, which the fancy derives from conceptions 
of the bloom and beauty of healthful nature, 
may be heightened, by contrasting them with the 
op])osite pictures of her mortality and decay. 
Milton had turned disease itself into a subject of 
sublimity, in the vision of Adam, with that in- 
tensity of the fire of genius, which converts 
whatever materials it meets with into its aliment: 
and .-Armstrong, though his powers were not 
Miltonic, had the courage to attempt what would 
have repelled a more timid taste. His Muse 
might be said to show a professional intrepidity 
in choo.sing the subject ; and, like the physician 
who braves contagion, (if allowed to prolong the 
simile.) we may add, that she escaped, on the 
whole, with little injury from the trial. By the 
title of the poem, the author judiciously gave iiis 
theme a moral as well as a medical interest. He 
inakt-s the influence of the passions an entire 
part of it. By professing to describe only liow 
health is to be preserved, and not how it is to be 
restored, he avoids the unmanageable horrors of 
clinical detail; and though he paints the disciise 
wisely spares us its pharmaceutical treatment. 
His couiae through the poem is sustained with 
lucid management and propriety. What is ex- 



588 



JOHN AKMSTRONG. 



plained of (he animal oeconomy is obscured by 
no pedantic jargon, but made distinct, and, to a 
certain degree, picturesque to the conception. 
We need not indeed be remindeil how small a 
portion of science can be communicated in poetry; 
but the practical maxims of science, which the 
Muse has stamped with imagery and attuned to 
harmony, have so far an advantage over those 
which are delivered in prose, that they become 
more agreeable and permanent acquisitions of the 
memory. If the didactic path of his poetry is, 
from its nature, rather level, he rises above it, on 
several occasions, with a considerable strength of 
poetical feeling. Thus, in recommending the 
vicinity of woods around a dwelling, that may 
shelter us from the winds, whilst it enables us to 
hear their music, he introduces the following 
pleasing lines : 

" Oh! when the growling winds contend, and all 

The founding forest fluctuates in the storm; 

To Fink in warm repose, and hear the din 

Howl o'er the steady battlements, delights 

Abjve the luxury of vulgar sleep." 
In treating of diet he spen)s to have felt the 
full difficulty of an humble subject, and to have 
sought to relieve his precepts and physiological 
descriptions, with all the wealth of allusion and 
imagery which his fancy could introduce. The 
appearance of a forced effort is not wholly avoid- 
ed, even where he aims at superior strains, in 
order to garnish the meaner topics, as when he 
solemnly addresses the Naiads of all the rivers in 
the world, in rehearsing the praises of a cup of 
water. But he closes the book in a strain of 
genuine dignity. After contemplating the effects 
of Time on the human body, his view of its in- 
fluence dilates, with easy and majestic extension, 
to the universal structure of nature ; and he rises 
from great to greater objects with a climax of 
sublimity. 

" What does not fade ? the tower thsit long had stood 
The crush of thunder and the warring wifids, 
Shook by the slow, but sure destroyer. Time, 
tin\i hangs in doubtful ruins o'er its base 
And fliuty pyramids, and walls of brass, 



Pofccnd : thn Babylonian spires are sunk; 

Acliiiia. liome. anil Kcyft. moulder clown. 

Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones, 

A I'd t' tiering empires crush by their own weight. 

tills huge rotundity we treid srows oM; 

Anil all those nor!d-i that Toll around the sun, 

The sun himself .shall die." 
He may, in some points, be compared advan- 
tageously with the best blank verse writers of the 
age; and he will be found free from their most 
striking defects. He has not the ambition of 
Akensiile, nor the verbosity of Thomson. On 
the other hand, shall we say that he is equal in 
genius to either of those poets? Certainly, his 
originality is nothing like Thomson's ; and tht 
rapture of his heroic sentiments is unequal to 
that of the author of the " Pleasures of Imagi- 
nation." For, in spite of the too frequently 
false pomp of Akcnside, we still feel, that he has 
a devoted moral impulse, not to be mistaken for 
the cant of morality, a zeal in the worship of 
Virtue, which places her image in a high and 
hallowed light. Neither has his versification the 
nervous harmony of Akenside's, for his habit of 
pausing almost uniformly at the close of the line, 
gives an air of formality to his numbers. His 
vein has less mixture than Thomson's; but its 
ore is not so fine. Sometimes we find him try- 
ing his strength with that author, in the same 
walk of description, where, though correct and 
concise, he falls beneath the poet of " The Sea- 
sons" in rich and graphic observation. He also 
contributed to " 'J'he Castle of Indolence" some 
stanzas, describing the diseases arising from sloth, 
which form rather an useful back-ground to the 
luxuriant picture of the Castle, than a prominent 
part of its enchantment.* 

On the whole, he is likely to be remembered 
as a poet of judicious thoughts and correct ex- 
pression; and, as far as the rarely successful ap- 
plication of verse to subjects of science can be 
admired, an additional merit must be ascribed to 
the hand which has reared poetical flowers on the 
dry and difficult ground of philosophy. 



FROM "THE ART OF PRESERA'IXG UEALTU." 

BOOK 1. ENTITLED " AIR." 

Opening of the Poem in an Invocation to Hygeia. 
Daugiitee of Pa;on, queen of every joy, 
Hyjeia; whose indulgent smile sustains 
'J'he various race luxuriant nature pours, 
And on th' immortal essences bestows 
Immortal youth; auspicious, descend ! 
'ihou cheerful guardian of the rolling year, 
Vv hether thou wanton'st on the western gale. 
Or shakest the rigid pinions of the north, 
Dlliusest life and vigour through the tracts 
Of air, through earth, and ocean's deep domain. 
When through the blue serenity of heaven 
Thy power approaches, all the wasletui host 
Of Pain and Sickness, squalid and deform'd, 
C nifounded sink into the loathsome gloom, 



Where in deep Erebus involved, the Fiends 
Grow more profane. Whatever shapes of death, 
Shook from the hideous chambers of the globe. 
Swarm through the shuddering air : whatever 

plagues 
Or meagre famine breeds, or with slow wings 
Rise from the putrid wat'ry element. 
The damp waste forest, motionless and rank. 
That smothers earth, and all the breathless winds, 
Or the vile carnage of th' inhuman field ; 
Whate\er baneful breathes the rotten south; 
Whatever ills th' extremes or sudden change 
Of cold and hot, or moist and dry produce ; 
They fly thy pure ellulgcnce : they and all 
The secret poisons of avenging Heaven, 
And all the pale tribes halting in the train 



►See ante, p. 450 



JOHN ARMSTRONG. 



589 



Of ViL-e anil heedless Pleasure : or if aught 
The comet's glare amid the burning sky, 
Mournful eclipse, or planets ill-combined, 
Portend disastrous to the vital world ; 
Thy salutary power averts their rage. 
Averts the general bane: and but for thee 
Nature would sicken, nature soon would die. 



FROM THE SAME. 

Choice of a rural situation, and allegorical picture of the 

Quartan Ague. 

Ye who amid this feverish world would wear 
A body free of pain, of cares a mind ; 
Fly the rank city, shun its turbid air; 
Breathe not the chaos of eternal smoke 
And volatile corruption, from the dead, 
The dying, sickning, and the living world 
Exhaled, to sully heaven's transparent dome 
With dim mortality. It is not air 
That from a thousand lungs reeks back to thine, 
Silted with exhalations rank and fell. 
The spoil of dunghills, and the putrid thaw 
Of nature ; when from ?-hape and texture she 
Relapses into fighting elements : 
It is not air, but floats a nauseous mass 
Of all obscene, corrupt offensive things. 
Much moisture hurts; but here a sordid bath, 
With oily rancour fraught, relaxes more 
Tlie solid frame than simple moisture can. 
Besides, immured in many a sullen bay 
That never felt the freshness of the breeze, 
This sluinb'ring deep remains, and ranker grows 
With sickly rest : and (though the lungs abhor 
To drink the dun fuliginous abyss) 
Did not the acid vigour of the mine, 
Roll'd from so many thundering chimneys, tame 
The putrid steams that overswarm the sky ; 
This caustic venom would perhaps corrode 
Those tender cells that draw the vital air, 
In vain with all the unctuous rills bedew'd ; 
Or by the drunken venous tubes, that yawn 
In countless pores o'er all the pervious skin, 
Imbibed, would poison the balsamic blood. 
Anil rouse the heart to every fever's rage. 

W^hile yet you breathe, away ; the rural wilds 
Invite; the mountains call you, and the vales; 
The woods, the streams, and each ambrosial breeze 
That fans the ever-undulating sky ; 
A kindly sky ! whose fost'ring power regales 
Man, beast, and all the vegetable reign. 
Find them some woodland scene where nature 

smiles 
Benign, where all her honest children thrive. 
To us there wants not many a happy seat ! 
Look round the smiling land, such numbers rise 
We hardly fix, bewilder'd in our choice. 
See where enthroned in adamantine state, 
Proud of her bards, imperial Windsor sits; 
Where choose thy seat in some aspiring grove 
Fast by the slowly-winding Thames; or where 
Broader she laves fair Richmond's green retreats, 
(Richmond that sees an hundred villas rise 
Rural or gay.) Oh ! from the summer's rage 
Oh '. wrap me in the friendly gloom that hides 



Umbrageous Ham ! — But if the busy town 
Attract thee still to toil for power or gold. 
Sweetly thou may'st thy vacant hours possess 
In Hampstead, courted by the western wind ; 
Or Greenwich, waving o'er the winding 'flood ; 
Or lose the world amid the sylvan wilds 
Of Dulwich, yet by barbarous arts unspoil'd. 
Green rise the Kentish hills in cheerful air ; 
But on the marshy plains that Lincoln spreads 
Build not, nor rest too long thy wandering feet. 
For on a rustic throne of dewy turf. 
With baneful fogs her aching temples bound, 
Quartana there presides ; a meagre fiend 
Begot by Eurus, when his brutal force 
Compress'd the slothful Naiad of the Fens. 
From such a mixture sprung, this fitful pest 
With fev'rish blasts subdues the sick'ning land : 
Cold tremors come, with mighty love of rest. 
Convulsive yawnings, lassitude, and pains 
That sting the b.urden'd brows, fatigue the loins, 
And rack the joints, and every torpid limb; 
Then parting heat succeeds, till copious sweats 
O'erflow: a short relief from former ills. 
Beneath repeated shocks the wretches pine ; 
The vigour sinks, the habit melts away : 
The cheerful, pure, and animated bloom 
Dies from the face, with squalid atrophy 
Devour'd in sallow melancholy clad. 
And oft the sorceress, in her sated wrath. 
Resigns them to the furies of her train : 
The bloated Hydrops, and the yellow fiend 
Tinged with her own accumulated gall. 



FROM THE SAME. 
Recommendation of a High Situation on the 

Meantime, the moist malignity to shun 
Of burthen'd skies ; mark where the dry cham 

paign 
Swells into cheerful hills : where marjoram 
And thyme, the love of bees, perfume the air; 
And where the cynorrhodon with the rose 
For fragrance vies; for in the thirsty soil 
Most fragrant breathe the aromatic tribes. 
There bid thy roofs high on the basking steep 
Ascend, there light thy hospitable fires. 
And let them see the winter morn arise, 
'I'he summer evening blushing in the west: 
While with umbrageous oaks the ridge behind 
O'erhung, defends you from the hlust'ring north. 
And bleak affliction of the peevish east. 
Oh ! when the growling winds contend, and all 
The sounding forest fluctuates in the storm ; 
To sink in warm repose, and hear the din 
Howl o'er the steady battlements, delights 
Above the luxury of vulgar sleep. 
The murmuring rivulet, and the hoarser strain 
Of waters rushing o'er the slippery rocks, 
Will nightly lull you to ambrosial rest. 
To please the fancy is no trifling good. 
Where health is studied ; for whatever moves 
The mind with calm delight, promotes the just 
And natural movements of th' harmonious frame. 
Besides, the sportive brook for ever shakes 
2Z 



690 



RICHARDSON. 



The trembling air; that floats from hill to hill, 
From vale to mountain, with ftisessant change 
Of purest element, refreshing still 
Your airy seat, and uninfected gods. 
Chiefly for this I praise the man who builds 
High on the breezy ridge, whose lofty sides 
Th' ethereal deep with endless billows chafes, 
His purer mansion nor contagious years 
Shall reach, nor deadly putrid airs annoy. 



FROM BOOK II. ENTITLED "DIET." 
Address to the Naiads. 
Now come, ye Naiads, to the fountains lead ; 
Now let me wander through your gelid reign. 
I hum to view th' enthusiastic wilds 
By mortal else untrod. I hear the din 
Of waters thund'ring o'er the ruin'd cliffs. 
With holy reverence I approach the rocks [song. 
Whence glide the streams renown'd in ancient 
Here from the desert down the rumbling steep 
First springs the Nile; here bursts the sounding 
In angry waves; Euphrates hence devolves [Po 
A mighty flood to water half the east; 
And there in gothic solitude reclined, 
The cheerless Tanai's pours his hoary urn. 
What solemn twilight! what stupendous shades 
Enwrap these infant floods ! through every nerve 
A sacred horror thrills, a pleasing fear 
Glides o'er my frame. The forest deepens round ; 
And more gigantic still th' impending trees 
Stretch their extravagant arms athwart the gloom. 
Are these the confines of some fairy world I 



A land of genii? Say. beyond these wilds 
What unknown nations? If indeed beyond 
Aught habitable lies. And whither leads, 
'J'o what strange regions, or of bliss or pain. 
That subterraneous way ? Propitious maids 
Conduct me, while with fearful steps I tread 
This trembling ground. The task remains to sing 
Your gifts, (so Paeon, so the powers of health 
Command,) to praise your crystal element: 
The chief ingredient in heaven's various works- 
Whose flexile genius sparkles in the gem. 
Grows firm in oak, and fugitive in wine ; 
The vehicle, the source, of nutriment 
And life, to all that vegetate or live. 

O comfortable streams! with eager lips 
And trembling hand the languid thirsty quaff 
New life in you ; fresh vigour fills their veins. 
No warmer cups the rural ages knew ; 
None warmer sought the sires of human kind. 
Happy in temperate peace ! their equal days 
Felt not th' alternate fits of feverish mirth. 
And silk dejection. Still serene and pleased. 
They knew no pains but what the tender soul 
With pleasure yields to, and would ne'er forget. 
Blest with divine immunity from ails, 
Long centuries they lived ; their only fate 
Was ripe old age, and rather sleep than death. 
Oh ! could those worthies from the world of gods 
Return to visit their degenerate sons, 
How would they scorn the joys of modern time. 
With all our art and toil improved to pain ! 
Too happy they ! hut wealth brought luxury, 
And luxury on sloth begot disease. 



RICHARDSON, 



OF queen's collegr, oxford. 



ODE TO A SINGING-BIRD. 
O THOU that glad'st my lonesome hours, 

With many a wildly wari)Ied song. 
When Melancholy round me lowers, 
And drives her sullen storms along; 
When fell adversity prepares 
To lead her delegated train, 
Pale Sickness, Want. Remorse, and Pain, 
With all her host of carking cares — 
The fiends ordain'd to tame the human soul. 
And give the humbled heart tosympathy'scontrol : 

Sweet soother of my mis'ry, say. 

Why dost thou clap thy joyous wing? 
Why dost thou pour that artless lay ? 
How canst thou, little prisoner, sing? 

Hast thou not cause to grieve 
That man. unpitying man ! has rent 
From thee the boon which Nature meant 
Thou should'st as well as he, receive — 
The power to woo thy partner in the grove. 
To build where instinct points, where chance di 
rects to rove ? 



Perchance, unconscious of thy fate, 

And to the woes of bondage blind. 
Thou never long'st to join thy mate, 
Nor wishest to be unconfined; 

Then how relentless he. 
And fit for every foul offence, 
Who could bereave such innocence 
Of life'.- best blessing. Liberty ! 
Who lured thee, guileful, to his treacherous 
snare. 
To live a tuneful slave, and dissipate his care! 

But why for thee this fond complaint ? 

Above thy master thou art blest: 
Art thou not free? — Yes: calm Content 
With olive sceptre sways thy breast: 

Then deign with me to live ; 
The falcon with insatiate maw. 
With hooked bill and griping claw. 
Shall ne'er thy destiny contrive; 
And every tabby foe shall mew in vain, 
While pensively demure she hears thy melting 



Nor shall the fiend, fell Famine, dare 

Thy wiry tenement assail ; 
These, these shall be my constant care, 
The limpid fount, and temperate meal ; 

And when the blooming Spring 
In chequer'd livery robes the fields, 
The fairest flow'rets Nature yields 
To thee officious will I bring; 
A garland rich thy dwelling shall entwine. 
And Flora's freshest gifts, thrice happy bird, be 
thine ? 

From dear Oblivion's gloomy cave 

'J'he powerful Muse shall wrest thy name, 

And bid thee live beyond the grave — 
This meed she knows thy merits claim ; 
iShe knows thy liberal heart 



Is ever ready to dispense 
The tide of bland benevolence. 
And melody's soft aid impart; 
Is ready still to prompt the magic lay. 
Which hushes all our griefs, and charms our paina 
away. 

Erewhile when, brooding o'er my soul, 

Frown'd the black demons of despair, 
Did not thy voice that power control, 
And oft suppress the rising tear ] 

If Fortune should be kind. 
If e'er with affluence I'm blest, 
I'll often seek some friend distrest. 

And when the weeping wretch I find, 
Then, tuneful moralist, I'll copy thee. 
And solace all his woes with social sympathy. 



JOHN LANGHORNE. 



1735. Died. 1779.] 



John Langhorne was the- son of a beneficed 
clergyman in Lincolnshire. He was born at 
Kirkliy Steven, in Westmorehmd. His father 
dying when he was only four years old, the charge 
of giving him his earliest instruction devolved 
upon his mother, and she fulfilled the task with 
so much tenderness and care, as to leave an in- 
delible impression of gratitude ujion his memory. 
He recoriled the virtues of this parent on her tomb, 
as well as in an affectionate monody. Having 
finished his classical education at the school of 
Appleby, in his eighteenth year, he engaged him- 
self as a private tutor in a family near Rippon. 
His next employment was that of assistant to 
the free-school of Wakefield. While in that 
situation he took deacon's orders ; and, though 
he was still very young, gave indications of po- 
pular attraction as a preacher. He soon afterward 
went as a preceptor into the family of Mr. Cra- 
croft, of Hackthorn, where he remained for a 
couple of years, and during that time entered his 
name at Clare-hall, Cambridge, though he never 
resided at his college, and consequently never 
obtained any degree. He had at Hacklhorn a 
numerous charge of pupils, and as he has not 
been accused of neglecting them, his time must 
have been pretty well occupied in tuition ; but 
lie found leisure enough to write and publish a 
great many pieces of verse, and to devote so 
much of his attention to a fair daughter of the 
family. Miss Anne Cracroft, as to obtain the 
young lady's partiality, and ultimately her hand. 
He had given her some instructions in the Italian, 
and probably trusting that she was sufficiently a 
convert to the sentiment of that language, which 
pronounces that " all time is lost which is not 
spent in love," he proposed immediate marriage 
to her. She had the prudence, however, though 
secretly attached to him, to give him a firm re- 
fusal for the present ; and our poet, struck with 



despondency at the disappointment, felt it neces- 
sary to quit the scene and accepted of a curacy 
in the parish of Dagenham. The cares of love, 
it appeared, had no bad eflect on his diligence as 
an author. He allayed his despair by an appo- 
site ode to Hope; and continued to pour out 
numerous productions in verse and prose, with 
that florid facility which always distinguished his 
pen. Among these, his "Letters of Theodosius 
and Constantia" made him, perhaps, best known 
as a prose writer. His " Letters on Religious 
Retirement" were dedicated to Bishop Warbur- 
ton, who returned him a most encouraging letter 
on his just sentiments in matters of religion ; 
and. what was coming nearer to the author's 
purpose, took an interest in his worldly concerns. 
He was much less fortunate in addressing a 
poem, entitled " The Viceroy." to the Earl of 
Halifax, who was then lord-lieutenant of Ireland. 
'J'his heartless piece of adulation was written 
with the view of obtaining his lordship's patron- 
age; but the viceroy was either too busy, or too 
insensible to praise, to take any notice of Lang- 
horne. In bis poetry of this period, we find his 
" Vis ons of Fancy ;" his first part of the •' En- 
largement of the Mind ;" and his pastoral "Valour 
and Genius," written in answer to Churchdl's 
" Prophecy of Famine." In consequence of the 
gratitude of the Scotch for this last poem, he 
was presented with the diploma of doctor in di- 
vinity by the university of Edinburgh. His 
profession and religious writings gave an appear- 
ance of propriety to this compliment, which 
otherwise would not have iieen discoverable, f om 
any striking connection of ideas between a doc- 
torsh'p of divinity and an eclogue on Valour 
and Genius. 

He came to reside permanently in London in 
1764, having obtained the curacy and lecture- 
ship of St. John's Clerkenwell. Being soon afler^ 



592 



JOHN LANGHORNE. 



ward called to be assistant-preacher at Lincolti's- 
mn chapel, he had there to preach before an 
audience, which comprehended a much greater 
miniher of learned and intelligent persons than 
are collected in ordinary congregations; and his 
pulpit oratory was put to, what is commonly 
reckoned, a severe test. It proved to be also an 
honourable test.. He continued in London for 
many years, with the reputation of a popular 
preacher and a ready writer. His productions 
in prose, besides those already named, were his 
"Sermons," "Effusions of Fancy and Friend- 
ship," " Frederick and Pharamond, or the Con- 
solations of Human Life," " Letters between St. 
Evremond and Waller," "A Translation of Plu- 
tarch's Lives," written in conjunction with his 
brother, which might be reckoned a real service 
to the bulk of the reading community,* " Me- 
moirs of Collins," and " A Translation of Deni- 
na's Dissertation on the Ancient Republics of 
Italy." He also wrote for several years in the 
Monthly Review. An attempt which he made 
in tragedy, entitled " The Fatal Prophecy," 
proved completely unsuccessful ; and he so far 
acquiesced in the public decision, as never to 
print it more than once. In an humbler walk of 
poetry he composed " The Country Justice," and 
the "Fables of Flora." The Fables are very 
garish. The Country Justice was written from 
observations on the miseries of the poor, which 
caine home to his own heart; and it has, at least, 
the merit of drawing our attention to the sub- 
stantial interests of humanity. 

In 1767, after a courtship of several years, he 
obtained Miss Cracroft in marriage, having cor- 
responded with her from the time he had left her 
father's house; and her family procured for him 
tbe living of Blagden, in Somersetshire ; but his 
domestic happiness with her was of short con- 
tinuance, as she died of her first child — the son 
wbo lived to publish Dr. Langhorne's works. 

In 1772 he married another lady of the name 
of Thomson, the daughter of a country gentle- 
man, near Brough, in Westmoreland: and shortly 
after their marriage, he made a tour with his 
briile through some part of France and Flanders. 
At the end of a few years he had the misfortune 
to lose her, by the same fatal cause which had 
deprived him of his former partner. Otherwise 
his prosperity increased. In 177-7 he was pro- 



moted to a prebend in the cathedral of Wells; 
and in the same year was enabled to extend his 
practical usefulness and humanity by being put 
in the commission of the peace, in his own parish 
of Blagden. From his insight into the abuses 
of parochial office, he was led at this time to 
compose the poem of " The Country Justice," 
already mentioned. The tale of " Owen of 
Carron" was the last of his works. It will not 
be much to the advantage of this story to com- 
pare it with the simple and affecting ballad of 
"Gill Morrice," from which it was drawn. Yet 
having read "Owen of Carron" with delight 
when I was a boy, I am still so far a slave to 
early associations as to retain some predilection 
for it. 

The particular cause of Dr. Langhorne's death, 
at the age of forty-four, is not mentioned by his 
biographers, further than by a surmise that it was 
accelerated by intemperance. From the general 
decency .of his character, it may be presumed 
that his indulgencies were neither gross nor no- 
torious, though habits short of such excess might 
undermine his constitution. 

It is but a cheerless task of criticism, to pass 
with a cold look and irreverent step, over the 
literary memories of men, who, though they may 
rank low in the roll of absolute genius, have yet 
possessed refinement, information, and powers of 
amusement, above the level of their species, and 
such as would interest and attach us iii private 
life. Of this description was Langhorne ; ar 
elegant scholar, and an amiable man. He gave 
delight to thousands, from the press and the pul- 
pit ; and had sufficient attraction, in his day, to 
sustain his spirit and credit as a writer, in the 
face of even Churchdl's envenomed satire. Yet, 
as a prose writer, it is impossible to deny that bis 
rapidity was the effect of lightness more than 
vigour; and, as a poet, there is no ascribing to 
him either fervour or simplicity. His Muse is 
elegantly languid. She is a fine lady, whose 
complexion is rather indebted to art than to the 
healthful bloom of natui-e. It would be unfair 
not to except from this observation several plain 
and manly sentiments, which are expressed in 
his poem " On the Enlargement of the Mind" 
and some passages in his "Country Justice," 
which are written with genuine feeling. 



FROM " THE COUNTRY JUSTICE." 



Duties of a Country .Justice — The Tennrable mansions c 
aiKioiit Ma.^istrales contrasted with the fopiiuries c 
modern architecture — Appeal in behalf of Vagrants. 

Thk social laws from insult to protect, 
To cherish peace, to cultivate respect; 
The rich from wanton cruelty restrain, 
Ti) smooth the bed of penury and pain ; 

* The translation of Phitarch has been since correct! 
and improved by Mr. Wrangham. 



The hapless vagrant to his rest restore. 
The maze of fraud, the haunts of theft explore 
The thoughtless maiden, when subdued by art, 
To aid, and bring- her rover to her heart ; 
Wild riot's voice with dignity to quell. 
Forbid unpeaceful passions to rebell. 
Wrest from revenge the meditated harm, 
For this fair Justice raised her sacred arm ; 
For this the rural magistrate, of yore. 
Thy honours, Edward, to his mansion bore. 

Oft, where old Air in conscious glory sails, 
On silver waves that flow through sailing vales 



JOHN LANGHORNE. 



In Harewood's groves, where long my youth was 

laid, 
Unseen beneath their ancient world of shade; 
With many a group of antique columns crown'd 
In Gothic guise such mansion have I found. 

Nor lightly deem, ye apes of modern race. 
Ye cits that sore bedizen nature's face, 
Of the more manly structures here ye view : 
They rose for greatness that ye never knew ! 
Ye reptile cits, that oft have moved my spleen . 
With Venus and the Graces on your green ! 
Let Plutus, growling o'er his ill-got wealth. 
Let Mercury, the thriving god of stealth, 
The shopman, Janus, with his double looks. 
Rise on your mounts, and perch upon your books ! 
But spare my Venus, spare each sister Grace, 
Ye cits, that sore bedizen nature's face ! 

Ye royal architects, whose antic taste 
W^ould lay the realms of sense and nature waste; 
Forgot, whenever from her steps ye stray. 
That folly only points each other way ; 
Here, though your eye no courtly creature sees. 
Snakes on the ground, or monkeys in the trees; 
Yet let not too severe a censure fall 
On the plain precincts of the ancient hall. 

For though no sight your childish fancy meets, 
Of Thibet's dogs, or China's paroquets ; 
Though apes, asps, lizards, things without a tail, 
And all the tribes of foreign monsters fail; 
Here shall ye sigh to see, with rust o'ergrown. 
The iron griffin and the sphinx of stone; 
And mourn, neglected in their waste abodes. 
Fire-breathing drakes, and water-spouting gods. 

Long have these mighty monsters known dis- 
grace. 
Yet still some trophies hold their ancient place ; 
Where, round the hall, the oak's high surbase rears, 
The field-day triumphs of two hundred years. 

Th' enormous antlers here recall the day 
That saw the forest monarch forced away ; 
Who, many a flood, and many a mountain pass'd, 
Not finding those, nor deeming these the last. 
O'er floods, o'er mountains yet prepared to fly, 
Long ere the death-drop fill'd his faihng eye ! 

Here famed for cunning, and in crimes grown 
Hangs his gray brush, the felon of the fold, [old. 
Oft as the rent-feast swells the midnight cheer. 
The maudlin farmer kens him o'er his beer, 
And tells his old, traditionary tale. 
Though known to ev'ry tenant of the vale. 

Here, where of old the festal ox has fed, 
Mark'd with his weight, the mighty horns are 

spread ! 
Some ox, O Marshall, for a board like thine, 
Where the vast master with the vast sirloin 
Vied in round magnitude — Respect I bear 
To thee, though oft the ruin of the chair. 

[* This passage, beautiful in itself, has an associated 
interest beyond its beauty. "The only thing 1 remember," 
says Sir Walter Scott, " which was remarkable in Burns' 
manner, was the effect produced upon him by a print of 
Bunliury's representing a soldier lying dead on the snow; 
bis dog sitting in misery on one side, — on the other, his 
widow, with a child in her arms. These lines were written 
beneath : 

Cold en Canadian hills, or Minden's plain, &c. 
75 



These, and such antique tokens that record 
The manly spirit, and the bounteous board. 
Me more dehght than all the gewgaw train. 
The whims and zigzags of a modern brain. 
More than all Asia's marmosets to view. 
Grin, frisk, and water in the walks of Kew. 

Through these fair valleys, stranger, hast thoii 
stray 'd. 
By any chance, to visit Harewood's shade. 
And seen with honest, antiquated air. 
In the plain hall the magistratial chair? 
There Herbert sat — The love of human kind. 
Pure light of truth, and temperance of mind. 
In the free eye the featured soul display'd. 
Honour's strong beam, and Mercy's melting shade . 
Justice, that, in the rigid paths of law, 
Would still some drops from Pity'^ fountain drafv. 
Bend o'er her urn with many a gen'rous fear. 
Ere his firm zeal should force one orphan's tear 
Fair equity, and reason scorning art. 
And all the sober virtues of the heart — 
These sat with Herbert, these shall best avail 
Where statutes order, or where statutes fail. 

Be this, ye rural magistrates, your plan : 
Firm be your justice, but be friends to man. 

He whom the mighty master of this ball 
We fondly deem, or farcically call. 
To own the patriarch's truth, however loth. 
Holds but a mansion crush'd before the moth. • 

Frail in his genius, in his heart too frail, 
Born but to err, and erring to bewail, 
Shalt thou his faults with eye severe explore. 
And give to life one human weakness morel 

Still mark if vice or nature prompts the deed 
Still mark the strong temptation and the need 
On pressing want, on famine's powerful call, 
At least more lenient let thy justice fall. 

For him, who, lost to ev'ry hope of life. 
Has long with fortune held unequal strife. 
Known to no human love, no human care. 
The friendless, homeless object of despair; 
For the poor vagrant feel, while he complains, 
Nor from sad freedom said to sadder chains. 
Alike, if folly or misfortune brought 
Those last of woes his evil days have wrought ; 
Believe with social mercy and with me, 
Folly's misfortune in the first degree. 

Perhaps on some inhospitable shore 
The houseless wretch a widow'd parent bore ; 
Who then, no mOre by golden prospects led, 
Of the poor Indian begg'd a leafy bed. 
Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain. 
Perhaps that parent mourn'd her soldier slain ; 
Befit o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew, 
7"he big drops mingling with the milk he drew, 
Grave the sad presage of his future years, 
The child of misery, baptized in tears !* 



Burns seemed much affected by the print, or rather Ihw 
ideas which it suggested to his mind. He actu illy sli.sl 
tears. He asked whose the lines were, and it chiinced 
that nobody but myself remembered that they occur in a 
h alf f >rgottea poem of Langhorne s, called by the unpro- 
nn'sing title of The Justice of Peace. I whispered my 
infiinmitioa to a friend present, who mentioned it to 
Bu.,ng. who rewarded me with a look and a word, which 
thc.ugh of mere civility, I then received, and still r-collect 
2z2 



594 



JOHN LANGHORNE. 



FROM THE SAME. 

The gipsy-race my pity rarely move; 
Yet their strong thirst of liberty I love. 
Not Wilkes, our Freedom's holy martyr, more; 
Nor his firm phalanx of the common shore. 

For this in Norwood's patrimonial groves 
The tawny father with his offspring roves ; 
When summer suns lead slow the sultry day. 
In mossy caves, where welling waters play, 
Fanii'd by each gale that cools the fervid sky, 
With this in ragged luxury they lie. 
Oft at the sun the dusky elfins strain 
The sable eye, then snugging, sleep again ; 
Oft as the dews of cooler evening fall, 
For their prophetic mother's mantle call. 

Far other cafes that waud'ring mother wait. 
The mouth, and oft the minister of fate! 
From her to hear, in evening's friendly shade, 
Of future fortune, flies the village-maid, 
Draws her long-hoarded copper from its hold. 
And rusty halfpence purchase hopes of gold. 

But, ah ! ye mai<ls, beware the gipsy's lures ! 
She opens not the womb of time, but yours, 
Oft has her hands the hapless Marian wrung, 
Marian, whom Gay in sweetest strains has sung ! 
The parson's maid — sore cause had she to rue 
The gipsy's tongue; the parson's daughter too. 
Long had that anxious daughter sigh'd to know 
What Vellum's sprucy clerk, the valley's beau, 
Meant by those glances which at church he stole, 
Her father nodding to the psalm's slow drawl ; 
Long had she sigh'd ; at length a prophet came. 
By many a sure prediction known to fame. 
To Marian known, and all she told, for true: 
She knew the future, for the past she knew. 



FROM THE SAME. 



Appeal for the industrious Poor — Rapacity of Clerks and 
Overseers — Scene of actual misery, which the Author 
had witnessed. 

But still, forgot the grandeur of thy reign, 
Descend to duties meaner crowns disdain ; 
That worst excrescency of power forego, 
That pride of kings, humanity's first foe. 

Let age no longer toil with feeble strife. 
Worn by long service in the war of life; 
Nor leave the head, that time hath whiten'd,bare 
To the rude insults of the searchiiig-for; 
Nor bid the knee, by labour harden'd, bend,\. 
Oh thou, the poor man's hope, the poor man^f 
friend; V 



Jf, when from heaven severer seasons fall, 
- led from the frozen roof and moulde 



ring wall. 



with very great pleasure."— XocWtart'* Life of Burns, 8vo. 

ed. p. 151. ' 

Burns it is said foretold the future fame of Scott: "Thf' 
noy will be heard of jet:" 

'Tis certainly mysterious that the name 

Of prophets and of poets is the same.] , 



Each face the picture of a winter day, 
More strong than Teniers' pencil could portray; 
If then to thee resort the shivering train. 
Of cruel days, and cruel man complain. 
Say to thy heart, (remembering him who said,) 
" These people come from far, and have no 
bread." 
Nor leave thy venal clerk empower'd to hear ; 
The voice of want is sacred to thy ear. 
He, where no fees his sordid pen invite, 
Sports with their tears, too indolent to write; 
Like the fed monkey in the fable, vain 
To hear more helpless animals complain. 

But chief thy notice shall one monster claim, 
A monster furnish'd with a human frame. 
The parish-officer ! though verse disdain 
Terms that deform the splendour of the strain ; 
It stoops to bid thee bend the brow severe 
On the sly, pilfering, cruel, overseer; 
The shuffling farmer, feithful to no trust. 
Ruthless as rocks, insatiate as the dust ! 

When the poor hind, with length of years de- 
Leans feebly on his once-subduing spade, [cay'd, 
Forgot the service of his abler days. 
His profitable toil, and honest praise. 
Shall this low wretch abridge his scanty bread, 
This slave, whose board his former labours spread 1 
W hen harvest's burning suns and sickening air 
From labour's unbraced hand the grasp'd hook 
Where shall the helpless family be fed, [tear, 
That vainly languish for a father's bread ? 
See the pale mother, sunk with grief and care, 
To the proud farmer fearfully repair; 
Soon to be sent with insolence away, 
Referr'd to vestries, and a distant day ! 
Referr'd — to perish ! — Is my verse severe? 
Unfriendly to the hum^n character? 
Ah ! to this sigh of sad experience trust : 
The truth is rigid, but the tale is just. 

If in thy courts this caitiff wretch appear. 
Think not that patience were a virtue here. 
His low-born pride with honest rage control ; 
Smite his hard heart, and shake his reptile soul. 
But, hapless ! oft through fear of future woe. 
And certain vengeance of th' insulting foe, 
Oft, ere to thee the poor prefer their prayer, 
The last extremes of penury they bear. 

Wouldst thou then raise thy patriot office 
higher. 
To something more than magistrate aspire 1 
And, left ea'.-h poorer, pettier chase behind. 
Step nobly forth, the friend of human kind? 
The game I start courageously pursue ! 
Adieu tofear! to insolence adieu! 
And first we'll range this mountain's stormy side, 
Where the rude winds the shepherd's roof deride, 
As meet no more the wintry blast to bear, 
And all the wild hostilities of air. 
— That roof have I remember'd many a year; 
It once gave refuge to a hunted deer — 
Here, in those days, we found an aged pair ; 
But time untenants — hah I what seest thou there * 
"Horror! by Heaven, extended )n a bed 
Of naked fern, two human creatures dead I 



JOHN LANGHORNE. 



595 



Embracing as alive ! — ah, no ! — no life ! 
Cold, breathless!" 

'Tis the shepherd and his wife. 
I knew the scene, and brought thee to behold 
What speaks more strongly than the story told. 
They died through want — 

" By every power I swear. 
If the wretch treads the earth, or breathes the air, 
Through whose default of duty, or design, 
These victims fell, he dies." 

They fell by thine. 
" Infernal ! — Mine !^-by — " 

Swear on no pretence : 
A swearing justice wants both grace and sense. 



FROM THE SAME. 
A case where Mercy should have mitigated Justice. 

Unnumber'd objects ask thy honest care. 
Beside the orphan's tear, the widow's prayer: 
Far as thy power can save, thy bounty bless, 
Unnumber'd evils call for thy redress. 

Seest thou afar yon solitary thorn. 
Whose aged limbs the heath's wild winds have 

torn ? 
While yet to cheer the homeward shepherd's eye, 
A few seem straggling in the evening sky ! 
Not many suns have hasten'd down the day. 
Or blushing moons immersed in clouds their 

way. 
Since there, a scene that stain'd their sacred 

light. 
With horror stopp'd a felon in his flight ; 
A babe just born that signs of life exprest, 
Lay naked o'er the mother's lifeless breast. 
The pitying robber, conscious that, pursued. 
He had no time to waste, yet stood and view'd; 
To the next cot the trembling infant bore, 
.And gave a part of what he stole before; 
Nor known to him the wretches were, nor dear, 
He felt as man, and dropp'd a human tear. 

F;ir other treatment she who breathless lay 
Found from a viler animal of prey. 

Worn with long toil on many a painful road. 
That toil increased by nature's growing load. 
When evening brought the friendly hour of rest, 
And all the mother throng'd about her breast, 
'The ruffian officer opposed her stay. 
And, cruel, bore her in her pangs away. 
So far beyond the town's last limits drove. 
That to return were hopeless, had she strove, 
Abandon'd there — with fomine, pain and cold. 
And anguish, she expiied — the rest I've told. 

"Now let me swear. For by my soul's last 
sigh. 
That thief shall live, that overseer shall die." 

Too late! — his life the generous robber paid, 
Lost by that pity which his steps delay'd! 
No soul-discerning Mansfield sat to hear. 
No Hertford bore his prayer to mercy's ear; 
No libera! justice fir.*t assign'd the gaol, 
Cr urged, as Camplin would have urged his 
tale. 



OWEN OF CARRON. 



On Carron's side the primrose pale, 
Why does it wear a purple hue ? 

Ye maidens fair of Marlivale, 

Why stream your eyes with pity's dewl 

'Tis all with gentle Owen's blood 

That purple grows the primrose pale; 

That pity pours the tender flood 
From each fair eye in Marlivale. 

The evening star sat in his eye. 
The sun his golden tresses gave, 

The north's pure morn her orient dye. 
To him who rests in yonder grave! 

Beneath no high, historic stone. 
Though nobly born, is Owen laid; 

Stretch'd on the greenwood's lap alone. 
He sleeps beneath the waving shade. 

There many a flowery race hath sprung. 
And fled before the mountain gale. 

Since first his simple dirge he sung; 
Ye maidens fair of Marlivale ! 

Yet still, when May with fragrant feet 
Hath wander'd o'er your meads of gold, 

That dirge I hear so simply sweet 
Far echo'd from each evening fold. 



'Twas in the pride of William's day. 

When Scotland's honours flourish'd still, 

That Moray's earl, with mighty sway, 
Bare rule o'er many a Highland hill 

And far for him their fruitful store 
The fairer plains of Carron spread; 

In fortune rich, in oflfspring poor, 
An only daughter crown'd his bed. 

Oh ! write not poor — the wealth that flows 
In waves of gold round India's throne, 

All in her shining breast that glows. 

To Ellen's charms, were earth and stone. 

For her the youth of Scotland sigh'd, 
'J^he Frenchman gay, the Spaniard grave, 

And smoother Italy applied, 

And many an English baron brave. 

In vain by foreign arts assail'd, 

No foreign loves her breast beguile ; 

And England's honest valour fail'd. 
Paid with a cold, but courteous smile. 

" Ah ! woe to thee, young Nithisdale, 
That o'er thy cheek those roses stray'd, 

Thy breath, the violet of the vale, 
'i'hy voice, the music of the shade. 

" Ah! woe to thee, that Ellen's love 
Alone to thy soft tale would yield ! 

For soon those gentle arms shall prove 
The conflict of a ruder field." 



596 



JOHN LANGHORNE. 



'Twas thus a waywanl sister spoke, 
And cast a rueful glance behind, 

As from her dim wood-glen she broke, 
And mounted on the moaning wind. 

She spoke and vanish'd — more unmoved 
Than Moray's rocks, when storms invest, 

The valiant youth by Ellen loved, 
With aught that fear or fate suggest. 

For love, methinks, hath power to raise 
The soul beyond a vulgar state; 

Th' unconquer'd banners he displays 
Control our fears and fix our fate. 



'Twas when, on summer's softest eve, 
Of clouds that wander'd west away, 

Twilight with gentle hand did weave 
Her fairy robe of night and day; 

When all the mountain gales were still. 
And the waves slept against the shore, 

And the sun, sunk beneath the hill, 
Left his last smile on Lammermore ; 

Led by those waking dreams of thought 
That warm the young unpractised breast, 

Her wonted bower sweet Ellen sought, 

And Carron murmur'd near, and sooth'd 
her into rest. 



There is some kind and courtly sprite 
That o'er the realm of fancy reigns, 

Throws sunshine on the mask of night, 
And smiles at slumber's powerless chains; 

'Tis told, and I believe the tale, 

At this soft hour that sprite was there, 

And spread with fairer flowers the vale. 
And fill'd with sweeter sounds the air. 

A bower he framed (for he could frame 
What long might weary mortal wight: 

Swift as the lightning's rapid flame 
Darts on the unsuspecting sight.) 

Such bower he framed with magic hand. 
As well that wizard bard hath wove, 

In scenes where fair Armida's wand 
Waved all the witcheries of love: 

Yet was it wrought in simple show ; 

Nor Indian mines nor orient shores 
Had lent their glories here to glow. 

Or yielded here their shining stores. 

All round a poplar's trembling arms 

The wild rose wound her damask flower ; 

The woodbine lent her spicy charms, 
That loves to weave the lover's bower. 

The ash, that courts the mouniain-air 
In all her painted blooms array'd, 

The wilding's blossom blushing fair. 
Combined to form the flowery shade. 



With thyme that loves the brown hill's breast. 
The cowslip's sweet, reclining head, 

The violet of sky-woven vest, 

W^as all the fairy ground bespread. 

But who is he, whose locks so fair 
Adown his manly shoulders flow 1 

Beside him lies the hunter's spear, 
Beside him sleeps the warrior's bow. 

He bends to Ellen — (gentle sprite ! 

Thy sweet seductive arts forbear) 
He courts her arms with fond delight. 

And instant vanishes in air. 



Hast thou not found at early dawn 

Some soft ideas melt away. 
If o'er sweet vale, or flow'ry lawn. 

The sprite of dreams hath bid thee stray ' 

Hast thou not some fair object seen, 
And, when the fleeting form was past, 

Still on thy memory found its mien. 
And felt the fond idea last! 

Thou hast — and oft the pictured view, 
Seen in some vision counted vain, 

Has struck thy wond'ring eye anew, 
And brought the long-lost dream again. 

With warrior-bow, with hunter's spear. 

With locks adown his shoulder spread, 
Young Nithisdale is ranging near — 

He's ranging near yon mountain's head. 

Scarce had one pale moon pass'd away. 
And fill'd her silver urn again, 

When in the devious chase to stray, 
Afar from all his woodland train. 

To Carron's banks his fate consign'd; 

And, all to shun the fervid hour, 
He sought some friendly shade to find. 

And found the visionary bower. 



Led by the golden star of love. 

Sweet Ellen took her wonted way. 

And in the deep defending grove 

Sought refuge from the fervid day — 

Oh ! — who is he whose ringlets fair 
Disorder'd o'er his green vest flow. 

Reclined to rest — whose sunny hair 

Half hides the fair cheek's ardent glow 1 

'Tis he, that sprite's illusive guest, 

(Ah me ! that sprites can fate control !) 

That lives still imaged on her breast, 
That lives still pictured in her soul. 

As when some gentle spirit fled 
From earth to breathe Elysian air. 

And, in the train whom we call dead. 
Perceives its long-loved partner there- 



JOHN LANGHORNE. 



597 



Soft, sudden pleasure rushes o'er, 

Resistless, o'er its airy frame, 
To find its future fate restore 

The object of its former flame : 

So Ellen stood — less power to move 

Had he, who, bound in slumber's chain, 

Seem'd hap'ly o'er his hills to rove. 
And wind his woodland chase again. 

She stood, but trembled — mingled fear, 
And fond delight, and melting love, 

Seized all her soul ; she came not near, 
She came not near that fatal grove. 

She strives to fly — from wizard's wand 
As well might powerless captive fly — 

The new-cropt flower fails from her hand— 
Ah! fall not with that flower to die ! 



Hast thou not seen some azure gleam 
Smile in the morning's orient eye, 

And skirt the reddening cloud's soft beam 
What time the sun was hasting nigh ] 

Thou hast — and thou canst fancy well 
As any Muse that meets thine ear, 

The soul-set eye of Nithisdale. 

When, waked, it fix'd on Ellen near. 

Silent they gazed — that silence broke; 

" Hail, goddess of these groves, (he cried,) 
Oh let me wear thy gentle yoke ! 

Oh let me in thy service bide ! 

"For thee 111 climb the mount:iins steep. 
Unwearied chase the destmed prey ; 

For thee I'll pierce the wild wood deep, 
And part the sprays that vex thy way. 

" For thee" — "O stranger, cease," she said, 
And swift away, like Daphne, flew; 

But Daphne's flight was not delay'd 
By aught that to her bosom grew. 



Twas Atalanta's golden fruit. 

The fond ideal that confined 
Fair Ellen's steps, and bless'd his suit. 

Who was not far, not far behind. 

love ! within those golden vales, 

Those genial airs where thou wast born. 

Where nature, listening thy soft tales. 
Leans on the rosy breast of morn ; 

Where the sweet smiles, the graces dwell. 
And tender sighs the heart remove, 

In silent eloquence to tell 

Thy tale, soul-subduing love ! 



Earl Barnard was of high degree. 
And lord of many a lowland hind ; 

And long for Ellen love had he, — 
Had love, but not of gentle kind. 

From Moray's halls her absent hour 
He watch'd with all a miser's care ; 

The wide domain, the princely dower. 
Made Ellen more than Ellen fair. 

Ah wretch ! to think the liberal soul 
May thus with fair aflTection part! 

Though Lothian's vales thy sway control. 
Know, Lothian is not worth one heart. 

Studious he marks her absent hour. 
And, winding far where Carron flows, 

Sudden he sees the fated bower. 

And red rage on his dark brow glows. 

For who is he ] — 'Tis Nithisdale ! 

And that fair form with arm reclined 
On his] — 'Tis Ellen of the vale: 

'Tis she (0 powers of vengeance !) kind. 

Should he that vengeance swift pursue 1 
No — that would all his hopes destroy; 

Moray would vanish from his view, 
And rob him of a miser's joy. 

Unseen to Moray's halls he hies — 

He calls his slaves, his ruffian band, 
And, «' Haste to yonder groves," he cries, 
" And ambush'd lie by Carron's strand. 

" What time ye mark from bower or glen 

A gentle lady take her way. 
To distance due, and far from ken, 

Allow her length of time to stray, 

"Then ransack straight that range of groves- 
With hunter's spear, and vest of green. 

If chance a rosy stripling roves. 

Ye well can aim your arrows keen." 

And now the ruffian slaves are nigh, 
And Ellen takes her homeward way: 

Though stay'd by many a tender sigh, 
She can no longer, longer stay. 

Pensive, against yon poplar pale 
The lover leans his gentle heart, 

Revolving many a tender tale. 

And wond'ring still how they could part. 

Three arrows pierced the desert air. 
Ere yet his tender dreams depart; 

And one struck deep his forehead fair. 
And one went through his gentle heart 



Ah ! wherefore should grim rage be nigh. 
And dark distrust, with changeful face, 

And jealousy's reverted eye 

Be near thy fair, thy favour'd place 1 



Love's waking dream is lost in sleep — 
He lies beneath yon poplar pale ; 

Ah ! could we marvel ye should weep 
Ye maidens fair of Marlivale! 



598 



JOHN LANGHORNE. 



When all the mountain gales were still, 
And the wave slept against the shore, 

And the sun sunk beneath the hill,- 
Left his last smile on Lammermore ; 

Sweet Ellen takes her wonted way 
Along the fairy-featured vale : 

Bright o'er his wave does Carron play, 
And soon she'll meet her Nithisdale. 

She'll meet him soon — for, at her sight, 
Swift as the mountain deer he sped ; 

The evening shades will sink in night — 
Where art thou, loitering lover, fled 1 

Oh ! she will chide thy trifling stay, 
E'en now the soft reproach she frames; 

" Can lovers brook such long delay 1 
Lovers that boast of ardent flames !" 

He comes not — weary with the chase. 
Soft slumber o'er his eyelids throws 

Her vail — we'll steal one dear embrace, 
We'll gently steal on his repose. 

This is the bower — we'll softly tread — 
He sleeps beneath yon poplar pale — 

Lover, if e'er thy heart has bled. 
Thy heart will far forego my tale ! 



Ellen is not in princely bower. 

She's not in Moray's splendid train; 

Their mistress dear at midnight hour, 
Her weeping maidens seek in vain. 

Her pillow swells not deep with down ; 

For her no balms their sweets exhale : 
Her limbs are on the pale turf thrown, 

Press'd by her lovely cheek as pale. 

On that fair cheek, that flowing hair. 
The broom its yellow leaf hath shed. 

And the chill mountain's early air 

Blows wildly o'er her beauteous head. 

As the soft star of orient day, 

When clouds involve his rosy light. 

Darts through the gloom a transient ray. 
And leaves the world once more to night ; 

Returning life illumes her eye, 

And slow its languid orb unfolds, — 

What are those bloody arrows nigh 1 
Sure, bloody arrows she beholds ! 

What was that form so ghastly pale, 
That low beneath the poplar lay? — 

'Twas some poor youth — "Ah, Nithisdale !" 
She said, and silent sunk away. 



The morn is on the mountains spread. 
The woodlark trills his liquid strain — 

Can morn's sweet music rouse the dead? 
Give the set eye its soul again 1 



A shepherd of that gentler mind 
Which nature not profusely yields. 

Seeks in these lonely shades to find 
Some wanderer from his little fields. 

Aghast he stands — and simple fear 
O'er ail his paly visage glides — 

"Ah me! what means this misery here? 
What fate this lady fair betides!" 

He bears her to his friendly home, 

When life, he finds, has but retired: — 

With haste he frames the lover's tomb 
For his is quite, is quite expired ! 

XIII. 

"0 hide me in thy humble bower," 
Returning late to life, she said ; 

'<ril bind thy crook with many a flower; 
With many a rosy wreath thy head. 

" Good shepherd, haste to yonder grove, 

And, if my love asleep is laid, 
Oh ! wake him not ; but softly move 

Some pillow to that gentle head. 

"Sure, thou wilt know him, shepherd swain, 
Thou know'st the sun-rise o'er the sea— 

But oh ! no lamb in all thy train 
Was e'er so mild, so mild as he." 

" His head is on the wood-moss laid ; 
I did not wake his slumber deep — 

Sweet sings the redbreast o'er the shade- 
Why, gentle lady, would you weep]" 

As flowers that fade in burning day, 
At evening find the dew-drop dear, 

But fiercer feel the noontide ray. 
When soften'd by the nightly tear; 

Returning in the flowing tear. 

This lovely flower, more sweet than they, 
Found her fair soul, and, wand'ring near, 

The stranger, reason, cross'd her way. 

Found her fair soul — Ah ! so to find 

Was but more dreadful grief to know ! 

Ah ! sure the privilege of mind 
Cannot be worth the wish of woe! 



On melancholy's silent urn 

A softer shade of sorrow falls. 
But Ellen can no more return. 

No more return to Moray's halls. 

Beneath the low and lonely shade 

The slow-consuming hour she'll weep, 

Till nature seeks her last left aid. 
In the sad sombrous arms of sleep. 

" These jewels, all unmeet for me, 

Shalt thou," she said, " good shepherd, lake; 
These gems will purchase gold for thee. 

And these be thine for Ellen's sake. 

" So fail thou not, at eve or morn. 

The rosemary's pale bough to bring — 

Thou know'st where I was found forlorn- — 
Where thou hast heard the redbreast sing. 



1 — — — i 

JOHN LANGHORNE. 599 


« Heedful I'll tend thy flocks the while, 
Or aid thy shepherdess's care, 

For I will share her humble toil, 
And I her friendly roof will share." 


But if no radiant star of love, 

Hymen ! smile on thy fair rite. 

Thy chain a wretched weight shall prove, 
Thy lamp a sad sepulchral light. 


And now two longsome years are past 
In luxury of lonely pain — 

The lovely mourner, found at last, 
To Moray's halls is home again. 


And now has time's slow wandering wing 
Borne many a year unmark'd with speed — 

Where is the boy by Carron's spring, 

Who bound his vale-flowers with the reed 1 


Yet has she left one object dear, 

That wears love's sunny eye of joy — 

Is Nithisdale reviving here 1 
Or is it but a shepherd's boy ■? 


Ah me ! those flowers he binds no more ; 

No early charm returns again ; 
The parent, nature, keeps in store 

Her best joys for her little train. 


By Carron's side a shepherd's boy 1 

He binds his vale-flowers with the reed; 

He wears love's sunny eye of joy, 
And birth he little seems to heed. 


No longer heed the sunbeam bright 
That plays on Carron's breast he can, 

Reason has lent her quiv'ring light, 
And shown the chequer'd field of man. 


But ah ! no more his infant sleep 
Closes beneath a mother's smile, 

Who, only when it closed, would weep, 
And yield to tender woe the while. 


XX. 

As the first human heir of earth 
With pensive eye himself survey'd. 

And, all unconscious of his birth. 
Sat thoughtful oft in Eden's shade ; 


No more, with fond attention dear, 
She seeks th' unspoken wish to find ; 

No more shall she, with pleasure's tear, 
See the soul waxing into mind. 


In pensive thought so Owen stray'd 
Wild Carron's lonely woods among. 

And once within their greenest glade. 
He fondly framed this simple song : 


Does nature bear a tyrant's breast 1 
Is she the friend of stern control ] 

Wears she the despot's purple vest ] 
Or fetters she the free-born soul 1 


XXI. 

" Why is this crook adorn'd with gold 1 
Why am I tales of ladies told] 
Why does no labour me employ, 
If I am but a shepherd's boy 1 


Where, worst of tyrants, is thy claim 
In chains thy children's breast to bind 1 

Gavest thou the Promethean flame 1 
The incommunicable mind ? 


« A silken vest hke mine so green 
In shepherd's hut I have not seen — 
Why should I in such vesture joy. 
If I am but a shepherd's boy 1 


Thy oflTspring are great nature's — free, 
And of her fair dominion heirs; 

Each privilege she gives to thee ; 
Know that each privilege is theirs. 


" I know it is no shepherd's art 
His written meaning to impart — 
They teach me sure an idle toy, 
If I am but a shepherd's boy. 


They have thy feature, wear thine eye, 
Perhaps some feelings of thy heart; 

And wilt thou their loved hearts deny 
To act their fair, their proper part ] 


" This bracelet bright that binds my arm — 
It could not come from shepherd's farm ; 
It only would that arm annoy, 
If I were but a shepherd's boy. 


xmi. 
The lord of Lothian's fertile vale, 

Ill-fated Ellen, claims thy hand ; 
Thou know'st not that thy Nithisdale 

Was low laid by his ruffian band. 


" And oh thou silent picture fair. 
That lovest to smile upon me there. 
Oh say, and fill my heart with joy. 
That I am not a shepherd's boy." 

xxn. 


And Moray, with unfather'd eyes, 
Fix'd on fair Lothian's fertile dale. 

Attends his human sacrifice. 

Without the Grecian painter's veil. 


Ah, lovely youth ! thy tender lay 
May not thy gentle life prolong: 

Seest thou yon nightingale a prey 1 

The fierce hawk hovering o'er his song ■ 


married love ! thy bard shall own, 
Where two congenial souls unite, 

Thy golden chain inlaid with down, 

Thy lamp with heaven's own splendou r bright. 


His little heart is large with love : 
He sweetly hails his evening star ; 

And fate's more pointed arrows move, 
Insidious from his eye afar. 



600 JOHN LANGHORNE. 


xxm. 


Yes, she is there : from idle state 


The shepherJess, whose kimlly care 


Oft has she stole her hour to weep; 


Had watch'd o'er Owen's infant breath, 


Think how she " by thy cradle sat," 


Must now their silent mansions share. 


And how she " fondly saw thee sleep." 


Whom time leads calmly down to death. 


Now tries his trembling hand to frame 


« Oh tell me, parent, if thou art, 


Full many a tender line of love ; 


What is this lovely picture dear 7 


And still he blots the parent's name, 


Why wounds its mournful eye my heart? 


For that, he fears, might fatal prove. 


Why flows from mine th' unbidden tear^" 




" Ah, youth ! to leave thee loth am I, 
Though I be not thy parent dear ; 


%x\u. 


O'er a fair fountain's smiling side 


And wouldst thou wish, or ere I die, 


Reclined a dim tower, clad with moss, 


The story of thy birth to hear? 


Where every bird was wont to bide. 


That languish'd for its partner's loss. 


« But it will make thee much bewail. 




And it will make thy fair eye swell — " 


This scene he chose, this scene assign'd 


She said, and told the woesome tale. 


A parent's first embrace to wait, 


As sooth as shepherdess might tell. 


And many a soft fear fill'd his mind, 
Anxious for his fond letter's fate. 


XXIV. 


The hand that bore those lines of love. 


The heart that sorrow doom'd to share 


The well-informing bracelet bore — 


Has worn the frequent seal of woe, 


Ah ! may they not unprosperous prove ! 


Its sad impressions learn to bear. 


Ah ! safely pass yon dangerous door ! 


And finds full oft its ruin slow. 




But when that seal is first imprest. 


xxvin. 


When the young heart its pain shall try. 


" She comes not; — can she then delay 1" 


From the soft, yielding, trembling breast, 


Cried the fair youth, and dropt a tear — 


Oft seems the startled soul to fly : 


" Whatever filial love could say. 




To her I said, and call'd her dear. 


Vet fled not Owen's— wild amaze 




In paleness clothed, and lifted hands, 


" She comes— Oh ! no — encircled round, 


And horror's dread unmeaning gaze. 


'Tis some rude chief with many a spear. 


Mark the poor statue as it stands. 


My hapless tale that earl has found — 




Ah me ! my heart ! — for her I fear." 


The simple guardian of his life 




Look'd wistful for the tear to glide ; 


His tender tale that earl had read 


But, when she saw his tearless strife. 


Or ere it reach'd his lady's eye; 


Silent, she lent him one — and died. 


His dark brow wears a cloud of red, 


XXV. 


In rage he deems a rival nigh. 


" No, I am not a shepherd's boy," 


XXIX. 


Awaking from his dream, he said ; 


'Tis o'er — those locks that waved in gold. 


«' Ah, where is now the promised joy 


That waved adown those cheeks so fair. 


Of this 1 — for ever, ever fled ! 


Wreathed in the gloomy tyrant's hold. 




Hang from the sever'd head in air ! 


" Oh picture dear !— for her loved sake 


How fondly could my heart bewail ! 


That streaming head he joys to bear 


My friendly shepherdess, oh wake. 


In horrid guise to Lothian's halls ! 


And tell me more of this sad tale : 


Bids his grim ruffians place it there, 


" Oh tell me more of this sad tale — 


Erect upon the frowning walls. 


No ; thou enjoy thy gentle sleep ! 


The fatal tokens forth he drew — 


And I will go to Lothian's vale. 


" Know'st thou these— Ellen of the vale 1" 


And more than all her waters weep." 


The pictured bracelet soon she knew, 


XXVI. 


And soon her lovely cheek grew pale. 


Owen to Lothian's vale is fled — 


The trembling victim straight he led, 


Earl Barnard's lofty towers appear— 


Ere yet her soul's first fear was o'er: 


" Oh ! art thou there ?" the full heart said. 


He pointed to the ghastly head — 


" Oh ! art thou there, my parent dear!" 


She saw — and sunk to rise no more. 



THOMAS PENROSE. 



[Born, 1743. Died, 1779.] 



The history of Penrose displays a dash of war- 
like adventure, which has seldom enlivened the 
biography of our poets. He was not led to the 
profession of arms, like Gascoigne, by his poverty, 
or like Quarles, Davenant, and Waller, by poli- 
tical circumstances; but in a mere fit of juvenile 
ardour, gave up his studies at Oxford, where he 
was preparing to become a clergyman, and left 
the banners of the church for those of the battle. 
This was in the summer of 1762, when the un- 
fortunate expedition against Buenos Ay res sailed 
under the command of Captain Macnamara. It 
consisted of three ships : the Lord Olive, of 64 
guns; the Ambuscade of 40, on board of which 
Penrose acted as lieutenant of marines; the 
Gloria, of 38, and some inferior vessels. Pre- 
paratory to an attack on Buenos Ayres, it was 
deemed necessary to begin with the capture of 
Nova Golonia, and the ships approached closely 
to the fortress of that settlement. The men were 
in high spirits ; military music sounded on board ; 
while the new uniforms and polished arms of the 
marines gave a splendid appearance to the scene. 
Penrose, the night before, had written and de- 
spatched to his mistress in England a poetical 
address, which evinced at once the affection and 
serenity of his heart, on the eve of danger. The 
gay preparative was followed by a heavy fire of 
several hours, at the end of which, when the 
Spanish batteries were almost silenced, and our 
countrymen in immediate expectation of seeing 



the enemy strike his colours, the Lord Olive was 
found to be on fire ; and the same moment which 
discovered the flames showed the impossibility 
of extinguishing them. A dreadful spectacle was 
then exhibited. Men, who had, the instant be- 
fore, assured themselves of wealth and conquest, 
were seen crowding to the sides of the ship, with 
the dreadful alternative of perishing by fire or 
water. The enemy's fire was redoubled at the 
sight of their calamity. Out of Macnamara's 
crew of 340 men, only 78 were saved. Penrose 
escaped with his life on board the Ambuscade, 
but received a wound in the action ; and the 
subsequent hardships which he underwent, in a 
prize-sloop, in which he was stationed, ruined 
the strength of his constitution. He returned to 
England ; resumed his studies at Oxford ; and 
having taken orders, accepted of the curacy of 
Newbury, in Berkshire, of which his father was 
the rector. He resided there for nine years, 
having married the lady already alluded to, 
whose name was Mary Slocock. A friend at 
last rescued him from this obscure situation, by 
presenting him with the rectory of Beckington 
and Standerwick, in Somersetshire, worth about 
500/. a year. But he came to his preferment too 
late to enjoy it. His health having never re- 
covered from the shock of his American service, 
obliged him, as a last remedy, to try the hot wells 
at Bristol, at which place he expired, in his thirty- 
sixth year. 



THE HELMETS. A FRAGMKNT. 
'TwAS midnight — every mortal eye was closed 
Through the whole mansion — save an antique 

crone's. 
That o'er the dying embers faintly watch'd 
The broken sleep (fell harbinger of death) 
Of a sick boteler. — Above indeed, 
In a drear gallery, (lighted by one lamp 
Whose wick the poor departing Seneschal 
Did closely imitate,) paced slow and sad 
The village curate, waiting late to shrive 
The penitent when 'wake. Scarce show'd the ray 
To fancy's eye, the portray'd characters 
That graced the wall — On this and t' other side 
Suspended, nodded o'er the steepy stair. 
In many a trophy form'd, the knightly group 
Of helms and targets, gauntlets, maces strong. 
And horses' furniture — brave monuments 
Of ancient chivalry. — Through the stain'd pane 
Low gleam'd the moon — not bright — but of such 

power 
As mark'd the clouds, black, threatening over 

head, 
Full mischief fraught; — from these in many a peal 
arowl'd the near thunder — flashed the frequent 

blazb 

76 



Of lightning blue. — While round the fretted dome 
The wind sung surly: with unusual clank 
The armour shook tremendous: — On a couch 
Placed in the oriel, sunk the churchman down : 
For who, alone, at that dread hour of night, 

Gould bear portentous prodigy ] 

" I hear it," cries the proudly gilded casque, 
(Fill'd by the soul of one, who erst took joy 
In slaught'rous deeds,) "I hear amidst the gale 
The hostile spirit shouting — once — once more 
In the thick harvest of the spears we'll shine — 

There will be work anon." 

"I'm 'waken'd too," 



Replied the sable helmet, (tenanted 

By a like inmate.) " Hark! — I hear the voice 

Of the impatient ghosts, who straggling range 

Yon summit, (crown'd with ruin'd battlements. 

The fruits of civil discord,) to the din 

The spirits, wand'ring round this Gothic pile. 

All join their yell — the song is war and death — • 

There will be work anon." 

" Gall armourers, ho ! 

Furbish my vizor — close my rivets up — 

I brook no dallying" 

■ ^"Soft, my hasty friend," 

Said the black beaver, " Neither of us twain 
3 A eoi 



Shall share the bloody toil — War-worn am I, 
Bored by a happier mace, I let in fate 
To my once master, — since unsought, unused, 
Pensile I'm fix'd — yet, too, your gaudy pride 
Has naught to boast. — the fashion of the fight 
Has thrown your guilt and shady plumes aside 
For modern foppery ; — still do not frown, 
Nor lower indignantly your steely brows, 
We've comfort left enough — The bookman's lore 
Shall trace our sometime merit; — in the eye 
Of antiquary taste we long shall shine: 
And as the scholar marks our rugged front. 
He'll say, this Cressy saw, that Agincoiirt: 
Thus dwelling on the prowess of his fathers. 
He'll venerate their shell. — Yet more than this. 
From our inactive station we shall hear 
The groans of butcher'd brothers, shrieking plaints 
Of ravish'd maids, and matrons' frantic howls; 
Already hovering o'er the threaten'd lands 
The famish'd raven snuffs the promised feast, 
And hoarselier croaks for blood — 'twill flow." 

" Forbid it. Heaven ! 

Oh shield my suffering country ! — Shield it," 

pray'd 
The agonizing priest. 



THE FIELD OF BATTLE. 
Faintly bray'd the battle's roar 

Distant down the hollow wind ; 
Panting 'i'error fled before, 

Wounds and death were left behind. 

The war-fiend cursed the sunken day, 
That check'd his fierce pursuit too soon ; 

While, scarcely lighting to the prey. 

Low hung, and lour'd the bloody moon. 

The field, so late the hero's pride. 

Was now v\ ith various carnage spread ; 

And floated with a crimson tide. 

That drench'd the dying and the dead. 

O'er the sad scene of dreariest view, 
Abandon'd all to horrors wild. 

With frantic step Maria flew, 
Maria, Sorrow's early child ; 



By duty led, for every vem 

Was warm'd by Hymen's purest flame; 
With Edgar o'er the winc'ry main 

She, lovely, faithful wsndcrei, came. 

For well she thought, z. friend so dear 
In darkest hours might joy impart ; 

Her warrior, faint with toil, might cheer. 
Or soothe her bleeding warrior's smart. 

Though look'd for long — in chill affrigLt, 
(The torrent bursting from her eye. 

She heard the signal for the fight — 
While her soul trembled in a sigh — 

She heard, and clasp'd him to her breast, 
Yet scarce could urge th' inglorious sth^ , 

His manly heart the charm confess'd — 
Then broke the charm, — and rush'd away. 

Too soon in few — but deadly words, 
Some flying straggler breathed to tell, 

That in the foremost strife of swords 
The young, the gallant Edgar fell. 

She press'd to hear — she caught the tale — 
At every sound her blood congeal'd; — 

With terror bold — with terror pale, 
She sprung to search the fatal field. 

O'er the sad scene in dire amaze 

She went — with courage not her own — 

On many a corpse she cast her gaze — 
And turn'd her ear to many a groan. 

Drear anguish urged her to press 

Full many a hand, as wild she mourn'd ; • 
— Of comfort glad, the drear caress 

The damp, chill, dying hand return'd. 

Her ghastly hope was well nigh fled — 
When late pale Edgar's form she found, 

Half buried with the hostile dead. 

And gored with many a grisly wound. 

She knew — she sunk — the night-bird scream d 
— The moon withdrew her troubled light, 

And left the fair, — though fall'n she seem'd — 
To worse than death — and deepest night.* 



SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE. 



[Bora, 1723. Died, 1780.] 



THE LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE. 
As, by some tyrant's stern command, 
A wretch forsakes his native land. 
In foreign climes condemned to roam 
An endless exile from his home ; 
Pensive he treads the destined way, 
And dreads to go, nor dares to stay, 
Till on some neighbouring mountain's brow 
He stops, and turns his eyes below ; 



There, melting at the well-known view, 
Drops a last tear, and bids adieu : 
So I, thus doom'd from thee to part. 
Gay queen of Fancy, and of Art, 

\* Mr. Cnmpljell lu his Adelgilha, and niove all in bis 
Wiundi'd Hussar, has given a vigorous echo of this poem 
of t'cnro.se's, which wants little to rank it high among our 
ballad strains. The picture in the last stanza but two ii" 
very fine : 

Drear anguish urged her to press.] 



SIR JOHN HENRY MOORE, BART. 603 


Reluctant move, with doubtful mind, 


There, in a winding close retreat. 


Oft stop, and often look behind. 


Is justice doom'd to fix her seat ; 


Companion of my tender age, 


There, fenced by bulwarks of the law. 


Serenely gay, and sweetly sage, 


She keeps the wondering world in awe ; 


How blithesome were we wont to rove 


And there, from vulgar sight retired. 


By verdant hill, or shady grove. 


Like eastern queens, is more admired. 


"Where fervent bees, with humming voice, 


Oh let me pierce the secret shade 


Around the honey'd oak rejoice, 


Where dwells the venerable maid ! 


And aged elms with awful bend 


There humbly mark, with reverent awe. 


In long cathedral walks extend ! 


The guardian of Britannia's law ; 


Lull'd by the lapse of gliding floods, 


Unfold with joy her sacred page. 


Cheer'd by the warbling of the woods, 


The united boast of many an age ; 


How bless'd my days, my thoughts how free. 


Where mix'd, yet uniform, appears 


In sweet society with thee ! 


The wisdom of a thousand years. 


Then all was joyous, all was young. 


In that pure spring the bottom view, 


And years unheeded roU'd along; 


Clear, deep, and regularly true; 


But now the pleasing dream is o'er, 


And other doctrines thence imbibe 


These scenes must charm me now no more. 


Than lurk within the sordid scribe; 


Lost to the fields, and torn from you, — 


Observe how parts with parts unite 


Farewell ! — a long, a last adieu. 


In one harmonious rule of right; 


Me wrangling courts, and stubborn law, 


See countless wheels distinctly tend 


To smoke, and crowds and cities draw: 


By various laws to one great end: 


There selfish faction rules the day, 


While mighty Alfred's piercing soul 


And pride and avarice throng the way; 


Pervades, and regulates the whole. 


Diseases taint the murky air. 


Then welcome business, welcome strife, 


And midnight conflagrations glare ; 


Welcome the cares, the thorns of life. 


Loose Revelry, and Riot bold 


The visage wan, the pore-blind sight, 


In friijhted streets their orgies hold ; 


The toil by day, the lamp at night, 


Or, where in silence all is drown'd. 


The tedious forms, the solemn prate. 


Fell Murder walks his lonely round; 


The pert dispute, the dull debate. 


No room for peace, no room for you. 


The drowsy bench, the babbling Hall, 


Adieu, celestial nymph, adieu ! 


For thee, fair Justice, welcome all ! 


Shakspeare no more, thy sylvan son, 


Thus though my noon of life be pass'd, 


Nor all the art of Addison, 


Yet let my settmg sun, at last. 


Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's ease. 


Find out thee still, the rural cell. 


Nor Milton's mighty self, must please: 


Where sage Retirement loves to dwell! 


Instead of these a formal band. 


There let me taste the homefelt blisa 


In furs and coifs, around me stand; 


Of innocence, and inward peace; 


With sounds uncouth and accents dry, 


Untainted by the guilty bribe, 


That grate the soul of harmony. 


Uncursed amid the happy tribe; 


Each pedant sage unlocks his store 


No orphan's cry to wound my ear ; 


Of mystic, dark, discordant lore ; 


My houour, and my conscience clear; 


And points with tottering hand the ways 


Thus may I calmly meet my end. 


That lead me to the thorny maze. 


Thus to the grave in peace descend. 


SIR JOHN HENE 


Y MOORE, BART. 


[Born, 1756. 


Died, 1780.] 


This interesting and promising young man 


died of a decline, in his twenty-fourth year 


L'AMOUIl TIMroE. 


SONG. 


If in that breast, so good, so pure, 


Cease to blame my melancholy, 


Compassion ever loved to dwell. 


Though with sighs and folded arms 


Pity the sorrows I endure ; 


I muse with silence on her charms ; 


The cause I must not, dare not tell. 


Censure not — I know tis folly. 


The grief that on my quiet preys. 


Yet these mournful thoughts possessing, 


That rends my heart, that checks my tongue. 


Such delights I find in grief, 


I fear will last me all my days, 


That, could heaven aftbrd --elief. 


But feel it will not last me long. 


Mv fond heart would scorn the blessing 



RICHARD JAGO. 

[Born, 1715. Died, 1781.] 

The Rev. Richard Jago, the author of " Edge i used to visit him privately, it being thought 

Hill," a descriptive poem, was vicar of «nitter- beneath the dignity of a commoner to be inti- 

field, near Stratford-on-Avon. Shenstone, who mate with a student of that rank, and continued 

knew him at Oxford, where Jago was a sizar, | his friendship for him through life. 



LABOUR AND GENIUS; OR, THE MILL-SXREAM 
AND THE CASCADE. 



Betwixt two sloping verdant hills 
A current pour'd its careless rills. 
Which unan)bitious crept along. 
With weeds and matted grass o'erhung. 
Till Rural Genius, on a day. 
Chancing along its banks to si ray, 
Remark'd with penetrating look. 
The latent merits of the brook. 
Much grieved to see such talents hid, 
And thus the dull by-standers chid. 

How blind is man's incurious race 
The scope of nature's plans to trace? 
How do ye mangle half her charms, 
And fright her hourly with alarms? 
Disfigure now her swelling mounds, 
And now contract her spacious bounds 
Fritter her fairest lawns to alleys. 
Bare her green hills, and hide her valleys? 
Confine her streams with rule and line, 
And counteract her whole design ? 
Neglecting where she points the way, 
Her easy dictates to obey ? 
To bring her hidden worth to sight. 
And place her charms in fairest light ? 

* * * 

He said : and to his favourite son 
Consign'd the task, and will'd it done. 

Damon his counsel wisely weigh'd, 
And carefully the scene survey'd. 
And, though it seems he said but little, 
He took his meaning to a tittle. 
And first, his purpose to befriend, 
A bank he raised at th' upper end : 
Compact and close its outward side. 
To stay and swell the gathering tide : 
But on its inner, rough and tall, 
A ragged cliti", a rocky wall. 
The channel next he oped to view. 
And from its course the rubbish drew. 
Enlarged it now, and now with line 
Oblique pursued his fair design. 
Preparing here the mazy way, 
And there the fall for sportive play ; 
The precipice abrupt and steep. 
The pebbled road, and cavern deep; 
The rooty seat, where best to view 
The fairy scene, at distance due. 
eo-t 



He last invoked the driads' aid. 

And fringed the borders round with shade. 

Tapestry, by Nature's fingers wove, 

No mimic, but a real grove: 

Part hiding, part admitting day. 

The scene to grace the future play. 

Damon perceives, with ravish'd eyes, 
The beautiful enchantment rise. 
Sees sweetly blended shade and light ; 
Sees every part with each unite; 
Sees each, as he directs, assume 
A livelier dye, or deeper gloom : 
So fashion'd by the painter's skill. 
New forms the glowing canvas fill : 
So to the summer's sun the rose 
And jessamin their charms disclose. 
* * * 

Not distant far below, a mill 
Was built upon a neighb'ring rill: 
Whose pent-up stream, whene'er let loose, 
Impell'd a wheel, close at its sluice, 
So strongly, that by friction's power, 
'Twould grind the firmest grain to flour. 
Or, by a correspondence new. 
With hammers, and their clatt'ring crew. 
Would so bestir her active stumps. 
On iron blocks, though arrant lumps. 
That in a trice she'd manage matters. 
To make 'em all as smooth as platters. 
Or slit a bar to rods quite taper. 
With as much ease as you'd cut paper. 
For, though the lever gave the blow. 
Yet it was lifted from below; 
And would for ever have lain still, 
But for the bustling of the rill; 
Who, from her stately pool or ocean. 
Put all the wheels and logs in motion ; 
Things in their nature very quiet. 
Though making all this noise and riot. 
This stream that could in toil excel. 
Began with foolish pride to swell: 
Piqued at her neighbour's reputation. 
And thus express'd her indignation: 

" Madam ! methinks you're vastly proud, 
You wasn't used to talk so loud. 
Nor cut such capers in your pace. 
Marry ! what antics, what grimace ! 
For shame ! don't give yourself such airs. 
In flaunting down those hideous stairs 
Nor put yourself in such a flutter, 
Whute'er you do, you dirty gutter ! 



HENRY BROOKE. 



605 



I'd have you know, you upstnrt minx ! 

Ere you were form'd, with all your sinks, 

A lake I was, compared with which, 

Your stream is but a paltry ditch: 

And still, on honest labour bent, 

I ne'er a single flash misspent. 

And yet no folks of high degree 

Would e'er vouchsafe to visit me, 

As in their coaches by they rattle. 

Forsooth ! to hear your idle prattle. 

1 hough half the business of my flooding 

Is to provide them cakes and pudding: 

Or furnish stufll'for many a trinket, 

Which, though so fine,you scarce would think it. 

When Boulton's skill has fix'd their beauty, 

To my rough toil first owed their duty. 

But I'm plam Goody of the mill, 

And you are — Madame Cascadille !" 

" Dear Coz," replied the beauteous torrent, 
" Pray do not discompose your current. 
That we all from one fountain flow. 
Hath been agreed on long ago. 
Varying our talents and our tides. 
As chance our education guides. 
That I have either note, or name, 
I owe to him who gives me fame, 
Who teaches all our kind to flow, 
Or gaily swift, or gravely slow. 
Now in the lake, with glassy face. 
Now moving light, with dimpled grace, 



Now gleaming from the rocky height. 
Now, in rough eddies, foaming white. 
Nor envy me the gay, or great, 
That visit my obscure retreat. 
None wonders that a clown can dig, 
But 'tis some art to dance a jig. 
Your talents are employ'd for use. 
Mine to give pleasure, and amuse. 
And though, dear Coz, no folks of taste 
Their idle hours with you will waste. 
Yet many a grist comes to your mill. 
Which helps your master's bags to fill. 
While I, with all my notes and trilling. 
For Damon never got a shilling. 
Then, gentle Coz, forbear your clamours. 
Enjoy your hoppers, and your hammers : 
We gain our ends by diflferent ways. 
And you get bread, and I get — praise." 



With leaden foot Time creeps along. 

While Delia is away. 
With her, nor plaintive was the song, 

Nor tedious was the day. 

Ah, envious power ! reverse my doom, 

Now double thy career; 
Strain every nerve, stretch every plume. 

And rest them when she's here. 



HENRY BROOKE. 



[Born, 1706. Died, 1783.] 



Henry Brooke was born in the county of 
Cavan, in Ireland, where his father was a clergy- 
man. He studied at Trinity College, Dublin, 
and was a pupil of Dr. Sheridan ; but he was 
taken from the university at the age of seven- 
teen, and sent to England, to study the law at 
the Temple. On his coming to London he 
brought letters of introduction (probably from 
Dr. Sheridan) to Pope and Swift, both of whom 
noticed him as a youth of promising talents. At 
the end of a few years he returned to Dublin, 
and endeavoured to practice as a chamber coun- 
sel ; but, without having obtained much business, 
invfdved himself in the cares of a family, by 
marrying a beautiful cousin of his own, who had 
been consigned to his guardianship. It is related, 
not much to his credit, that he espoused her in 
her thirteenth year. The union, however, proved 
to be as happy as mutual affection could make it. 
Having paid another visit to London, he renewed 
his acquaintance with Pope ; and, with his en- 
couragement, published his poem, entitled, " Uni- 
versal Beauty." This poem forms a curious, 
but unacknowledged prototype of Darwin's 
" Botanic Garden." It has a resemblance to 
that work, in manner, in scientific spirit, and 



in volant geographical allusion, too striking to be 
supposed accidental ; although Darwin has gone 
beyond his original, in prominent and ostenta- 
tious imagery. 

After publishing his poem he returned to Ire- 
land, and applied to his profession ; but his heart 
was not in it, and he came once more to Eng- 
land, to try his fortune as a man of letters. In 
that character, he was cordially received by the 
Prince of Wales and his friends, as an accession 
to their phalanx ; and this patronage was the 
more flattering to Brooke, as the maintenance of 
patriotic principles was the declared bond of 
union at the Prince's court. He had begun to 
translate the "Jerusalem" of Tasso, and had pro- 
ceeded as far as the fourth book ; but it is said, 
that he was invited to quit this task, that he 
might write a tragedy in the cause of Freedom, 
which should inspirit the people of England. 
Glover, it was pretended, was the epic champion 
of Liberty, who had pointed her spear at Wal- 
pole; and Brooke was now to turn the arm of 
tragedy against him, by describing a tyrannic 
minister, in his play of" Gustavus Vasa." With 
regard to Glover, this was certainly untrue. His 
poetry breathed the spirit of liberty, but he was 
3a2 



eo6 



HENRY BROOKE. 



above the wretched taste of making a venerable 
antique subject the channel of grotesque allu- 
sion to modern parties, or living characters. If 
Brooke's Trollio was really meant for Walpole, 
the minister's friends need not have been much 
alarmed at the genius of a tragic poet, who 
could descend to double meanings. They might 
have felt secure, one would think, that the arti- 
fice of poets could not raise any dangerohs zeal 
in Englishmen, against their malt or excise bills, 
by the most cunning hints about Therraopylse or 
Dalecarlia. BJt as if they had been in collusion 
with Brooke, to identify Walpole with Trollio, 
they interdicted the representation of the play, 
'i'he author therefore published it, and got, it is 
said, £800 by the sale. 

He lived, for some time, very comfortably on 
this acquisition, at Twickenham, in the neigh- 
bourhood of Pope, till the state of his health 
obliged him to seek the benefit of his native air; 
when to the surprise of those who knew him, he 
determined to remain in Ireland. This resolu- 
tion was owing to the influence of his wife, who 
apprehended that his political zeal, among his 
English friends, might lead him to some intem- 
perate publication. Brooke, however, had too 
much of the politician to lose it by returning to 
his native soil. In the year of the rebellion, he 



addressed his " Farmer's lietters" to his country- 
men, and they were supposed to have had a 
beneficial influence on their temper, at a critical 
period. He was also, to his honour, one of the 
earliest advocates for alleviating the penal laws 
against the Catholics, Their pacific behaviour in 
1745 had certainly furnish'ed him with a power- 
ful argument in their behalf. 

He wrote thirteen dramatic pieces, of which 
"Gustavus Vasa," and the "Earl of Essex," 
were the only two that ever reached the English 
stage. The rest were not heard of in England, 
till his collected works were published in 1778; 
but his novel, " The Fool of Quality," gave some 
popularity to his name. In Ireland, Lord Ches- 
terfield gave him the appointment of a barrack- 
master, which he held till his death. The ac- 
counts of his private circumstances, in that king- 
dom, are given rather confusedly by his biogra- 
phers; but it appears, upon the whole, that they 
were unfortunate. He supported an only brother 
in his house, with a family as nun)erous as his 
own; and ruined himself by his generosity. At 
last the loss of his wife, after a union of fifty 
years, the death of many of his children, and his 
other misfortunes, overwhelmed his intellects. Of 
this imbecility there were indeed some manifesta- 
tions in the latest productions of his pen. 



THE REPTILE AND INSECT WORLD. 

FROM " UNIVERSAL BEAUTY," BOOK V. 

Like Nature's law no eloquence persuades, 
The mute harangue our every sense invades ; 
Th' apparent precepts of the Eternal Will 
His every work, and every object fill ; 
Round with our eyes his revelation wheels, 
Our every touch his demonstration feels. 
And, O Supreme! whene'er we cease to know 
Thee, the sole Source, whence sense and science 
Then must all faculty, all knowledge fail, [flow ! 
And more than monster o'er the man prevail. 

Not thus he gave our optic's vital glance, 
Amid omniscient art, to search for chance, 
Blind to the charms of Nature's beauteous frame ; 
Nor made our organ vocal, to blaspheme : 
Not thus he will'd the creatures of his nod, 
And made the mortal to unmake his God ; 
Breathed on the globe, and brooded o'er the wave, 
And liid the wide obsequious world conceive: 
Spoke into being myriads, myriads rise. 
And with young transport gaze the novel skies; 
Glance from the surge, beneath the surface scud, 
Or cleave enormous the reluctant flood ; • 
Or roll vermicular their wanton maze. 
And the bright path with wild meanders glaze; 
Frisk in the vale, or o'er the mountains bound. 
Or in huge gambols shake the trembling ground ; 
Swarm in the beam; or spread the plumy sail — 
The plume creates, and then directs the gale; 
While active gaiety, and aspect bright, 
In each expressive, sums up all delight. 



The reptile first, how exquisitely form'd. 
With vital streams through every organ warm'd! 
External round the spiral muscle winds, 
And folding close th' interior texture binds; 
Secure of limbs or needless wing he steers, 
And all one locomotive act appears; 
His rings with one elastic membrane bound. 
The prior circlet moves th' obsequious round 
The next, and next, its due obedience owes, 
And with successive undulation flows. 
The mediate glands, with unctuous juice replete, 
Their stores of lubricating guile secrete; 
Still opportune, with prompt emission flow, 
And sli[)ping frustrate the deluded foe; 
When the still" clod their little augers bore. 
And all the worm insinuates through the pore. 

Slow moving next, with grave majestic pace, 
Tenacious snails their silent progress trace ; 
Through foreign fields secure from exile roam. 
And sojourn safe beneath their native home. 
Their domes self-wreathed, each architect attend, 
With mansions lodge them, and with mail defend! 
But chief, when each his wint'ry portal forms, 
And mocks secluded from incumbent storms: 
Till gates, unbarring with the vernal ray. 
Give all the secret hermitage to day ; 
Then peeps the sage from his unfolding doors. 
And cautious heaven's ambiguous brow explores: 
Toward the four winds four telescopes he bends. 
And on his own astrology depends; 
Assured he glides beneath the smiling calm. 
Bathes in the dew, and sips the morning balm; 
The peach this pamp'ring epicure devours. 
And climbing on the topmost fruitage towers 



HENRY BROOKE 



607 



Such have we cull'd from nature's reptile scene, 
Least accurate of all the wondrous train. 
Who plunged recluse in silent caverns .sleep ; 
Or multipede, earth's leafy verdure creep; 
Or on the pool's new mantling surface play, 
And range a drop as whales may range the sea; 
Or ply the rivulet with supple oars, 
And oft, amphibious, course the neighb'ring 

shores ; 
Or shelt'ring, quit the dank inclement sky, 
And condescend to lodge where princes lies; 
There tread the ceiling, an inverletl floor. 
And from its precipice depend secure: 
Or who nor creep, nor fly, nor walk, nor swim. 
But claim new motion with peculiar limb. 
Successive spring with quick elastic bound, 
And thus transported pass the refluent ground. 

Or who all native vehicles despise, 
And buoy'd upon their own inventions rise; 
Shoot forth the twine, their light aerial guide, 
And mounting o'er the distant zenith ride. 

Or who a twofold apparatus share, 
Natives of earth, and habitants of air; 
[yike warriors stride, oppress'd with shining mail, 
But furl'd, l)eneath, their silken pennons vail: 
Deceived, our fellow reptile we admire. 
His bright endorsement, and compact attire. 
When lo ! the latent springs of motion play. 
And rising lids disclose the rich inlay; 
'I"he tissued wing its folded membrane frees. 
And with blithe quavers fans the gath'ring breeze ; 
Elate tow'rds Heaven the beauteous wonder flies, 
And leaves the mortal wrapp'd in deep surprise. 
So when the guide led Tobit's youthful heir, 
Elect, to win the seven times widow'd fair, 
Th' angelic form, conceal'd in human guise. 
Deceived the search of his associates eyes; 
Till swift each charm bursts forth like issuing 

flame. 
And circling rays confess his heavenly frame; 
'J'he zodiac round his waist divinely turns. 
And waving radiance o'er his plumage burns: 
In awful transports rapt, the youth admires. 
While light from earth the dazzling shape aspires. 

Oh think, if superficial scenes amaze. 
And e'en the still familiar wonders please. 
These but ihe sketch, the garb, the vail of things, 
Whence all our depth of shallow science springs ; 
Think, should this curtain of Omniscience rise. 
Think of the sight ! and think of the surjirise ! 
Scenes inconceivable, essential, new, 
Whelm'd on our soul, and lightning on our view! — 
How would the vain disputing wretches shrink. 
And shivering wish they could no longer think; 
Reject each model, each reforming scheme, 
Pso longer dictate to the Grand Supreme, 
But, waking, wonder whence they dared to dream ! 

All is phenomenon, and type on earth. 
Replete with sacred and mysterious birth. 
Deep from our search, exalted from our soar; 
And reason's task is, only to adore. [swarms. 

Who that beholds the summer's glist'ring 
Tea thousand thousand gaily gilded forms, 
In volant dance of mix'd rotation play. 
Bask in the beam, and beautity the day ; 



Would think these airy wantons so adorn. 
Were late his vile antipathy and scorn. 
Prone to the dust, or reptile through the mire, 
And ever thence unlikely to aspire ! 
Or who with transient view, beholding, loathes 
Those crawling sects, whom vilest semblance 

clothes ; 
"Who, with corruption, hold their kindred state, 
As by contempt, or negligence of fate ; 
Could think, that such, reversed by wondrous 

doom, 
Sublimer powers and brighter forms assume ; 
From death, their future happier life derive. 
And though apparently entomb'd, revive; 
Changed, through amazing transmigration rise, 
And wing the regions of unwonted skies ; 
So late depress'd, contemptible on Earth, 
Now elevate to Heaven by second birth ! 

No fictions here to willing fraud invite. 
Led by the marvellous, absurd delight; 
No golden ass, no tale Arabians feign; 
Nor flitting forms of Naso's magic strain, 
Deucalion's progeny of native stone. 
Or armies from Cadmean harvests grown : 
With many a wanton and fantastic dream, 
The laurel, mulberry, and bashful stream; 
Arachne shrunk beneath Tritonia's rage; 
Tithonus changed and garrulous with age. 
Not such mutations deck the chaster song, 
Adorn'd with nature, and with truth made 

strong; 
No debt to fable, or to fancy due. 
And only wondrous facts reveal'd to view. 

Though numberless these insect tribes of air. 
Though numberless each tribe and species fair. 
Who wing the moon, and brighten in the blaze, 
Innumerous as the sands which bend the seas; 
These have their organs, arts, and arms, and 

tools, 
And functions exercised by various rules; 
The saw. ax, auger, trowel, piercer, drill; 
The neat alembic, and nectareous still ; 
Their peaceful hours the loom and distaff know: 
But war, the force and fury of the foe. 
The spear, the falchion, and the martial mail. 
And artful stratagem, where strength may fail. 
Each tribe peculiar occupations claim. 
Peculiar beauties deck each varying frame; 
Attire and food peculiar are assign'd. 
And means to propagate their varying kind. 

Each, as reflecting on their primal state. 
Or fraught with scientific craft innate. 
With conscious skill their oval embryon shed, 
Where native first their infancy was fed : 
Or on some vegetating foliage glued ; 
Or o'er the flood they spread their future brood; 
A slender cord the floating jelly binds. 
Eludes the wave, and mocks the warring wmds ; 
O'er this their sperm in spiral order lies. 
And pearls in living ranges greet our eyes. 
In firmest o^k they scoop a spacious tomb, 
And'lay their emiiryo in the spurious womb: 
Some flowers, some fruit, some gems, or blossom* 

choose, 
And confident their darling hopes infuse • 



008 



JOHN SCOTT. 



While some their eggs in ranker carnage lay, 
And to their young adapt the future prey. 

Meantime the Sun his fost'ring warmth be- 
queaths, 
Each tepid air its motive influence breathes, 
Mysterious springs the wavering life supply, 
And quick'ning births unconscious motion try ; 
Mature, their slender fences they disown. 
And break at once into a world unknown. 
All by their dam's prophetic care receive 
Whate'er peculiar indigence can crave : 
Profuse at hand the plenteous table's spread. 
And various appetites are aptly fed. 
Nor less each organ suits each place of birth, 
Finn'd in the flood, or reptile o'er the earth ; 
Each organ, apt to each precarious state. 
As for eternity design'd complete. 
Thus nursed, these inconsiderate wretches grow, 
Take all as due, still thoughtless that they owe. 
When lo ! strange tidings prompt each secret 
breast. 
And whisper wonders not to be express'd ; 
Each owns his error in his later cares. 
And for the new unthought-of world prepares: 
New views, new tastes, new judgments are ac- 
quired. 
And all now loathe delights so late admired. 
In confidence the solemn shroud they weave, 
Or build the tomb, or dig the deadly grave ; 



Intrepid there resign their parting breath. 
And give their former shape the spoils of death; 
But reconceived as in a second womb. 
Through metamorphoses, new forms assume: 
On death their true exalted life depends, 
Commencing there, where seemingly it ends. 
The fullness now of circling time arrives; 
Each from the long, the mortal sleep revives; 
The totnbs pour forth their renovated dead. 
And, like a dream, all former scenes are fled. 
But oh ! what terms expressive may relate 
The change, the splendour of their new-form'd 

state ? 
Their texture nor composed of filmy skin. 
Of cumbrous flesh without, or bone within, 
But something than corporeal more refined, 
And agile as their blithe informing mind. 
In every eye ten thousand brilliants blaze. 
And living pearls the vast horizon gaze; 
Gemm'd o'er their heads the mines of India gleam, 
And Heaven's own wardrobe has array'd their 

frame ; 
Each spangled back bright sprinkling specks 

adorn, 
Each plume imbibes the rosy tinctured morn , 
Spread on each wing the florid seasons glow, 
Shaded and verged with the celestial bow. 
Where colours blend an ever varying dye, 
And wanton in their gay exchanges vie. 



JOHN SCOTT. 



[Born, 1730. Died, 1783.) 



This worthy and poetical quaker was the son | 
of a draper, in London, and was born in the 
borough of Southwark. His father retired to 
Amwell, in Hertfordshire, when our poet was i 
only ten years old ; and this removal, together 
with the circumstance of his never having been ' 
inoculated for the small-pox, proved an unfortu- 
nate impediment to his education. lie was put 
to a day-school, in the neighbouring town of ', 
Ware, where not much instruction was to be had ; ! 
and from that little he was called away, upon the 
first alarm of infection. Such indeed was his 
constant apprehension of the disease, that he 
lived for twenty years within twenty miles of 
London without visiting it more than once. About 
the age of seventeen, however, he betook him- 
self to reading. His family, from their cast of 
opinions and society, were not likely to abound 
either in books or conversation relating to litera- 
ture; hut he happened to form an acquaintance 
and friendship with a neighbour of the name of 
Froglcy, a master bricklayer, who, though an un- 
educated man, was an admirer of poetry, and by 
his intercourse with this friend he strengthened 
his literary propensity. His first poetical essays 
were transmitted to the Gentleman's Magazine. 
In his thirtieth year he published four elegies, 
which were favourably received. His poems, 



entitled, " The Garden," and " Amwell," and his 
volume of collected poetical pieces, appeared after 
considerable intervals; and his " Critical Essays 
on the English Poets," two years after his 
death. These, with his " Remarks on the Poems 
of Rowley," are all that can be called his literary 
productions. He published also two political 
tracts, in answer to Dr. Johnson's " Patriot," and 
" False Alarm." His critical essays contain 
some judicious remarks on Denham and Dyer; 
but his verbal strictures on Collins and Gold- 
smith discover a miserable insensibility to the 
soul of those poets. His own verses are chiefly 
interesting, where they breathe the pacific prin- 
ciples of the quaker ; while his personal character 
engages respect, from exhibiting a public spirit 
and liberal taste beyond the habits of his breth- 
ren. He was well informed in the laws of his 
country ; and, though prevented by his tenets 
from becoming a magistrate, he made himself 
useful to the inhabitants of Amwell, l>y his olfices 
of arbitration, and by promoting schemes of local 
improvement. He was constant in his attend- 
ance at turnpike meetings, navigation trusts, and 
commissions of land-tax. Ware and Hertford 
were indebted to him for the plan of opening a 
spacious road between those two towns. His 
treatises on the highway and parochial laws were 



JOHN SCOTT. 



the result of long and laudable attention to 
those subjects. 

His verses, and his amiable character, gained 
him by degrees a large circle of literary acquaint- 
ance, which included Dr. Johnson, Sir William 
Jones, Mrs. Montague, and many other distin- 
guished individuals; and having submitted to 
inoculation, in his thirty-sixth year, he was from 
that period more frequently in liOndon. In his 
retirement he was fond of gardening; and, in 



amusing himself with the improvement of his 
grounds, had excavated a grotto in the side of a 
hill, which his biographer, Mr. Hoole, writing in 
1785, says, was still shown as a curiosity in that 
part of the country. He was twice mairied. 
His first wife was the daughter of his friend 
Frogley. He died at a house in Radcliff, of a 
putrid fever, and was interred there in the bury- 
ing ground of the friends.* 



ODE OX HEARING THE DRUM. 
I HATE that drum's discordant sound. 
Parading round, and round, and round: 
To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields, 
And lures from cities and from fields, 
To sell their liberty for charms 
Of tawdry lace, and glittering arms; 
And when ambition's voice commands. 
To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands. 

I hate that drum's discordant sound. 
Parading round, and round, and round: 
To ine it talks of ravaged plains. 
And burning towns and ruin'd swains, 
And mangled limbs, and dying groans. 
And widows' tears, and orphans' moans ; 
And all that misery's hand bestows, 
To fill the catalogue of human woes. 



ODE ON PRIVATEERING. 
How custom steels the human breast 
To deeds that nature's thoughts detest ! 
How custom consecrates to fame 
What reason else would give to shame ! 
Fair spring supplies the favouring gale. 
The naval plunderer spreads his sail, 
And ploughing wide the watery way, 
Explores with anxious eyes his prey. 

The man he never saw before, 
The man who him no quarrel bore. 
He meets, and avarice prompts the fight ; 
And rage enjoys the dreadful sight 
Of decks with streaming crimson dyed, 
And wretches struggling in the tide, 
Or 'midst th' explosion's horrid glare, 
Dispersed with quivering limbs in air. 

The merchant now or. foreign shores 
His captured wealth in vain deplores; 
Quits his fair home, nh. mournful change 
For the dark prison'?, scanty range; 



[* In tLe life of that j^ood pan, Scott of Amwell, is 
Inserted a.sort of last f'y'.ns; speec h and confession, which 
the Quakers publishfd after his death. This precious 
paper requires sonte f.oj'ment, S^cott's life had not merely 
been iuuucent, hut vr.iuently useful. '• He was esteemed 
regular !»>jd mor»; in his londuct," Bays this very docu- 
ment; " neveribal'Sf ," it adds, "there is reason to be- 
lieve he frnjUBDily experienced the ronviction of the 
spirit of troth for not faithfully following the Lord.' 
Whether ary lieavier offence can be proved against him 



By plenty's hand so lately ie;., 
Depends on casual alms for bread; 
And with a father's anguish torn, ' 
Sees his poor offspring left forlorn. 

And yet, such man's misjudging mind. 
For all this injury to his kind. 
The prosperous robber's native plain 
Shall bid him welcome home again ; 
His name the song of every street, 
His acts the theme of all we meet, 
And oft the artist's skill shall place 
To public view his pictured face ! 

If glory thus be earned, for me 
My object glory ne'er shall be ; 
No, first in Cambria's loneliest dale 
Be mine to hear the shepherd's tale ! 
No, first on Scotia's bleakest hill 
Be mine the stubborn soil to till ! 
Remote from wealth to dwell alone, 
And die to guilty praise unknown ! 



THE TEMPESTUOUS EVENING. 

AN ODE. 

There's grandeur in this sounding storm, 
That drives the hurrying clouds along, 
That on each other seem to throng. 
And mix in many a varied form ; 
While, bursting now and then between. 
The moon's dim misty orb is seen. 
And casts faint glimpses on the green. 

Beneath the blast the forests bend. 
And thick the branchy ruin lies. 
And wide the shower of foliage flies; 
The lake's black waves in tumult blend. 
Revolving o'er and o'er and o'er, 
And foaming on the rocky shore, 
Whose caverns echo to their roar. 



by the society than that of having stvled him.^elf Esquiie 
in one of his title-pages, and used such heathen words as 
December and May in his poems, instcal cf twelfth 
month and fifth month, we know not; but when he was 
dying, at a vigorous age,, of a typhus fever, he was 
'•brouirht down," says this quaker-process, -'as fronj 
the clifts of the rocks and the heights of the hills into 
the valley of deep humiliation."— See Quar. Rev. vol. xi 
p. 500.] 



610 



GEORGE ALEXANDER STEVENS. 



The sight sublime enrapts my thought, 
And swift along the past it strays, 
And much of strange event surveys, 
What history's foithful tongue has taught, 
Or fancy form'd, whose plastic skill 
The page with fabled change can fill 
Of ill to good, or good to ill. 



But can my soul the scene enjoy. 
That rends another's breast with pain 1 
Oh hapless he, who, near the main. 
Now sees its billowy rage destroy ! 
Beholds the foundering bark descend, 
Nor knows but what its fate may end 
The moments of his dearest friend ! 



GEORGE ALEXANDER STEVENS. 



[Born, 17—. Died, 1784.] 



Geoege Alexander Stevens was born in 
Holborn. He was for many years a strolling 
player, and was afterward engaged at Covent 
Garden theatre. His powers as an actor were 
very indifferent; and he had long lived in neces- 
sitous circumstances, when he had recourse to a 
plan which brought him affluence — this was, de- 
livering his Lecture on Heads, a medley of wit 
and nonsense, to which no other performance 
than his own could give comic effect. The lec- 
ture was originally designed for Shutter; who, 
however, wholly failed in his delivery of it. 
When Stevens gave it himself, it immediately 
became popular ; he repeated it with success in 
different parts of Great Britain and Ireland, and, 
crossing the Atlantic, found equal favour among 
the Calvinists of Boston, and the Quakers of 
Philadelphia. On his return to England he at- 
tempted to give novelty to the exhibition by a 
supplementary lecture on portraits and whole 
lengths; but the supplement had no success. In 
1773 he appeared again on the Hay market stage, 
in a piece of his own composing, " The Trip to 
Portsmouth." He afterward resumed his tour 
of lectures on heads, till finding his own head 



worn out by dissipation, he sold the property of the 
composition to Lee Lewis, the comedian ; and 
closed a life of intemperance in a state of idiotism. 
If Fletcher of Salton's maxim be true, •' that 
the popular songs of a country are of more im- 
portance than its laws," Stevens must be re- 
garded as an important criminal in literature. 
But the songs of a country rather record, than 
influence, the state of popular morality. Stevens 
celebrated hard drinking, because it was the 
fashion ; and his songs are now seldom vocifer- 
ated, because that fashion is gone by. George 
was a leading member of all the great bacchana- 
lian clubs of his day; the Choice Spirits, Comus' 
Court, and others, of similar importance and 
utility. Before the scheme of his lecture brought 
him a fortune, he had frequently to do penance 
in jail for the debts of the tavern ; and, on one 
of those occasions, wrote a poem, entitled " Reli- 
gion," expressing a penitence for his past life, 
which was probably sincere, while his confine- 
ment lasted. He was also author of " Tom 
Fool," a novel; "The Birthday of Folly," a 
satire; and several dramatic pieces of slender 
consequence.* 



THE WINE VAULT. 

Contented I am, and contented I'll be, 
For what can this world more afford. 

Than a lass that will sociably sit on my knee, 
And a cellar as sociably stored. 

My brave boys. 

My vault door is open, descend and improve, 

That cask, — ay, that we will try ; 
'Tis as rich to the taste as the lips of your love, 

And as bright as her cheeks to the eye : 

My brave boys. 

In a piece of slit hoop, see my candle is stuck, 
'Twill light us each bottle to hand ; 

The foot of my glass for the purpose I broke, 
\s I hate that a bumper should stand. 

My b«»vn hoys. 



Astride on a butt, as a butt should be strod, 
I gallop the brusher along ; [goJ. 

Like grape-blessing Bacchus, the good fellow's 
And a sentiment give, or a song, 

My brave boys. 

We are dry where we sit, though the coying 
drops seem 
With pearls the moist walls to emboss; 
From the arch mouldy cobwebs in gothic taste 
stream, 
Like stucco-work cut out of moss : 

My brave boys. 

[* If Stevens wrote The Storm he is the author of one 
good piece, but his right has been queftioued. and the 
song attributed to Falconer, upon no authority. Pre- 
sumptive evidence must so for little, and it is unfair to 
take a man's siiig'e song from him. because lie wrote, with 
one exception, universally ill, and as.sjjrn it to an author 
who might have written it, but whose feme wants no false 
stays to establish or maiutaiu it. 



DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 



611 



When the himp is brimful, how the taper flame 
shines. 
Which, when moisture is wanting, decays; 
Replenish the lamp of my life with rich wines, 
Or else there's an end of my bl.ize, 

My brave boys. 

Sound those pipes, they're in tune, and those 
bins are well iill'd ; 
View tliat heap of old Hock in your rear ; 
Yon bottles are Burgundy! mark how they're 
piled, 
Like artillery, tier over tier, 

My brave boys. 

My cellar's my camp, and my soldiers my flasks, 

All gloriously ranged in review; 
When I cast my eyes round, I consider my casks 

As kingdoms I've yet to subdue. 

My brave boys. 



Like Macedon's madman, my glass I'll enjoy, 

Defying hyp, gravel, or gout ; 
He cried when he had no more worlds to destroy, 

I'll weep when my liquor is out, 

My brave boys. 

On their stumps some have fought, and as stoutly 
will I, 
When reeling I roll on the floor; 
Then my legs must be lost, so I'll drink as I lie. 
And dare the best Buck to do more. 

My brave boys. 

'Tis my will when I die, not a tear shall be 
shed, 
No Hie Jacet be cut on my stone ; 
But pour on my coffin a bottle of red, 
And say that his drinking is done, 

My brave boys. 



DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 



[Born, 1709. Died, i;8i#] 



LONDON. 
IN IMITATION OF THE THIRD SATIRE OP JUTENAL. 

Written in ITSS.f 



Quis ineptse 

Tarn patiens urbis, tarn ferreus ut teueat .se? — Juvenal. 

Though grief and fondness in my breast rebel, 
When injured ThalesJ bids the town farewell; 



Gray, 

hat h-.ive all the a:\sc and all the >p'\nt of an original." 
" Mr. Johuson's London," says Goldmi.h, '• is the host imi- 
tation of th« original that has appeared in our langun^'e; 
being possessed of all the force arid satirii al resentment 
of Juvenal. Imitation gives us a mutOi truer idea of the 
ancients than ever translation could d )." 

But -'The Vanity of Humim Wishes" is abetter poem. 
Sir Walter Scott spj.iks of it as a satire, ''the deep and 
y.athelic moridity of vihkh has often extracted tears from 
Ihoe whosL' eyes wander dry over pages professedly senli- 
mintil." '-'Tis a grand poem," writes Byron. — "and so 
trur.'—trav as the l.)th of Juvenal himself; al the exam- 
ples and mode of giving them sub imc, as well as the 
latter piu-t, with thi- exieptinn of an occasional couplet. 
] do not S5 much aduiiro the opening." 

His Drury Lane Prologue is the perfcition of its kind; 
and his lines on lievctt Vjre.ithe an air of couftraineJ com- 
p aint and forceful touderuess. His patho^ is too austere, 
but it is very fine.) 

[t Johnsons Lonr'on was published in May 17.3S, and it 
is rem;irkable thnt it came out on the same morning with 
I'ope s .^atire entitled 17oS, s.) th:it Kng'and hi;d at once 
its Juvenal and lIor.;ce as poetical monitors. — B iswkli,.] 

[I That the "injure I Thales" of Jolinson's London was 
the poet !?uv;igf, (.as is generally underslood.) has been 
questioned ly ];os«ell. and his acute editor Mr. Croker, 
we think wi!hoiit much show of reason. 

" The event of Savage's retirement " says .''ir.Tohn Haw- 
kins, '-is antedaleil in the pcem of Lomlon ; but, in every 
particular, except the difference of a year, what is there 
.«:dd of the dc| arture of Tha'es must be understood of 
Savage, and looked uprni as true. Iiidnri/." 

"This couje.ti.ire,' write* Boswell. "is, I believe, en- 
tirely grouudless. I have been assured th ,t John.son said 
he was not so much iis amuainted wiih i^avage when he 
wrote his Lowinn. If the departure mentioned in it was 
the departure of Savage, the event was not antedated but 



Yet still my calmer thoughts his choice commend, 
I praise the hermit, but regret the friend. 
Who now resolves, from vice and London far, 
To breathe in distant fields a purer air; 
And, fix'd on Cambria's solitary shore, 
Give to St. David one true Briton more. 

For who wotild leave, unbribed. Hibernia's land. 
Or change the rocks of Scotland for the Strand ] 

/nrefeen ; for London was published in May 1738, and 
Sava;e did not set out for Wales till July 173J." 

".Notwithstanding," says Mr. Croker, "Mr. Boswell's 
proofs, and Dr. Johnson's own [accredited?] assertion, the 
identity of .'^avage and Thales has been repeated by all 
the biographers, and has obtained general vogue. It may 
therefore be worth while to add, that Johnson's residence 
at Greenwich (which, as it was the scene of his f incied 
parting fiom Thale.s, is oarrently taken to h.ave been th;it 
of his real separation from Savage) o?eurred two years 
before the latter event; and at th.it time it doe^ not ap- 
pear that Jihn.son w.ox so mu has acquainted with Savage 
or even with Cave, at whose house he first met Savage 
Ajain. Ji hnson distinctly tells us, in his Lif • ol" .S.:va.:o, 
that the latter took his dep.artnre for Wa'es, no' 1 y em- 
barking at (Jreenwich. but hy the Brist '1 staw-i oa( h : ami, 
finally and decisively. Johnson, if Thales h:id b en Sava.'e, 
could never have admitted into his poem two lines which 
seem to point so forcibly at the drunken fray, when i^avage 
stabi ed a Mr. Sinclair, for which he wai convicted of 
murder : 

Some fro'ic drunlard. reeling from a feast, 
Proriihi-s a broil, and slabs you for a jest. 

There is, certainly, a curious coincidence between somfi 
p lints of the ih.iracters of Tha'es and Savage; but it 
seems equally certain that the coincidence was fortuitnus. 
.Mr. Mur, hy" endeavours to recomi.e the diHcullies by 
supposing that Savage's retirement was in contemplation 
eighteen months before it wa^ carried in'.o effe; t : but even 
if this ware true, (which may well Le doubted,) it would 
not alter the facts — that London was wri ten before John- 
son knew S.ivage: and that one of th;) .severest strokes of 
the satire touehid Savages sorest point." 

Johnson left Li.hfield for London. March 'Jd 1737; in 
the July of the .°ame year he lived in Church-sreet. (ireen 
wich, and sought by letter the notice of C;m e. In March 
1738 appeared his ode "Ad Urbaiium;"iu .\pril 173S h» 



612 



DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 



There none are swept by sudden fate away, 
But all. whom hunger spares, with age decay; 
Here malice, rapine, accident conspire, 
And now a rahhie rages, now a fire; 
Their ambush here relentless ruffians lay. 
And liere the fell attorney prowls for prey; 
Here falling houses thunder on your head, 
And here a female atheist talks you dead. 

While Thales waits the wherry that contains 
Of dissipated wealth the small remains, 
On Thames's banks, in silent thought we stood. 
Where Greenwich smiles upon the silver flood: 
Struck with the seat that gave Eliza* birth, 
We kneel, and kiss the consecrated earth ; 
In pleasing dreams the blissful age renew, 
And call Britannia's glories back to view ; 
Behold her cross triumphant on the main. 
The guard of commerce, and the dread of Spain, 
Ere masquerades debauch'd, excise oppress'd, 
Or English honour grew a standing jest. 

A transient calm the happy scenes bestow. 
And for a moment lull the sense of woe. 
At length awaking, with contemptuous frown. 
Indignant Thales eyes the neighbouring town : 
" Since worth," he cries, " in these degenerate 

days, 
Wants e'en the cheap reward of empty praise ; 
!n those cursed walls, devote to vice and gain, 
Since unrewarded science toils in vain ; 
Since hope but soothes to double my distress. 
And every moment leaves my little less; 
While yet my steady steps no staff sustains. 
And life still vigorous revels in my veins; 
Grant me, kind Heaven, to find some hap[)ier place, 
Where honesty and sense are no disgrace ; 



pniitci 



11 epigram in praise of Savage : ami 
I'd his noblo imitation of Juvenal's 
ii'tt London for Swansea in the July 



of tliesu, Mliiuy,-;,r. 

".Inhnsnii li:r- 1 1 i:i iked," says Boswell, " upon his ror- 
rficted copy of the first edition of " London," '• VVriiten in 
ITiiS ;" and, as it was published in the month of May in th'tt 
year, it is evident that much time was not imployed in 
preparing it for the press." "Part of the beauty of the 
pevlormanoe," says John.son to Cave, ("if any beauty be 
allowed it) consists in the adaptation of Juvenal's senti- 
ments to modern facts and persons." This is curious, and 
seems to justify the appropriation of Thales to Savage. 

IJoswell's attempt to oveithrow the statement of his 
'rival Hawkins was soon forgotten by himself. He had 
been assimd that Johnson was unacquainted with .^avage 
in May 1738, yet some forty pages farther on he can print 
an encomium on Savage from the (.ientleman's Magazine 
for April 183S. which he had been assured was written by 
Johnson, and thus give his former statement the lie in a 
silent way. " How highly," writes Boswell, " Johnson ad- 
mired him [Savage] for that knowledge which ho himself 
so much cultivated, and what kindness he entertained for 
l;iui, appears from the fdlowing lines in the Gentleman's 
>:»tgn7ine for April 173S, which I am assured were written 
ly Johnson : — 

Ad Rkardum, Savage, Arm. Humani Gfne.ris Amatnrem. 

Ilumani studium generis cui pectore fervet, 

O! colat humanum te foveatque genus!" 

This was not likely to have come from the pen of Johnson, 

(if .lohnrOn',< it is.) had he been unacquainted with Saviige. 

And where did Mr. Croker iearn that Johnson met 
S:ivage for the first time at the hou-e of Cave? A literary 
adventurer, without a penny in his pocket, could nnt well 
have been a month in London befire he fell into the 
siH-iety of Savage. Thomson's first waat in London was a 
pair of shoes, hi^ first London acquaintance the wretched 
Savage. 

Hut what if, after all, Mr. Murphy's view of the subject 



Some pleasing bank where verdant osiers play. 
Some peaceful vale with Nature's painting gay 
Where once the harass'd Briton found repose, 
And safe in poverty defied his foes; 
Some secret cell, ye powers indulgent, give, 

liet live here, for has learn'd to live. 

Here let those reign whom pensions can incite 
To vote a patriot black, a cpurtier white ; 
Explain their country's dear-bought rights away 
And plead for pirates in the face of day .f 
With slavish tenets taint our poi.son'd youth, 
And lend a lie the confidence of truth. 
]jet such raise palaces, and manors buy, 
Collect a tax, or farm a lottery ; 
With warbling eunuchs fill a licensed stage.J 
And lull to servitude a thoughtless age. 

"Heroes, proceed ! what bounds your pride 
shali hold 1 [gold '' 

What check restrain your thirst of power and 
Behold rebellious Virtue quite o'erthrown. 
Behold our fiime, our wealth, our lives, your own, 
To such a. groaning nation's spoils are given. 
When public crimes inflame the wrath of Heaven? 
But what, my friend, what hope remains for me, 
Who start at theft, and blush at perjury 1 
Who scarce forbear, though Britain's court h6 
To pluck a titled poet's borrow'd wing; [sing 
A statesman's logic unconvinced can hear, 
And dare to slumber o'er the Gazetteer :§ 
Desfiise a fool in half his pension dress'd, 
And strive in vain to laugh at H y's jest. 

" Others, with softer smiles and subtler art, 
Can sap the princijiles, or taint the heart; 
With more address a lover's note convey, 
Or bribe a virgin's innocence away. 

is the correct one? "Savage's distress," says Johnson, 
'•w;i.s now [siiy early in 17oS] publicly known, and his 
friends therefore thought it proper to concert some mear 
sures fjr his relief. . . . The scheme proposed for his happy 
and independent sub istence was, that he should retire into 
Wales and receive an allowance of fifty pounds a year, to 

be rai.sed by a subseriptioh This offer Mr. Savage 

g'adly accepted While this scheme was ripening liis 

friends directed him to take a lodging in the liberties of 
the Fleet, that he might be secure trom his creditors, and 

sent him every Monday a guinea A Iter iiiany altera- 

tiiiits and dclups, a subscription was at levglh raiseii, and 
he l(!ft London in July 173J, having taken leave, with gieat 
tenderness, of his friends, and parted from the author of 
this narrative with tears in his eyes." 

There was therefore a considerable interval between the 
period when the scheme of Savage's retirement to Swan- 
sea was first propo-ed to him, and his setting off in July 
1739, by the coach for the fhores of Wales ! 

Whoever J uvenal's Umbritius was, the Thales of John- 
son's imitation was poor Savage; and let u.s noli' e here 
the propriety of Johnson's laying the .«cene of Savage's 
departure from l>reenwic.h. There is a note before us 
from Savage to Birch, dated "Greenwich, Jlay 14th, 173;'!," 
wherein he says, "I have been here so'ue days for the 
benefit of the air." There is no necessity therefore to 
bo her oneself in this inquiry with the date of Johnson's 
residence at lireenwich. 

And what is there to disprove the fact that Thales was 
Savage in his departing by (oach from London, and not, 
as the poem has it. by bout from Greenwich? Mr. King 
was the f ■lliiw-student, not the fellow-shepherd of Milton; 
yet that he was the Lycidas of the poet who will doubt? 
To our thinking the coincidence is too close to be acci- 
dental, too particular to be unmeant.] 

* Queen E izabeth, bjrn at Greenwich. 

t The encroachments of the Spaniards had been palliated 
in both houses of parliament. 

t The licensing act had then lately passed. 

? A paper which at that time contained apologies for the 
court. 



DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 



61". 



Well may they rise, while I. whosp rustic tongue 
Ne'er knew to puzzle right, or varnish wrong, 
Spurn'd as a beggar, dreaded as a spy, 
Live unregarded, unlamented die. 

" For what but social guilt the friend endears 1 
Who shares Orgilio's crimes, his fortune shares. 
But thou, should tempting viliany present 
All Marlborough hoarded, or all Villiers spent. 
Turn from the glittering bribe thy scornful eye, 
Nor sell for gold what gold could never buy. 
The peaceful slumber, self-approving day. 
Unsullied fame, and conscience ever gay. 

" The cheated nation's happy favourites, see ! 
Mark whom the great caress, who frown on me ! 
London ! the needy villain's general home. 
The common sewer of Paris and of Rome, 
With eager thirst, by folly or by fate. 
Sucks in the dregs of each corrupted state. 
Forgive my transports on a theme like this, 
I cannot bear a French metropolis. 

" Illustrious Edward ! from the realms of day. 
The land of heroes and of saints, survey ! 
Nor hope the British lineaments to trace. 
The rustic grandeur, or tbe surly grace; 
But, lost in thoughtless ease and empty show, 
Behold the warrior dwindled to a beau ; 
Sense, freedom, piety, refined away, 
Of France the mimic, and of Spain the prey. 

" All that at home no more can beg or steal. 
Or like a gibbet better than a wheel ; 
Hiss'd from the stage, or hooted from the court. 
Their air, their dress, their politics import; 
Obsequious, artful, voluble, and gay. 
On Britain's fond credulity they prey. 
No gainful trade their industry can 'scape, 
They sing, they dance, clean shoes, or cure a clap ; 
All sciences a fasting Monsieur knows. 
And bid him go to hell, to hell he goes. 

"Ah ! what avails it that, from slavery far, 
I drew the breath of life in English air; 
Was early taught a Briton's right to prize. 
And lisp the tale of Henry's victories; 
If the guU'd conqueror receives the chain. 
And flattery subdues when arms are vain? 

" Studious to please, and ready to submit. 
The supple Gaul was born a parasite : 
Still to his interest true, where'er he goes. 
Wit, bravery, worth, his lavish tongue bestows : 
In every face a thousand graces shine, 
From every tongue flows harmony divine. 
These arts in vain our rugged natives try, 
. Strain out with faltering ddlidence a lie. 
And gain a kick for awkward flattery. 

'' Besides, with justice this discerning age 
Admires their wondrous talents for the stage ; 
Well may they venture on the mimic's art. 
Who play from morn to night a borrow'd part: 
Practised their master's notions to embrace. 
Repeat his maxims, and reflect his face! 
With every wild absurdity comply, 
And view each oliject with another's eye; 
'J'o shake with laughter ere the jest they hear, 
To pour at will the counterfeited tear; 
And, as their patron hints the cold or heat. 
To shake in dog-days, in Decemh<>j: sweat. 



How, when competitors like these contend. 
Can surly Virtue hope to fix a friend 1 
Slaves that with serious impudence beguile. 
And lie without a blush, without a smile; 
Exalt each trifle, every vice adore, 
Your taste in snulf, your judgment in a whore; 
Can Balbo's eloquence applaud, and swear 
He gropes his breeches with a monarch's air! 

"For arts like these preferr'd, admired, caress'd 
They first invade your table, then your breast ; 
Explore your secrets with insidious art. 
Watch the weak hour, and ransack all the heart- 
Then soon your ill-placed confidence repay, 
Commence your lords, and govern or betray. 

" By numbers here, from shame or censure free, 
All crimes are safe but hated poverty : 
This, only this, tbe rigid law pursues. 
This, only this, provokes the snarling muse. 
Tbe sober trader at a tatter'd cloak 
Wakes from his dream, and labours for a joke ; 
With brisker air tbe silken courtiers gaze, 
Am] turn the varied taunt a thousand ways. 
Of all the griefs that harass the distress'd, 
vSure the most bitter is a scornful jest; 
Fate never wounds more deep the generous heart 
Than when a blockhead's insult points the dart. 

" Has Heaven reserved, in pity to the poor, 
No pathless waste, or undiscover'd shore]* 
No secret island in the boundless main 1 
No peaceful desert yet unclaim'd by Spain? 
Quick let us rise, the happy seats explore, 
And bear Oppression's insolence no more. 
This mournful truth is everywhere confess'd. 
Slow rises worth, by poverty depiess'd : 
But here more slow, where all are slaves to gold. 
Where looks are merchandise, and smiles are 

sold ; 
Where, won by bribes, by flatteries implored. 
The groom retails the favours of his lord, [cries 

" But hark ! the aflVighted crowil's tumultuous 
Roll through the streets, and thunder to the skies: 
Raised from some pleasing dream of wealth and 

power. 
Some pompous palace, or some blissful bower. 
Aghast you start, and scarce with aching sight 
Sustain the approaching fire's tremendous light; 
Swift from pursuing horrors take your way, 
And leave your little all to flames a prey ; 
Then through the world a wretched vagrant roam. 
For where can starving merit find a home 1 
In vain your mournful narrative disclose. 
While all neglect, and most insult your wdes. 

"Should Heaven's just bolts Orgilio's wealth 
confound. 
And spread his flaming palace on the ground. 
Swift o'er the land the dismal rumour fl.es, 
And public mournings pacify the skies ; 
The laureate tiibe in servile verse relate. 
How Virtue wars with persecuting Fate; 
With well-feign'd gratitude the pension'd band 
Refund the plunder of the beggar'd land. 
See ! while he builds, the gaudy vas.sals come, 
And crowd with sudden wealth the rising dome; 

* The Spaniards at that time we.e said lo make claim to 
some of our American proxiuces. 
3U 



C14 



DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 



The price of boroughs anil of souls restore, 
And n.ise his treasures higher than before: 
Now birss'd with all the baubles of the great, 
The polish'd marble, and the shining plate, 
Orgillo sees the golden pile aspire. 
And hopes from angry Heaven another fire. 

« Couldst thou resign the park and play content, 
For the fair banks of Severn or of Trent; 
There mightst thou find some elegant retreat, 
Some hireling senator's deserted seat, 
And stretch thy prospects o'er the smiling land. 
For less than rent the dungeons of the Strand ; 
There prune thy walks, support thy drooping 

flowers, 
Direct thy rivulets, and twine thy bovvers ; 
And, while thy beds a cheap repast afford, 
Despise the dainties of a venal lord : 
There every bush with nature's music rings. 
There every breeze bears health upon its wings; 
On all thy hours security shall smile, 
And bless thine evening walk and morning toil. 

"Prepare for death, if here at night you roam: 
And sign your will, before you sup from home. 
Some fiery fop, with new commission vain, 
Wno sleeps on brambles till he kills his man ; 
Some frolic drunkard, reeling from a feast. 
Provokes a broil, and stabs you for a jest. 

" Yet e'en these heroes, mischievously gay, 
Lords of the street, and terrors of the way ; 
Flush'd as they are with folly, youth, and wine, 
Their prudent insults to the poor confine ; 
Afar they mark the flambeau's bright approach. 
And shun the shining train and golden coach. 

"In vain, these dangers pass'd, your doors you 
close. 
And hope the balmy blessings of repose : 
Cruel with guilt, and daring with despair. 
The midnight murderer bursts the faithless bar; 
Invades the sacred hour of silent rest. 
And plants, unseen, a dagger in your breast. 

" Scarce can our fields, such crowds at Tyburn 
die, 
With hemp the gallows and the fleet supply. 
Propose your schemes, ye senatorian band. 
Whose ways and means* support the sinking 

land ; 
Lest ropes be wanting in the tempting spring, 
To rig another convoy for the king.f 

" A single jail, in Alfred's golden reign, 
Could half the nation's criminals contain; 
Fair justice then, without constraint adored. 
Held high the steady scale, but sheathed the 

sword ; 
No spies were paid, no special juries known ; 
Bless'd age ! but ah ! how different from our 
own ! 

" Much could I add, — but see the l)oat at hand, 
The tide retiring, calls me from the land : 
Farewell! — When youth, and health, and for- 
tune spent. 
Thou fliest for refuge to the wilds of Kent; 



* A technical term in parliament for raising money, 
t The nation was (hen discoiitenied at the repeated 
vi^its m-ide by George the Second to ilanover. 



And, tired like me with follies and with crimes. 
In angry numbers warn'st succeeding times; 
Then shall thy friend, nor thou refuse his aid, 
Still foe to vice, forsake his Cambrian shade; 
In virtue's cause once more exert his rage, 
Thy satire point, and animate thy page." 



THE VANITY OF HUMAN ■W^S^ES. 

IN IMITATION OP THE TENTH SATIRE OP JITrENAL. 

Let observation with extensive view, 
Survey mankind from China to Peru ; 
Remark each anxious toil, each eager strife. 
And watch the busy scenes of crowded life ; 
Then say how hope and fear, desire and hate, 
O'erspread with snares the clouded maze of fate, 
Where wavering man, betray'd by vent'rous pride, 
To chase the dreary paths without a guide. 
As treach'rous phantoms in the mist delude, 
Shuns fancied ills, or chases airy good ; 
How rarely reason guides the stubborn choice. 
Rules the bold hand, or prompts the suppliant 

voice ; 
How nations sink by darling schemes oppress'd. 
When vengeance listens to the fool's request. 
Fate wings with every wish th' afflictive dart, 
Each gift of nature and each grace of art ; 
With fatal heat impetuous courage glows. 
With fatal sweetness elocution flows. 
Impeachment stops the speaker's powerful breath. 
And restless fire precipitates on death. 

But, scarce observed, the knowing and the bold 
Fall in the general massacre of gold; 
Wide wasting pest! that rages unconfined, 
And crowds with crimes the records of mankind; 
For gold his sword the hireling ruffian draws. 
For gold the hireling judge distorts the laws ; 
Wealth heap'd on wealth, nor truth nor safety 
The dangers gather as the treasures rise, [buys. 

Let history tell where rival kings command, 
And dubious title shakes the madded land, 
When statutes glean the refuse of the sword. 
How much more safe the vassal than the lord ; 
Low sculks the hind beneath the rage of power, 
And leaves the wealthy traitor in the Tower, 
Untouch'd his cottage, and his slumbers sound, 
Though confiscation's vultures hover round. 

The needy traveller serene and gay, 
Walks the wild heath and sings his toil away. 
Does envy seize thee? crush th' upbraiding joy, 
Increase his riches and his peace destroy, 
Now fears in dire vicissitude invade. 
The rustling [)rake alarms, and quivering shade, 
Nor light nor darkness bring his pain relief. 
One shows the plunder, and one hides the thief. 

Yet still one gen'ral cry the skies assails. 
And gain and grandeur load the tainted gales ; 
Few know the toiling statesman's fear or care. 
The insidious rival and the gaping heir. 

Once more, Democritus, arise on earth. 
With cheejful wisdom and instructive mirth, 
See motley life in modern trappings dress'd, 
And feed with varied fools the eternal jest: 



DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 



61? 



Thou who could'st laugh, where want enchain'd 

caprice, 
Toil crush'd conceit, and man was of a piece; 
Where wealth unloved without a mourner died; 
And scarce a sycophant was fed by pride ; 
Where ne'er was known the form of mock debate, 
Or seen a new-made mayor's unwieldy state; 
Where change of fav'rites made no change of 

laws, 
And senates heard before they judged a cause; 
How wouldst thou shake at Britain's modish 

tribe, 
Dart the quick taunt, and edge the piercing gibel 
Attentive truth and nature to descry. 
And pierce each scene with philosophic eye. 
To thee were solemn toj's, or empty show. 
The robes of pleasure and the %ails of woe ; 
Ail aid the farce, and all thy mirth maintain. 
Whose joys are causeless, or whose griefs are 

vain. 
8uch was the scorn that fill'd the sage's mind, 
Renew'd at every glance on human kind ; 
How just that scorn ere yet thy voice declare. 
Search every state, and canvass every prayer. 
Unnumber'd suppliants crowd Preferment's 

gate, 
Athirst for wealth, and burning to be great; 
Delusive Fortune hears the incessant call. 
They mount, they shine, evaporate, and fall. 
On every stage the foes of peace attend, [end. 
Hate dogs their flight, and insult mocks their 
Love ends with hope, the sinking statesman's door 
Pours in the morning worshi[)per no more ; 
For growing names the weekly scribbler lies, 
To growing wealth the dedicator flies; 
From every room descends the painted face, 
That hung the bright palladium of the place; 
And, smoked in kitchens, or in auctions sold, 
To better features yields the frame of gold ; 
For now no more we trace in every line 
Heroic worth, benevolence divine : 
The form distorted justifies the fall, 
And detestation rids the indignant wall. 

But will not Britain hear the last appeal. 
Sign her foe's doom, or guard her favourite's zeal ] 
Through Freedom's sons no more remonstrance 

rings, 
Degrading nobles and controlling kings; 
Our supple tribes repress their patriot throats. 
And ask no questions but the price of votes ; 
With weekly libels and septennial ale. 
Their wish is full to riot and to rail. 

In full-blown dignity, see Wolsey stand, 
Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand: 
To him the church, the realm, thpir powers con- 
sign, 
Through him the rays of regal bounty shine, 
Turn'd by his nod the stream of honour flows. 
His smile alone security bestows: 
Still to new heights his restless wishes tower. 
Claim leads to claim, and power advances power ; 
Till conquest unresisted ceased to ptease, 
And rights submitted left him none to seize: 
At length his sovereign frowns — the train of state 
Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate. 



Where'er he turns, he meets a stranger's eye. 
His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly ; 
Now drops at once the pride of awful state. 
The golden canopy, the glitt'ring plate, 
The regal palace, the luxurious board, 
The liveried army, and the menial lord. 
With age, with cares, with maladies oppress'd, 
He seeks the refuge of monastic rest. 
Grief aids disease, remember'd folly stings. 
And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings. 

Speak thou whose thoughts at humble peace 
repine, 
Shall Wolsey's wealth with Wolsey's end be thine 1 
Or livest thou now, with safer pride content, 
The wisest justice on the banks of Trent? 
For, why did Wolsey, near the steeps of fate, 
On weak foundations raise the enormous weight? 
Why but to sink beneath misfortune's blow, 
With louder ruin to the gulfs below. 

What gave great Villiers to the assassin's knife, 
And fix'd disease on Harley's closing life 1 
What murder'd Wentworth, and what exiled 

Hyde, 
By kings protected, and to kings allied ? 
What but their wish indulged in courts to shine. 
And power too great to keep or to resign ] 

When first the college roll receives his name, 
The young enthusiast quits his ease for fame ; 
Resistless burns the fever of renown. 
Caught from the strong contagion of the gown : 
O'er Bodley's dome his future labours spread. 
And Bacon's mansion trembles o'er his head. 
Are these thy views 1 Proceed, illustrious youth, 
And virtue guide thee to the throne of Truth! 
Yet should thy soul indulge the gen'rous heat 
Till captive Science yields her last retreat; 
Should reason guide thee with her brightest ray 
And pour on misty doubt resistless day; 
Should no false kindness lure to loose delight. 
Nor praise relax, nor difficulty fright; 
Should tempting Novelty thy cell refrain, 
And Sloth effuse her opiate fumes in vain ; 
Should Beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart. 
Nor claim the triumph of a letter'd heart; 
Should no disease thy torpid veins invade, 
Nor Melancholy's phantoms haunt thy shade ; 
Yet hope not life from grief or danger free, 
Nor think the doom of man reversed for thee : 
Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes, 
And pause awhile from letters to be wise; 
There mark what ills the scholar's life assail. 
Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail. 
See nations, slowly wise and meanly just. 
To buried merit raise the tardy bust. 
If dreams yet flatter, once again attend. 
Hear Lydiat's life,* and Galileo's end. 

Nor deem, when Learning her last prize be- 
stows. 
The glitt'ring eminence exempt from foes ; 

[* A very learned divine and mathematician, rector of 
Okerlon, near lianbury : " Ilaviug si oken in f.ivour of 
monarchy and bishops, he was plundered by the parlia- 
ment forces, and twice carried away prisoner from his 
rectory ; acd afterward had not a shirt to shift him in 
three months wiihout he borrowed it." He died in lti4b. — 
&e Boswell, {Ed. 1S36,; vol. i. p. -J^ib-l 



«J6 



DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 



See, when the vulgar 'scapes, despiseil or awed, 
Rebellion's vengeful talons seize on Laud. 
From meaner minds though smaller fines content, 
The plunder'd palace, or sequester'd rent, [shock, 
Mark'd out by dangerous parts, he meets the 
And fatal Learning leads him to the block: 
Around his tomb let Art and Genius weep, 
But hear his death, ye blockheads, hear and sleep. 

The festal blazes, the triumphal show, 
The ravish'd standard, and the captive foe, 
The senate's thanks, the Gazette's pompous tale. 
With force resistless o'er the brave prevail. 
Such bribes the rapid Greek o'er Asia whirl'd, 
For such the steady Roman shook the world ; 
For such in distant lands the Britons shine. 
And stain with blood the Dat;ube or the Rhine; 
This power has praise, that virtue scarce can 

warm 
Till fame supplies the universal charm. 
Yet reason frowns on war's unequal game. 
Where wasted nations raise a single name ; 
And mortgaged states their grandsires' wreaths 

regret. 
From age to age in everlasting debt ; 
Wreaths which at last the dear-bought right 

convey 
To rust on medals, or on stones decay. 

On what foundation stands the warrior's pride. 
How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide; 
A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, 
No dangers fright him, and no labours tire ; 
O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, 
Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain ; 
No joys to him pacific sceptres yield. 
War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field; 
Behold surrounding kings their powers combine. 
And one capitulate, and one resign ; 
Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms 

in vain ; 
" Think nothing gain'd," he cries, " till nought 

remain. 
On Moscow's walls til! Gothic standards fly. 
And all be mine beneath the polar sky." 
The march begins in military state. 
And nations on his eye suspended wait; 
Stern Famine guards the solitary coast, 
And Winter barricades the realms of Frost ; 
He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay ; — 
Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day: 
f he vanquish'd hero leaves his broken bands. 
And shows his miseries in distant lands ; 
Condeinn'd, a needy supplicant to wait, 
While ladies interpose, and slaves debate. 
But did not Chance at length her error mend? 
Did no subverted empire mark his end 1 
Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound ? 
Or hostile millions press him to the ground] 
His fall was destined to a barren strand, 
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand; 
He left the name, at which the world grew pale. 
To point a moral, or adorn a tale. 

All times their scenes of pompous woes afford. 
From Persia's tyrant to Bavaria's lord. 
In gay hostility and barb'rous pride. 
With half mankind embattled at his side, 



Great Xerxes comes to seize the certain prey, 
And starves exhausted regions in his way; 
Attendant Flatt'ry counts his myriads o'er. 
Till counted myriads soothe his pride no more. 
Fresh praise is tried till madness fires his mind. 
The waves he lashes, and enchains the wind. 
New powers are claim'd, new powers are still 

bestow'd. 
Till rude resistance lops the spreading god ; 
The daring Greeks deride the martial show. 
And heap their valleys with the gaudy foe; 
Th' insulted sea with humbler thought he gains, 
A single skifT to speed his flight remains ; 
Th' encumber'd oar scarce leaves the dreaded 

coast 
Through purple billows and a floating host. 

The bold Bavarian, in a luckless hour. 
Tries the dread summits of Caesarean power, 
With unexpected legions bursts away, 
And sees defenceless realms receive his sway : 
Short sway ! fair Austria spreads her mournful 

charms. 
The queen, the beauty, sets the world in arms; 
From hill to hill the beacon's rousing blaze 
Spreads wide the hope of plunder and of praise ; 
The fierce Croatian, and the wild Hussar, 
With all the sons of ravage, crowd the war; 
The baffled prince, in honour's flatt'ring bloom. 
Of hasty greatness finds the fatal doom ; 
His foes' derision and his subjects' blame, 
And steals to death from anguish and from 
shame. 
"Enlarge my life with multitude of days!" 
In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays: 
Hides from himself its state, and shuns to know, 
That life protracted is protracted woe. 
Time hovers o'er, impatient to destroy. 
And shuts up all the passages of joy : 
In vain their gifts the bounteous seasons pour. 
The fruit autumnal, and the vernal flower ; 
With listless eyes the dotard views the store, 
He views, and wonders that they please no 

more ; 
Now pall the tasteless meats, and joyless wines. 
And Luxury with sighs her slave resigns. 
Approach, ye minstrels, try the soothing strain, 
Diti'use the tuneful lenitives of pain; 
No sounds, alas! would touch the impervious ear 
Though dancing mountains witness'd Orpheus 

near; 
Nor lute nor lyre his feeble powers attend. 
Nor sweeter music of a virtuous friend ; 
But everlasting dictates crowd his tongue. 
Perversely grave, or positively wrong. 
The still returning tale, and ling'ring jest, 
Perplex the fawning niece and pamper'il guest. 
While growing hopes scarce awe the gath'ring 

sneer. 
And scarce a legacy can bribe to hear; 
'i'he watchful guests still hint the last offence; 
The daughter's-pelulance, the son's expense, 
Improve his heady rage witli treach'rous skill. 
And mould his passions till they make his will. 
Unnumber'd maladies his joints invade, "* 
Lay siege to life, and press the dire b'ockade; 



DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 



617 



But uncxtinffuish'd av'rice still remains, 

And dreaded losses aggravate his pains ; 

He turns, with anxious heart and crippled hands, 

His bonds of debt, and mortgages of lands; 

Or views his coffers with suspicious eyes, 

Unlocks his gold, and counts it till he dies. 

But grant, the virtues af a temp'rate prime 
Bless with an age exempt from scorn or crime ; 
An age that melts with unperceived decay. 
And glides in modest innocence away ; 
Whose peaceful day benevolence endears, 
Whose night congratulating conscience cheers; 
The general fav'rite as the genera! friend: 
Such age there is, and who shall wish its end 1 

Yet even on this her load Misfortune flings, 
To press the weary minutes' flagging wings; 
New sorrow rises as the day returns, 
A sister sickeris, or a daughter mourns. 
Now kindred Merit fills the sable bier, 
Now lacerated Friendship claims a tear; 
Year chases year, decay pursues decay, 
ytill dro])s some joy from with'ring life away ; 
New forms arise, and different views engage, 
Superfluous lags the vet'ran on the stage, 
Till pitying Nature signs the last release, 
And bids afflicted worth retire to peace. 

But few there are whom hours like these await, 
Who set unclouded in the gulfs of Fate. 
From Lydia's monarch should the search descend. 
By Solon caution'd to regard his end, 
In life's last scene what prodigies surprise, 
Fears of the brave, and lollies of the wise ! 
From Marlb'rough's eyes the streams of dotage 
And Swift expires a driv'ler and a show, [flow, 

The teeming mother, anxious for her race, 
Begs for each birth the fortune of a face ; 
Yet Vane could tell what ills from beauty spring; 
And Sedley cursed the form that pleased a king.* 
Ye nymphs of rosy lips and radiant eyes, 
Whom pleasure keeps too busy to be wise; 
Whom joys with soft varieties invite. 
By day the frolic, and the dance by night; 
Who frown with vanity, who smile with art; 
And ask the latest fashion of the heart ; 
What care, what rules, your heedless charms 

shall save, 
Kach nyiii|)h your rival, and each youth your 

slave 1 
.Against your fame with fondness hate combines, 
'J'he rival batters, and the lover mines. 
With distant voice neglected Virtue calls, 
Less heard and less, the faint remonstrance falls; 
Tired with contempt, she quits the slipp'ry reign. 
And Pride and Prudence take her seat in vain. 
Li crowd tit once, where none the pass defend, 
'J'hc harmless freedom, and the private friend. 
The guardians yield, by force sufierior plied: 
To Int'rest, Prudence; and to Flatt'ry, Pride. 
Here Beauty falls betray 'd, despised, distress'd. 
And hissing Infamy proclaims the rest. [find .' 
Where then shall Hope and Fear their objects 
Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind ? 

f* Ann Vnno, the mistress of Frederick Prince of Wales, 
fatliei- to ijeorge 111,; ai.tl Cutlieriiiu SuJiey, ttie mistiei^i 
ol' Jj.meiU.j 

78 



Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate. 
Roll darkling down the torrent of his fatel 
Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise. 
No cries invoke the mercies of the skies'! 
Inquirer, cease; petitions yet remain 
Which Heav'n may hear, nor deem religion vain. 
Still raise for good the supplicating voice. 
But leave to Heav'n the measure and the choice. 
Safe in his power, whose eyes discern afar 
The secret amiiush of a specious prayer; 
Implore his aid, in his decisions rest. 
Secure, whate'er he gives, he gives the best. 
Yet, when the sense of sacred presence fires. 
And strong devotion to the skies aspires. 
Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind, 
Obedient passions, and a will resign 'd ; 
For love, which scarce collective man can fill; 
For patience, sov'reign o'er transmuted ill ; 
For faith, that, panting for a happier seat. 
Counts death kind Nature's signal of retreat: 
These goods for man the law;s of Heav'n ordain, 
These goods he grants, who grants the pow'r to 

gain ; 
M'^ith these celestial Wisdom calms the mind, 
And makes the happiness she does not find. 



BPOKEN BT GAREICK AT THE OPENING OF THE THEATRE 
ROYAL, DRURY LANE, 1747. 

When Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes 
First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakspoare rose ; 
Each change of many-colour'd life he drew, 
Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new : 
Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign. 
And panting Time toil'd after hirn in vain ; 
His powerful strokes presiding truth impress'd, 
And unresisted passion storm'd the breast. 

Then Jonson came, instructed from the school 
To please in method, and invent by rule ; 
His studious patience and laborious art. 
By regular approach, essay'd the heart; 
Cold approbation gave the lingering bays; 
For those who durst not censure, scarce could 
A mortal born, he met the general doom.rpraise 
But left, like Egypt's kings, a lasting tomb. 

The wits of Charles found easier ways to fame, 
Nor wish'd for Jowson's art, or Shakspeare's 

flame. 
Themselves they studied ; as they felt, they writ : 
Intrigue was plot, obscenity was wit. 
Vice always found a sympathetic friend; 
They pleased their age, and did not aim to mend 
Yet bards like these aspired to lasting praise. 
And proudly hoped to pimp in future days. 
Their cause was general, their supports were 

strong ; 
Their slaves were willing, and their reign was 
long ; 
I Till Shame regain'd the post that Sense betray'd, 
And Virtue call'd Oblivion to her aid. 

Then crush'd by rules, and weakeii'd as refined, 
For years the power of tragedy declined ; 
; From bard to bard the frigid caution crept, 
i Till declamation roar'd whilst passion slept 
3b2 



Yet still ilid Virtue deign the staec to tread, 
Philosophy remain'd, though Nature fled ; 
But forced, at length, her ancient reign to quit. 
She saw great Faustus lay the ghost of wit, 
Exulting Folly hail'd the joyous day. 
And pantomime and song confirm'd her sway. 

But who the coming changes can presage, 
And mark the future periods of the stage 1 
Perhaps, if skill could distant times explore. 
New Behns, new Durfeys, yet remain in store; 
Perhaps where Lear has raved, and Hamlet died, 
On flying cars new sorcerers may ride ; 
Perhaps (for who can guess the effects of chance?) 
Here Hunt may box, or Mahomet may dance. 

Hard is his lot that here, by fortune placed. 
Must watch the wild vicissitudes of taste ; 
With every meteor of caprice must play. 
And chase the new-blown bubbles of the day. 
Ah ! let not censure term our fate our choice: 
The stage but echoes back the public voice; 
The drama's laws the drama's patrons give; 
For we that live to please, must please — to live. 

Then prompt no more the follies you decry. 
As tyrants doom their tools of guilt to die ; 
'Tis yours, this nighf, to bid the reign commence 
Of rescued nature, and reviving sense ; 
To chase thecharmsof sound, the pomp of show. 
For useful mirth and salutary woe ; 
Bid scenic virtue form the rising age. 
And truth diffuse her radiance from the stage.* 



ON TUE DEATH OF DR. ROBERT LEVETT. 
17S2. 
Condemn'd to Hope's delusive mine, 

As on we toil from day to day. 

By sudden blasts, or slow decline, 

Our social comforts drop away. 



Well tried through many a varying year, 
See Levelt to the grave descend, 

Ofiioious, innocent, sincere. 

Of every friendless name the friend. 

Yet still he fills affection's eye. 

Obscurely wise and coarsely kind; 

Nor, letter'd arrogance, deny 
Thy praise to merit unrefined. 

When fainting Nature call'd for aid. 

And hovering Death prepared the blow, 

His vigorous remedy display'd 

The power of art without the show. 

In Misery's darkest cavern known, 

His useful care was ever nigh. 
Where hopeless Anguish pour'd his groan, 

And lonely want retired to die. 

No summons mock'd by chill delay, 
No petty gain disdain'd by pride ; 

The modest wants of every day 
The toil of every day supplied. 

His virtues walk'd their narrow round, 
Nor made a pause, nor left a void ; 

And sure th' Eternal Master found 
The single talent well employ 'd. 

The busy day, the peaceful night, 

Unfelt, uncounted, glided by ; 
His frame was firm, his powers were bright, 

I'hough now his eigklieth year was nigh. 

Then with no throbs of fiery pain. 

No cold gradations of decay. 
Death broke at once the vital chain. 

And forced his soul the nearest way.f 



MRS. GREVILLE. 



PRATER FOR INDIFFERENCE. 

Oft I've implored the gods in vain. 
And pray'd till I've been weary : 

For once I'll seek my wish to gain 
Of Oberon the fairy. 

Sweet airy being, wanton sprite, 
Wlio livest in woods unseen; 

And oft by Cynthia's silver light 
Trip'st gaily o'er the green. 



[* There are but two decent prolrgues in our tongue, 
Pot'Cs 10 Cato, Jolin.-on's to Drury Lane. These, witirtlie 
ejiloKUes to ''Tlie Distrest Mother," and I think one of 
Golil.-mitli's, and ii prologue of old Co'm:in's to Beaumont 
anil Fleti horV •' I'hilaster," are the best ihings of the kind 
we have. — JiVROS.J 



If e'er thy pitying heart was moved 

As ancient stories tell ; 
And for th' Athenian maid who loved, 

Thou sought'st a wond'rous spell. 

Oh ! deign once more t' exert thy power! 

Haply some herb or tree. 
Sovereign as juice from western flower, 

Conceals a balm for me. 

[t TO M. lA\ni£NCE. 

Jan. l~th, 1782. 
Sir, — Our old frierd, Mr. Levett, who was ln.«t ui.;ht emi- 
nently c herrful, dietl this morning, the man who 1; y in Ihs 
8;ime rf om, hearing an uncommon noise, got up and tried 
to make him .«v eak, Lut without effect. He then i a lid .Mr. 
Ilo der. the aixithe aiy. who, though wlien he tame he 
thought him ilead, opened a vein, but could dri.w no blcod. 
Po has ended the long life of a very useful and very blame- 
less man. 1 am, sir, your most humble servunt, 

Sam. Johnson.] 



WILLIAM WHIIEHEAD. 



619 



I ask no kinJ return in love, 
No tempting charm to please ; 

Far from the heart such gifts remove, 
'J'hat sighs for peace and ease ! 

Nor ease, nor peace, that heart can know, 

That like the needle true, 
Turns at the touch of joy or woe. 

But, turning, trembles too. 

Far as distress the soul can wound, 

'Tis pain in each degree ; 
'Tis bliss but to a certain bound — • 

Beyond — is agony ; 

Then take this treacherous sense of mine, 
Which dooms me still to smart; 

Which pleasure can to pain refine, 
To pain new pangs impart. 

Oh ! haste to shed the sovereign balm. 
My shatter'd nerves new-string; 

And for my guest, serenely calm, 
The nymph Indiflerence bring ! 

At her approach, see Hope, see Fear, 

See Expectation fly ! 
And Disappointment in the rear. 

That blasts the purposed joy. 



The tears, which Pity taught to flow. 

My eyes shall then disown; 
The heart, that throbb'd at others' woe. 

Shall then scarce feel its own. 

The wounds, which now each moment bleed. 

Each moment then shall close; 
And tranquil days shall still succeed 

To nights of sweet repose. 

O fairy-elf! but grant me this, 

This one kind comfort send ! 
And so may never-fading bliss 

Thy flowery paths attend ! 

So may the glow-worm's glittering light 

Thy tiny footsteps lead 
To some new region of delight. 

Unknown to mortal tread! 

And be thy acorn-goblet fill'd 

With heaven's ambrosial dew, 
From sweetest, freshet flowers distill'd, 

That shed fresh sweets for you. 

And what of life remains for me, 

I'll pass in sober ease ; 
Half-pleased, contented will I be, 

Content — but half to please. 



WILLIAM WHITEHEAD. 



[Born, 1715. Died, 1785.] 



WiLLi.\M Whitehe.^d was born in Cam- 
bridge. " It would be vain," says his biographer, 
Mason, the poet, "to conceal that he was of low 
extraction ; because the secret has been more than 
once divulged by those who gain what they think 
an honest livelihood by publishing the lives of 
the living ; and it would be injurious to his 
memory, because his having risen much above 
the level of his origin bespeaks an intrinsic merit, 
which mere ancestry can never confer. Let it 
then be rather boasted than whispered, that he 
was the son of a baker." This is really making 
too much of a small thing. Every d;iy certainly 
witnesses more wonderful events, than the son 
of a tradesman rising to the honours of a poet 
laureate, and the post of a travelling tutor. Why 
Mason should speak of the secret of his extrac- 
tion being divulged, is difficult to conceive, un- 
less we suppose that Whitehead was weak enough 
to have wished to conceal it ; a suspicion, how- 
ever, which it is not fair to indulge, when we look 
to the general respectability of his personal cha- 
racter, and to the honest piide which he evinced, 
in voluntarily discharging his father's debts. But, 
with all respect for Whitehead, be it observed, 
that the annals of " Bilking'' can boast of much 
more illustrious individuals having sprung from 
the loins of its professors. 

His father, however, was a man of taste and 



e.xpenditure, much above the pitch of a baker. 
He spent most of his time in ornamenting a 
piece of ground, near Grantchester, which still 
goes by the name of IVhilelicad's Folly; and he 
left debts behind him at his death, that would 
have done honour to the prodigality of a poet. 
In consequence of his father dying in such cir- 
cumstances, young Whitehead's education was 
accomplished with great difficulty, by the strictest 
economy on his own part, and the assistance of 
his mother, whose discharge of duty to him he 
has gratefully recorded. At the age of fourteen, 
he was put to Winchester school, upon the ibun- 
dation. He was there distinguished by his love 
of reading, and by his facility in the production 
of English verse; and before he was sixteen he 
had written an entire comedy. When the Earl 
of Peterborough, accompanied by Pope, visited 
Winchester .school, in the year 1733, he gave ten 
guineas, to be distributed in prizes among the 
boys. Pope prescribed the subject, which was 
"Peterborough," and young Whitehead was one 
of the six who shared the prize money. It would 
appear that Pope had distinguished hiin on this 
occasion, as the reputation of his notice was af- 
terward of advantage to Whitehead when he went 
to the univeis.ty. He also gained some ap))lause 
at Winchester for his powers of acting, in the 
part of Mercia, in Cato. He was a graceful re- 



620 



WILLIAM WHITEHEAD. 



citer; and is said to have been very handsome in 
his youth. Even his likeness, which is given in 
Mason's edition of his works, though it was taken 
when he was advanced in years, has an elegant 
and prepossessing countenance. It was observed, 
that his school friendships were usually contracted 
with youths superior to himself in station. With- 
out knowing his individual associates, it is im- 
po.s.sible to say whether vanity, worldly prudence, 
or a taste for refined manners, predominated in 
this choice ; but it is oliservable, that he made his 
way to prosperity by such friendships, and he 
seems to have early felt that he had the power of 
acquiring ibem. At Winchester he was school- 
tutor to Mr. Wallop, afterward Lord Lymington, 
son to the Earl of Portsmouth. 

At the election to New College, in 17.35, he 
was treated with some injustice, being placed too 
low in the roll of candidates; and was obliged to 
leave Winchester, without obtaining fiom thence 
a presentation to either university. He, how- 
ever, obtained a scholarship at Clare-hall, Cam- 
bridge, from the very circumstance of that low 
extraction for which Mason apologizes. Being 
the orphan son of a baker, in Cambridge, he was 
thought the best entitled to be put on the founda- 
tion of Pyke, who had been of that trade and 
town. His scholarship was worth only four shil- 
lings a week: and he was admitted as a sizer; 
but the inferiority of his station did not prevent 
his introduction to the best society ; anil, before 
lie left the university, he made himself known by 
several publications, particularly by iiis " Essay 
on the Danger of writing Verse." Having ob- 
tained a fellowship, and a master's degree, he was 
on the point of taking orders, when his intention 
was prevented, in consequence of his being in- 
vited by the Earl of Jersey to be the domestic 
tutor of his son, Viscount ViUiers. This situation 
was made peculiarly agreeable to him by the 
kindness of the Jersey family, and by the abund- 
ant leisure which it atforded him to pursue his 
studies, as well as to enjoy public amusements. 
From frequenting the theatre, he was led to at- 
tempt dramatic composition. His first effort was 
a little farce, on the subject of the Pretender, 
whidi has never been published. In 1750 he 
brought upon the stage a regular tragedy, the 
" Roman Father," an imitation of Corneille's 
Horace. Mason has employed a good deal of 
criticism on this drama, to prove something analo- 
gous to the connoisseur's remark in Goldsmith, 
" that the piece would have been better, if the 
artist had bestowed more pains upon it." It is 
acknowledged, at the same time, by his biogra- 
pher, that the Roman Father was long enough 
in its author's hands to receive many alterations; 
but these had not been for the better. It was 
put through the mangle of Garrick's criticism; 
and he, according to Mason, was a lover of no 
beauties in a pbiy, but those which gave an op- 
portunity for the display of his own powers of 
repiesenting sudden and stronji elfects of passion, 
'i'bis remark of Mason accords with Johnson's 
complaint of Garrick's projected innovations in 



his own tragedy ; " That fellow," he said, "wants 
me to malie Mahomet mad, that he may have an 
opportunity of tossing his hands, and kicking his 
heels." For the faults of the piece, however, it 
is but circuitous and conjectural justice to make 
Garrick responsible; and, among those faults, the 
mode of the heroine's death is not the slightest.. 
Alter Corneille's heroine has been stabbed by 
her brother, she appears no'more upon the stage. 
The piece, to be sure, drags heavily after this 
event; for, in fact, its interest is concluded. 
Whitehead endeavours to conquer this dilHculty 
by keeping her alive, after she has been wounded, 
in order to have a conference with her father, 
which she terminates by tearing; the bandages off 
her wounds, and then e.\pires. But the effect of 
her death by this process is more disagreeable 
than even the tedium of Corneille's fifth act. It 
inspires us with a sore physical shuddering in- 
stead of tragic commiseration.* 

In 1754 he brought out, at Drury Lane, his 
tragedy of-' Creusa," a play which, though seldom 
read, and never acted, is by no means destitute 
of dramatic feeling and conception. The subject 
is taken from the "Ion" of Euripides; but with 
bold, and sometimes interesting alterations. In 
the Greek story, Creusa, Princess of Athens, who 
had been violated by Apollo, had concealed her 
shame by exposing her infant. She had after 
ward married Xuthus, a military stranger, who, 
at her father's death, succeeded, in her right, to 
the throne of Athens. But their marriage-bed 
having proved fruitless, they arrive at Delphi, to 
consult the oracle for an heir. The oracle pro- 
nounces, that the first whom Xuthus shall meet 
in going out of the temple is his son. He meets 
with Ion, a youth of unknown parentage, who 
had been reared as a servant in the holy place, 
and who, in fact, is the child of Creusa, whom 
she had exposed. Xuthus embraces Ion for his 
son ; and, comparing his age with the date of a 
love adventure, which he recollected in former 
times, concludes that Ion is the oiflspring of that 
amour. It is no sooner known that Xuthus has 
found a son of his own blood, than the tutor of 
Creusa exhorts the queen to resent this imlignity 
on her childless state, and to rid herself of a step- 
son, who may imbitter and endanger her future 
days. The tutor attemjits to poison Ion, but fails 
— Creusa is pursued to the altar by her own son. 
who is with ditHculty prevented from putting her 
to death ; but a discovery of their consanguinity 
takes place — Minerva descends from heaven to 
confirm the proofs of it ; and having predicted 
that Ion shall reign in Athens, and prudently 
admonished the mother and son to let King 
Xuthus remain in the old belief of his being 
father to Ion, leaves the piece to conclude tri- 
umphantly, — Such is the bare outline of the 
ancient drama. Whitehead's story is entirely 



* Tlie directions for tearing off the bimdiises are giveu 
in Masou's edi.ion ol' W liitJhiiBil's Work.*;. 1 observe lliat 
ill later ediiioas of Uie p ay ihoy are omitted ; but stil. 
Willi ihi.s improved ytleution to humanity, the heruiun 
protracts hurdling sceue too louj/. 



WILLIAM WHITEHEAD. 



621 



tragical, and stripped of miraculous agency. He 
gives a human father (Nicander) to (Ilyssus) the 
secret child of Creusa. This Nicander, the first 
lover of the lady, had, on the discovery of their 
attachment, been driven into banishment by 
Creusa's father, but had carried with him their 
new-born offspring: and both he and the infant 
were supposed to have l)een murdered in their 
flight from Athens. Nicander, however, had 
made his way to Delphi, had intrusted his child 
to the temple; and living in the neighbourhood, 
passed (under the name of Aletes) for the tutor 
of the mysterious orphan. Having obtained a 
high character for sagacity, he was consulted by 
the priestess Pythia herself; and he is repre- 
sented as having an influence upon her responses 
(it is an English poet, we must recollect, and not 
a Greek one, who is telling the story.) Mean- 
while, Creusa, having been forced to give her 
hand, without her heart, to Xuthus, is still a 
mourner, like Lady Randolph,* when, at the end 
of eighteeen years from the birth of Ilyssus, she 
comes to consult the oracle. Struck, at the first 
sight of Ilyssus, by his likeness to Nicander, she 
conceives an instinctive fondness for the youth. 
The oracle declares him heir to the throne of 
Athens; but this is accompanied with a rumour 
of bitter intelligence to Creusa, that he is really 
llie son of Xuthus. Her Athenians are indignant 
at the suspicion of Xuthus's collusion with the 
oracle, to entail the sceptre of their kingdom on 
his foreign offspring. Her confidant (like the 
tutor in Euripides) rouses her pride as a queen, 
and her jealousy as a mother, against this intruder. 



He tries every artifice to turn 



leart against 



Ilyssus; still she retains a partiality for him, 
and resists the proposal of attempting his life. 
At length, however, her husband insults her with 
expressing his triumph in his new-found heir, 
and reproache* her with the plebeia'i grave of the 
first object of her affection. In the first trans- 
port of her wrath she meets the Athenian enemy 
of Ion, and a guilty assent is wrung from her, 
that Ilyssus shall be poisoned at the banquet. 
Aletes, ignorant of the plot, had hitherto dreaded 
to disclose himself to Creusa, lest her agitation 
should prematurely interfere with his project of 
placing his son on the throne of Athens. He 
meets her, however, at last, and she swoons at 
recognizing him to be Nicander. When he tells 
her that Ilyssus is her son, she has in turn to un- 
fold the dreadful confession of having consented 
to his death. She flies to the banquet, if possible, 
to avert his fate ; and arrives in time to snatch 
the poisoned chalice from his hand. But though 
she is thus rescued from remorse, she is not ex- 
tricated from despair. To Nicander she has to 
say, "Am I not Xuthus' wife: and what art 
thou !" She anticipates that the kingdom of 
Athens must be involved in bloodshed for her 
sake: one victim she deems would suffice, and 



* If any recollection of Homes traj;erly slioultl occur 
to the) reader of Whileheail's, it is but fair to remind him 
lliat the play of Creusa was produceii a year or two earlier 
than that of Douglass. 



determines that it shall be herself. Having, 
therefore, exacted an oath from Xuthus and the 
Athenians, that Ilyssus shall succeed to the 
throne of her fathers, she drinks of the fatal 
goblet. 

The piece contains some strong situations; its 
language is unaffected ; and it fixes the attention 
(if I may judge from my own experience) from 
the first to the 'last scene. The pure and holy 
character of the young Ilyssus is brought out, 1 
have no hesitation to say, more interestingly than 
in Euripides, by the display of his reverential 
gratitude to the queen, upon the first tenderness 
which she shows him, and by the agony of his 
ingenuous spirit, on beholding it withdrawn. 
And, though Creusa's character is not unspotted, 
she draws our sympathy to some of the deepest 
conceivable agonies of human nature. I by no 
means wish to deny that the tragedy has many 
defects, or to speak of it as a great production , 
but it does not deserve to be consigned to ob- 
livion. 

The exhibition of Creusa was hardly over, 
when Whitehead was called upon to attend his 
pupil and Viscount Nuneham, son to Earl Har- 
court, upon their travels. The two young noble- 
men were nearly of an age, and had been intimate 
from their childhood. 'I'hey were both so much 
attached to Whitehead, as to congratulate each 
other on his being appointed their common tutor. 
They continued abroad for about two years, dur- 
ing which they visited France, Italy, and Ger- 
many. In his absence. Lady Jersey made interest 
enough to obtain for him the offices of secretary 
and registrar of the Order of the Bath. On his 
return to England, he was pressed by Lord Jersey 
to remain with the family; and he continued to 
reside with them for fourteen years, except during 
his visits to the seat of Lord Harcourt. His 
pupils, who had now sunk the idea of their go- 
vernor in the more agreeable one of their friend, 
showed him through life unremitted marks of 
affection. 

Upon the death of Gibber, in 1757, he suc- 
ceeded to the place of poet laureate. The ap- 
pointment had been otTered to Gray as a sinecure ; 
but it was not so when it was given to White- 
head. Mason wonders why this was the case, 
when George the Second had no taste for poetry. 
His wonder is quite misplaced. If the king had 
had a taste for poetry, he would have abolished 
the laureate odes. As he had not, they were 
continued. Our author's official lyrics are said 
by Mason to contain no fulsome panegyric, a fact 
for which I hope his word may be taken; for to 
ascertain it by perusing the strains themselves 
would be an alarming undertaking. But the 
laurel was to Whitehead no very enviable distinc- 
tion. He had something more to pay for it than 

" His quil-rent ode, his peppercorn of praise.'"'\ 

At first he was assailed by the hostility of all the 
petty tribe, among whom it is lamentable, as Gray 

t [CowPER— Tafcle Tuifc.] 



d22 



WILLIAM WHITEHEAD. 



remarks, to find beings capable of envying even 
a poet laureate. He stood their attacks for some 
time, without a sensible diminution of character; 
a>id his comedy of the " Scliool for Lovers," 
which was brought out in 1762, before it was the 
fasiiion to despise him, was pretty well received, 
as an easv and chaste imitation of the manners 
of well-bred life. But in the same year the rabid 
satire of Churchill sorely smote his reputation. 
Poor Whitehead made no reply. Those who, 
with Mason, consider his silence as the effect of 
a pacific disposition, and not of imbecility, will 
esteem him the more for his forbearance, and 
will apply it to the maxim, Rancnt est eloquenler 
liupd Oiiiins eloquenler tacere. Among his unpub- 
lished M88. there were even found verses ex- 
[)rrssing a compliment to Churchill's talents. 
'I'liore is something, no doubt, very amiable in a 
good and candid man taking the trouble to ce- 
ment rhymes upon the genius of a blackguard, 
who had abused him; but the effect of all- this 
candour upon his own generation reminds us 
how much more important it is, for a man's own 
advantage, that he should be formidable than 
harmless. His candour could not prevent his 
poetical character from being completely killed 
by Churchill. .Justly, some will say ; he was too 
stupid to resist his adversary. I have a different 
0[)inion, both as to the justice of his fate, and the 
cause of his abstaining from retaliation. He cer- 
tainly wrote too many insipid things; but a toler- 
able selection might be made from his works, that 



would discover his talents to be no legitimate ob- 
ject of contempt; and there is not a trait of arro- 
gance or vanity in any one of his compositions, 
that deserved to be publicly humiliated. He was 
not a satirist; hut he wanted rather the gall than 
the ingenuity that is requisite for the character. 
If his heart had been full of spleen, he was not 
so wholly destitute of humour as not to have 
been able to deal some hard blows at Churchill, 
whose private character was a broad mark, and 
even whose writings had many vapid parts that 
were easily assailable. Had Whitehead done so, 
the world would probably have liked him the 
better for his pugnacity. As it was, his name 
sunk into such a by-word of contempt, that Gar- 
rick would not admit his "Trip to Scotland" on 
the stage, unless its author was concealed. He 
also found it convenient to publish his pleasing 
tale, entitled " Variety," anonymously. The 
public applauded both his fierce and his poem, 
because it was not known that they were White- 
head's. 

In 1769 he obtained an unwilling permission 
from Lord Jersey to remove to private lodgings ; 
though he was still a daily expected guest at his 
lordship's table in town; and he divided his sum- 
mers between the country residences of the Jersey 
and Harcourt families. His health began to de- 
cline about his seventieth year, and in 1785 he 
was carried off by a complaint in his chest. His 
death was sudden, and his peaceable life was 
closed without a groan. 



FEOM HIS TRAGEDY OF "CREUSA." 

ILTSSCS MEETING CRECSA. 

Persons— Crehsa, Iltssus. 

Ilyssits. Please you, great queen, 

In yon pavilion to repose, and wait 
Th' arrival of the king. 

Crcusn. Lycea, — Phorbas, — 

What youth is this] There's something in his eyes, 
His shape, his voice. — What may we call thee, 
youth ? 

7/i/ssKs. 'J'he servant of the god who guards this 

Creiisa. Bear'st thou no name ] [fane, 

Ilyssus. Ilyssus, gracious queen, 

The priests and virgins call me. 

Creusij. Ah! Ilyssus! 

That name's Athenian. Tell me, gentle youth, 
Art thou of Athens, then 1 

Ilyssus. I have no country ; 

Nor know I whence I am. 

Crensa, Who were thy parents 1 

Thy father, mother 1 

Ilyssu'', Ever honour'd queen, 

I never knew a mother's tender cares. 
Nor heard the instructions of a father's tongue. 

Cnwia. How earnest thcu hither? 

J'yssHS. Eighteen years are past 

Sinte in the temple's portal I was found 
A sleeping infant. 

Creusa. Eighteen years ! good heaven! 



That fatal time recalls a scene of woe — 

Let me not think. — Were there no marks to show 

From whom or whence thou werti 

Jlyssiis. I have been told 

An osier basket, such as shepherds weave. 
And a few scatter'd leaves, were all the bed 
And cradle I could boast. 

Creusa. Unhappy child ! 

But more, oh ten times more, unhappy they 
Who lost perhaps in thee their only offspring! 
What pangs, « hat anguish, must the mother feel, 
Comprll'd no doubt, by some disastrous fate — 
— But this is all conjecture. — 

]lyssus. O great queen. 

Had those from whomlsprung been forin'd like then 
Had they e'er felt the secret pangs of nature, 
They had not left me to the desert world 
So totally exposed. I rather fear 
I am the chdd of lowliness and vice, 
And hnppy only in my ignorance. 
— Why slioulJ she weep ? Oh if her tears can fall 
For even a stranger's but suspected woes, 
How is that people bless'd where she presides 
As queen, and mother! — Please you, I retire! 

Creusa. No, stay. Thy sentiments at least be- 
A gen'rous education, "rell me, youth, [speak 
How has thy mind been form'd? 

Ilyssus. In that, great queen 

I never wanted parents. The good priests 
And pious priestess, who with care sustaiii'd 



WILLIAM WHITEHEAD. 



623 



My helpless infancy, left not my youth 
Without instruction. But oh. more than all. 
The kindest, best good man, a neighbouring sage, 
Who has known better days, though now, retired 
To a small cottage on the mountain's brow, 
He deals his blessings to the simple swains 
In balms and powerful herbs. He taught me things 
Which my soul treasures as its dearest wealth, 
And will remember ever. The good priests, 
'Tis true, had taught the same, but not with half 
That force and energy ; conviction's self 
Dwelt on Aietes' tongue. 

Creusa. Aietes, said'st thou 1 

Was that the good man's name 1 

Lysms. It is, great queen, 

For yet he lives, and guides me l>y his counsels. 

Creusa. What did he teach thee 1 

I/ysstis. To adore high heaven. 

And venerate on earth heaven's image, truth ! 
To feel for others' woes and bear my own 
With manly resignation. — Yet I own 
Some things he taught me, which but ill agree 
With my condition here. 

Cretisa. What things were those 1 

Ilyssus. They were for exercise, and to confirm 
My growing strength. And yet I often told him 
The exercise he taught resembled much 
What I had heard of war. He was himself 
A warrior once. 

Creusa. And did those sports delight thee ? 

Ilyssus. Great queen, I do confess my soul 
mix'd with them. 
Whene'er I grasped the osier-platted shield. 
Or sent the mimic javelin to its mark, 
I felt I know not what of manhood in me. 
But then I knew my duty, and repress'd 
The swelling ardour. "I'is to shades, I cried. 
The servant of the temple must confine 
His less ambitious, not less virtuous cares. 

Creusa. Did the good man observe, and blame 
thy ardour"? 

Ilyssus. He only smiled at my too forward zeal ; 
Nay, seemed to think such sports were necessary 
To soften, what he call'd, more rigorous studies. 

Creusa. Suppose when I return to Athens,youth, 
Thou should'st attend me thither ! wouldst thou 
To me thy future fortunes? [trust 

Ilyssus. Oh most gladly ! 

— But then to leave these shades where I was nursed 
The servant of the god, how might that seem 1 
And good Aietes too, the kind old man 
Of whom I spake ? — 'But wherefore talk I thus. 
You only throw these tempting lures to try 
Tir ambition of my youth. — Please you,Tetire. 

Crciisa. Ilyssus, wc will find a time to speak 
More largely on this subject; for the present 
Let all withdraw and leave us. Youth, farewell, 
I see the place, and will retire at leisure. 
Lycea, Phorbas. stay. 

Ilyssus (asirle.) How my heart heats ! 

She must mean something, sure. Though good 

Aietes 
Has told me polish'd courts abound in falsehood. 
But I will bear the priestess' message to him, 
A id open all my doubts. [-Ea^- 



A TALE FOR MARRIED PEOPLE. 

A GKNTLE maid of rural breeding, 
By Nature first, and then by reading, 
Was fill'd with all those soft sensations 
Which we restrain in near relations. 
Lest future husbands should be jealous. 
And think their wives too fond of fellows. 

The morning sun beheld her rove 
A nymph, or goddess of the grove ! 
At eve she paced the dewy lawn. 
And call'd each clown she saw, a faun ! 
Then, scudding homeward, lock'd her door, 
And turn'd some copious volume o'er. 
For much she read : and chiefly those 
Great authors, who in verse, or prose. 
Or something betwixt both, unwind 
The secret springs which move the mind. 
These much she read; and thought she knew 
The human heart's minutest clue; 
Yet shrewd observers still declare, 
(To show how shrewd observers are,) 
Though plays, which breathed heroic flame, 
And novels, in profusion, came. 
Imported f'resh-and-fresh from France, 
She only read the heart's romance. 

The world, no doubt, was well enough 
To smooth the manners of the rough ; 
Might pleaso the giddy and the vain. 
Those tinseird slaves of folly's train: 
But, for her part, the truest taste 
She found was in retirement placed. 
Where, as in verse it sweetly flows, 
" On every thorn instruction grows." 

Not that she wish'd to "be alone," 
As some affected prudes have done : 
She knew it was decreed on high 
We should "increase and multiply;" 
And therefore, if kind Fate would grant 
Her fondest wish, her only want, 
A cottage with the man she loved 
Was what her gentle heart approved ; 
In some delightful solitude 
Where step profane might ne'er intrude; 
But Hymeti guard the sacred ground. 
And virtuous Cupids hover round. 
Not such as flutter on a fan 
Round Crete's vile bull, or Leda's swan, 
(Who scatter myrtles, scatter roses, 
And hold their fingers to their noses,) 
But simp'ring, mild, and innocent. 
As angels on a monument. 

Fate heard her pray'r : a lover came. 
Who felt, like her, th' innoxious flame; 
One who had trod, as well as she, 
The flow'ry paths of poesy ; 
Had warm'd himself with Milton's heat, 
Co\ild every line of Pope repeat, 
Or chant in Shenstone's tender strains, 
"The lover's hopes," "the lover's pains" 

Attentive to the charmer's tongue. 
With him she thought no evening long; 
With him she saunter'd half the day ; 
And sometimes, in a laughing way. 



624 WILLIAM WHITEHEAD. 


Ran oVr the catalogue bj' rote 


The cat had spoil'd the kitten's merit. 


Of who might marry, and who not; 


And, with her youth, had lost her spirit. 


" Consider, sir, we're near relations — " 


And jokes repeated o'er and o'er. 


" I liojie so in our inclinations.—" — 


Had quite exhausted Jenny's store. 


In short, she look'd, she blush'd consent; 


— " And then, my dear, I can't abide 


He prasp'd her hand, to church they went; 


This always sauntering side by side." 


And every matron that was there. 


" Enough !" he cries, " the reason's plain : 


With tongue so voluble and supple, 


For causes never rack your brain. 


Said for her part, she must declare, 


Our neighbours are like other folks, 


She never saw a finer couple. 


Skip's playful tricks, and Jenny's jokes. 


Halcyon days ! 'Twas Nature's reign, 


Are still delightful, still would please, 


'Twas Tempe's vale, and Enna's plain, 


Were we, my dear, ourselves at ease. 


The fields assumed unusual bloom, 


Look round, with an impartial eye, 


And every zephyr breathed perfume; 


On yonder fields, on yonder sky; 


The laughing sun with genial beams 


The azure cope, the fiow'rs below, 


Danced lightly on th' exulting streams; 


With all their wonted colours glow. 


And the pale regent of the night, 


The rill still murmurs; and the moon 


In dewy softness shed delight. 


Shines, as she did, a softer sun. 


'Twas transport not to be exprest; 


No change has made the seasons fail. 


'Twas Paradise! 'But mark the rest. 


No comet brush'd us with his tail. 


Two smiling springs had waked the flow'rs 


The scene's the same, the same the weather- 


That paint the meads, or fringe the bow'rs. 


We live, my dear, loo mw:h together." 


(Ye lovers, lend your wond'ring ears, 


Agreed. A rich old uncle dies, 


Who count by months, and not by years,) 


And added wealth the means supplies. 


Two smiling springs had chaplets wove 


With eager haste to town they flew, 


To crown their solitude, and love: 


Where all must please, for all was new. 


When lo, they find, they can't tell how. 


But here, by strict poetic laws. 


Their walks are not so pleasant now. 


Description claims its proper pause. 


The seasons sure were changed ; the place 


The rosy morn had raised her head 


Had, somehow, got a different face. 


From old Tithonus' saffron bed ; 


Some blast had struck the cheerful scene; 


And embryo sunbeams from the east. 


The lawns, the woods, were not so green. 


Half-choaked, were struggling through the mist, 


The purling rill, which murmur'd by. 


When forth advanced the gilded chaise; 


And once was liquid harmony. 


The village crowded round to gaze. 


Became a sluggish, reedy pool : 


The pert postillion now promoted 


The days grew hot, the evenings cool, 


From driving plough, and neatly booted, 


The moon, with all the starry reign, 


His jacket, cap, and baldric on. 


Were melancholy's silent train. 


(As greater folks than he have done,) 


And then the tedious winter night — 


Look'd round ; and with a coxcomb'd air. 


They could not read by candle-light. 


Smack'd loud his lash. The happy pair 


Full oft, unknowing why they did, 


Bow'd graceful, from a sep'rate door, 


They call'd in adventitious aid. 


And Jenny, from the stool before. 


A faithful, fav'rite dog ('twas thus 


Roll swift, ye wheels ! to willing eyes 


With Tol)it and Telemachus) 


New objects every moment rise. 


Amused their steps; and for a while 


Each carriage passing on the road. 


They viewed his gambols with a smile. 


From the broad waggon's pond'rous load 


The kitten too was comical, 


To the light car, where mounted high 


She play'd so odly with her tail. 


The giddy driver seems to fly. 


Or in the glass was pleased to find 


Were themes for harmless satire fit. 


. Another cat, and peep'd behind. 


And gave fresh force to Jenny's wit. 


A courteous neighbour at the door 


Whate'er occurred, 'twas all delightful. 


Was deem'd intrusive noise no more. 


No noise was harsh, no danger frightful. 


For rural visits, now and then. 


The dash and splash through thick and thin, 


Are richt. as men must live with men- 


The hair-breadth 'scapes, the bustling inn. 


Then cousin Jenny, fresh from town, 


(Where well-bred landlords were so ready 


A new recruit, a dear delight ! 


To welcome in the 'squire and lady,) 


Made many a heavy hour go down. 


Dirt, dust, and sun, they bore with ease. 


At morn, at noon, at eve, at night: 


Determined to be pleased, and please. 


Sure they could hear her jokes forever. 


Now nearer town, and all agog. 


She was so sprightly and so clever I 


They know dear London by its fog. 


Yet neighbors were not quite the thing; 


Bridges they cross, through lanes they wind, 


What joy, alas! could converse bring 


Leave Hounslow's dang'rous heath behind, 


With awkward creatures bred at home — 


Through Brentford win a passage free 


The dog grew dull, or troublesome. 


By roaring, " Wilkes and l.,iberty !" 



WILLIAM WHITEHEAD. 625 


At Knightsbridge bless the sht)rt'nine; way, 


Let architects of humbler name 


(Where Bays's troops in ambush lay,) 


On frail materials build their fame. 


O'er Piccadilly's pavement glide, 


Their noblest works the world might want. 


(With palaces to grace its side,) 


Wyatt should build in adamant. 


Till Bond-street with its lamps a-blaze 


But what are these to scenes which lie 


Concludes the journey of three days. 


Secreted from the vulgar eye. 


Why should we paint, in tedious song. 


And baffle all the powers of song? — 


How every day, and all day long, 


A brazen throat, an iron tongue. 


They drove at first with curious haste 


(Which poets wish for, when at length 


Through Lud's vast town ; or, as they pass'd 


Their subject soars above their strength.) 


'Midst risings, fallings, and repairs 


Would shun the task. Our humbler Muse, 


Of streets on streets, and'squares on squares. 


(Who only reads the public news, 


Describe how strong their wonder grew 


And idly utters what she gleans , 


At buildings — and at builders too] 


From chronicles and magazines,) 


Scarce less astonishment arose 


Recoiling feels her feeble fires. 


At architects more fair than those — 


And blushing to her shades retires. 


Who built as high, as widely spread 


Alas! she knows not how to treat 


Th' enormous loads that clothed their head. 


The finer follies of the great. 


For British dames new follies love. 


Where even Democritus, thy sneer 


And, if they can't invent, improve. 


Were vain as Heraclitus' tear. 


Some with erect pagodas vie. 


Suffice it that by just degrees 


Some nod, like Pisa's tower, awry, 


They reach'd all heights, and rose with ease ; 


Medusa's snakes, with Pallas' crest. 


(For beauty wins its way, uncall'd,) 


Convolved, contorted, and compress'd ; 


And ready dupes are ne'er black-ball'd. 


With intermingling trees, and flowers, 


Each gambling dame she knew, and he 


And corn, and grass, and shepherd's bowers. 


Knew every shark of quality ; 


Stage above stage the turrets run. 


From the grave cautious few who live 


Like pendent groves of Babylon, 


On thoughtless youth, and living thrive. 


Till nodding from the topmost wall 


To the light train who mimic France, 


Otranto's plumes envelop all! 


And the soft sons of nonchalance. 


Whilst the black ewes, who own'd the hair. 


While Jenny, now no more of use. 


Feed harmless on, in pastures fair. 


Excuse succeeding to excuse, 


Unconscious that their tails perfume, 


Grew piqued, and prudently withdrew 


In scented curls the drawing-room. 


To shilling whist, and chicken loo. 


When Night her murky pinions spread. 


Advanced to fashion's wavering head. 


And sober folks retire to bed, 


They now, where once they follow'd, led, 


To every public place they flew. 


Devised new systems of delight. 


Where Jenny told them who was who. 


A-bed all day, and up all night. 


Money was always at command. 


In different circles reign'd supreme. ' 


And tripp'd with pleasure hand in hand. 


Wives copied her, and husbands him ; 


Money was equipage, was show. 


Till so divinely life ran on, 


Gallina's, Almack's, and Soho ; 


So separate, so quite bon-ton, 


The pnsse-parlout through every vein 


That meeting in a public place. 


Of dissipation's hydra reign. 


They scarcely knew each other's face. 


London, thou prolific source. 


At last they met, by his desire, 


Parent of vice, and folly's nurse! 


A tete-d-tgte across the fire;- 


Fruitful as Nile thy copious springs 


Look'd in each other's face awhile, 


.Spawn hourly births,— and all with stings: 


With half a tear, and half a smile. 


But happiest far the he, or she. 


The ruddy health, which wont to grace 


I know not which, that livelier dunce 


With manly glow his rural face. 


Who first contrived the coterie. 


Now scarce retain'd its faintest streak ; 


To crush domestic bliss at once. 


So sallow was his leathern cheek. 


Then grinn'd no doubt, amidst the dames, 


She, lank and pale, and hollow-eyed. 


As Nero fiddled to the flames. 


With rouge had striven in vain to hide 


Of thee. Pantheon, let me speak 


What once was beauty, and repair 


With reverence, though in numbers weak; 


The rapine of the midnight air. 


Thy beauties satire's frown beguile. 


Silence is eloquence, 'tis said. 


We spare the follies for the pile. 


Both wish'd to speak, both hung the head. 


Flounced, furbelow'd, and trick'd for show. 


At length it burst. •" 'Tis time," he cries. 


With lamps above, and lamps below, 


" When tired of folly, to be wise. 


Thy charms even modern taste defied. 


Are you too tired V — then check'd a groan. 


They could not spoil thee, though they tried. 


She wept consent, and he went on. 


Ah, pity that Time's hasty wings 


« How delicate the married life ! 


Must sweep thee off with vulgar things ! 
79 


You love your husband, I my wife ! 



626 



RICHARD GLOVER. 



Not even satiety could tame, 
Nor dissipation quench the flame. 

"True to the bias of our kind, 
'Tis happiness we wish to find. 
In rural scenes retired we sought 
In vain the dear delicious draught, 
Though blest with love's indulgent store. 
We found we wanted something more. 
'Twas company, 'twas friends to share 
The bliss we languish'd to declare. 
'Twas social converse, change of scene. 
To soothe the sullen hour of spleen; 
Short absqpces to wake desire, 
And sweet regrets to fan the fire. 

" We left the lonesome place ; and found. 
In dissipation's giddy round, 
A thousand novelties to wake 
The springs of life and not to break. 
As, from the nest not wandering far, 
In light excursions through the air. 
The feather'd tenants of the grove 
Around in mazy circles move, 
(Sip the cool springs that murmuring flow, 
Or taste the blossom on the bough.) 
We sported freely with the rest ; 
And still, returning to the nest. 
In easy mirth we chatted o'er 
The trifles of the day before. 

" Behold us now, dissolving quite 
In the full ocean of delight, 



In pleasures every hour employ. 
Immersed in all the world calls joy ; 
Our affluence easing the expense 
Of splendour and magnificence; 
Our company, the exalted set 
Of all that's gay, and all that's great: 
Nor happy yet! — and where's the wonder! 
We live, my dear, too vuich asunder." 

The moral of my tale is this, 
Variety's the soul of bliss; 
But such variety alone 
As makes our home the more our own. 
As from the heart's impelling power 
The life blood pours its genial store; 
Though taking each a various way. 
The active streams meandering play 
Through every artery, every vein, 
All to the heart return again; 
From thence resume their new career, 
But still return and centre there; 
So real happiness below 
Must from the heart sincerely flow; 
Nor, listening to the syren's song, 
Must stray too far, or rest too long. 
All human pleasures thither tend; 
Must there begin, and there must end , 
Must there recruit their languid force. 
And gain fresh vigour from their source. 



RICHARD GLOVER. 



[Born, 1712. Died, 1785.J 



Richard Glover was the son of a Hamburgh 
merchant in London, and was born in St. Mar- 
tin's-lane, Canon-street. He was educated at 
the school of Cheam, in Surrey ; but being in- 
tended for trade, was never sent to the univer- 
sity. This circumstance did not prevent him 
from applying assiduously to classical learning; 
and he was, in the competent opinion of Dr. 
Warton, one of the best Greek scholars of his 
lime. This fact is worth mentioning, as it 
exhibits how far a determined mind may connect 
the pursuits, and even distinctions of literature, 
with an active employment. His first poetical 
effort was a poem to the memory of Sir Isaac 
Newton, which was written at the age of sixteen; 
and which his friend Dr. Pemberton thought fit to 
prefix to a " View of the Newtonian Philosophy," 
which he published. Dr. Pembertori, who was a 
man of more science than taste on this and on 
some other occasions, addressed the public with 
critical eulogies, on the genius of Glover, written 
with an excess of admiration, which could be 
pardoned only for its sincerity. It gives us a 
higher idea of the youthful promises of his mind, 
to find that the intelligent poet Green had the 
same prepossession in his favour. Green says of 
him in the " Spleen," 



" But there's a youth, that you can name, 
Who needs no leading-strings to fame ; 
Whoso quick maturity of brain, 
The birth of Pallas may explain." 

At the age of twenty-five he published nine 
books of his " Leonidas." The poem was imme- 
diately taken up with ardour by Lord Cobham, 
to whom it was inscribed, and by all the readers 
of verse, and leaders of politics, who professed 
the strongest attachment to liberty. It ran 
rapidly through three editions, and was publicly 
extolled by the pen of Fielding, and by the lips 
of Chatham. Even Swift in one of his letters 
from Ireland, drily inquires of Pope, " ivho is this 
Mr. Glover, who writ ' Leonidas,' which is reprint- 
ing here, and hath great vogue?"* Overrated as 
" Leonidas" might be, Glover stands acquitted of 
all attempts or artifice to promote its popularity 
by false means. He betrayed no irritation in 
the disputes which were raised about its merit; 
and his personal character appears as respect- 
able in the ebb as in the flow of his poetical repu- 
tation. 

[* Pope's answer does not appear : " It would have been 
curious," says Dr. Warton, " to have known his opinion 
concerning a poem that is written in a ta.«te and raiinner 
so different from his own, in a style formed on the Grecian 
school, and with the s'lnpUcity of the amaerfj 



RICHARD GLOVER. 



627 



In the year 1739 he published his poem "Lon- 
don ; or the Pvoirress of Commerce," in which, 
instead of selerting- some of those interesting 
views of the progress of social life and civiliza- 
tion, which the subject might have afforded, he 
confined himself to exciting the national spirit 
against the Spaniards. This purpose was better 
effected by his nearly contemporary ballad of 
" Hosier's Ghost." 

His talents and politics introduced him to the 
notice and favonr of Frederick, Prince of Wales, 
whilst he maintained an intimate friendship with 
the chiefs of the opposition. In the mean time, 
he pursued the business of a merchant in the 
city, and was an able auxiliary to his party, by 
h's eloquence at public meetings, and by his in- 
fluence with the mercantile body. Such was 
the confidence in his knowledge and talents, that 
in 1743 the merchants of London deputed him 
to plead, in behalf of their neglected rights, at 
the bar of the House of Commons, a duty which 
he fulfilled with great ability. In 1744, he was, 
offered an employment of a very difierent kind, 
being left a bequest of 500/. by the Duchess of 
Marlborough, on condition of his writing the 
duke's life, in conjunction with Mallet. He 
renounced this legacy, while Mallet accepted it, 
but never fulfilled the terms. Glover's rejection 
of the offer was the more honourable, as it came 
at a time when his own afiiiirs were so embar- 
rassed as to oblige him to retire from business 
for several years, and to lead a life of the strictest 
economy. During his distresses, he is said to 
have received from the Prince of Wales a pre- 
sent of 500/. In the year 1751, his friends in 
the city made an attempt to obtain for him the 
office of city chamberlain ; but he was unfortun- 
ately n'ot named as a candidate, till the majority 
of votes bad been engaged to Sir Thomas Har- 
rison. The speech which he made to the livery 
on this occasion did him much honour, both for 
the liberality with which he spoke of his success- 
ful opponent, and for the manly but unassuming 
manner in which he expressed the consciousness 
of his own integrity, amidst his private misfor- 
tunes, and asserted the merit of his public con- 
duct as a citizen. The name of Guildhall is cer- 
tainly not apt to inspire us with high ideas either 
of oratory or of {)ersonal sympathy ; yet there is 
something in the history of this transart on which 
increases our respect, not only for Glover, but for 
the scene itself, in which his eloquence is said to 
iiave warmly touched bis audience with a feeling 
of his worth as an individual, of his spirit as a 
politician, and of his powers a's an accomplished 
speaker. He carried the sentiments and endow- 
ments of a polished scholar into the most popular 
meeting of trading life, and showed that they 
could be welcomed there. Such men elevate the 
character of a mercantile country. 

During his retirement from business, he finished 
nis tragedy of " Boadicia," which was brought 
out at Drury Lane in 17.53, and was acted for 
nine nights, it it said " successfully," perhaps a 
misprint for successively. Boadicea is certainly 



not a contemptible drama: it has some scenes 
of tender interest between Venusia and Dum- 
norix ; but the defectiveness of its incidents, and 
the frenzied character of the British queen. render 
it, upon the whole, unpleasing. Beaumont and 
Fletcher, in their play on the same subject, have 
left Boadicia, with all her rashness and revenge- 
ful disposition, still a heroine; but Glover makes 
her a beldam and a fury, whom we could scarcely 
condemn the Romans for having carted. The 
disgusting novelty of this impression is at variance 
with the traditionary regard fiir her name, from 
which the mijid is unwilling to part. It is told 
of an eminent portrait-painter, that the picture of 
each individual which he took had some resem- 
blance to the last sitter : when he painted a comic 
actress, she resenibled a doctor of divinity, because 
his imagination had not yet been delivered of the 
doctor, 'i'he converse of this seems to have hap- 
pened to Glover. He anticipated the hideous 
traits of Medea, when he produced the British 
queen. With a singular degree of poetical in- 
justice, he leans to the side of compassion in de- 
lineating Medea, a monster of infanticide, and 
prepossesses us against a high-spirited woman, 
who avenged the wrongs of her country, and the 
violation of her daughters. His tragedy of 
"Medea" appeared in 1761 ; and the spirited act- 
ing of Mrs. Yates gave it considerable effect. 

In his later years, his circumstances were 
greatly improved, though we are not informed 
from what causes. He returned again to public 
life; was elected to parliament; and there dis- 
tinguished himself, whenever mercantile pros- 
perity was concerned, by his knowledge of com- 
merce, and his attention to its interests. In 1770 
he enlarged his " Leonidas" from nine to twelve 
books, and afterward wrote its .se(jual, the " Athe- 
naid,"and a sequel to " Medea." The latter was 
never acted, and the former seldom read. 'I'he 
close of his life was spent in retirement from 
business, but amidst the intimacy of the most 
eminent scholars of his time. 

Some contemporary writers, calling thetiiselves 
critics, preferred " Leonidas" in its day to "Para- 
dise Lost ;" because it had smoother versification, 
and fewer hard words of learning. The re-action 
of popular opiaion, against a work that has been 
once over-rated, is apt to depress it beneath its 
just estimation. It is due to ♦' Leonidas" to say, 
that its narrative, descriptions, antl imagery, ha\e 
a general and chaste congruity w,th the Grecism 
of its subject. It is far, indeed, from l)eing a vivid 
or arresting picture of antiquity ; but it has an 
air of dassiial taste and propr e y in its des gii ; 
and it sometimes places the rtdigion and maniieis 
of Greece in a pleasing and impressive light. 
The poet's description of Dithyrambus maviiig 
his way from the cave of CEla, by a secret ascent, 
to the temple of the Muses, and bursting, i;iiex- 
pectedly, into the hallowed jiresence of lliiMr 
priestess Melissa, is a passage fraught with a 
cons-iderable degree of the f.n.iful and beautiful 
in superstitioi.. The abode of Oiieus is also 
traced with a suavity of local desjr.ption, whioli 



RICHARD GLOVER. 



is n(it unwsual to Glover; anJ the speech of Me- 
lissa, when she first receives the tidings of her 
venerahle father's Jealh, supports a fine consis- 
tency with the august and poetical character 
which is ascribed to her. 

"A sigh 
Broke from her heart, the'-e accents from her lips. 
The full of days and honours through the gate 
Of painless slumber is retired. His tomb 
Shall stand among his fathars, in the shade 
Of his own trophies. Placid were his davs, 
^^ ) ich flow'd through blessings. As a river pure, 
^Vho.se sides are tlow'ry. and whose mcaiows fair, 
Meets in his course a subterranean void; 
There dips his silver head, again to rise, 
And rising, glide-i through flowers and meadows new; 
So shall Oileus in those hap]iier fields, 
Mhere never gloom of trouble shades the mind." 

The undeniable fault of the entire poem is, 
that it wants impetuosity of progress, and that 
its characters are without warm and interesting 
individuality. What a great genius might have 
made of the subject, it may be difficult to pro- 
nounce by supposition ; for it is the very cha- 
racter of genius to produce effects which cannot 
be calculated. But imposing as the names of 
Leonidas and Thermopylae may appear, the sub- 
ject which they formed for an epic poem was 
such, that we cannot wonder at its baffling the 
powers of Glover. A poet, with such a theme, 
was furnished indeed with a grand outline of 
actions and sentiments; but how difficult was it, 
after all that books could teach him, to give the 



close and veracious ap])earance of life to charac- 
ters and manners beheld so remotely on the 
verge of the horizon of history ! What difficulty 
to avoid coldness and generality, on the one hand, 
if he delineated his human beings only with the 
manners which history could authenticate; and 
to shun grotcs(]Upness and inconsistency on the 
other, if he filled up the vague outline of the 
antique with the particular and ftimiliar traits of 
modern life ! IN'either Fenclon, with all his 
genius, nor Bartbelemy, with all his learning, 
have kept entirely free of this latter fault of in- 
congruity, in modernizing the aspect of ancient 
manners. The characters of Barthelemy, in par- 
ticular, often remind us of statues in modern 
clothes. Glover has not fallen into this impurity; 
but his purity is cold: his heroes are like out- 
lines of Grecian flices, with no distinct or minute 
physiognomy. They are not so much poetical 
characters, as historical recollections. There are, 
indeed, some touches of spirit in Artemisia's cha- 
racter, and of pathos in the episode of Teribazus; 
but Leonidas is too good a Spartan, and Xerxes 
too bad a Persian, to be pitied ; and most of the 
subordinate agents, that hU or triumph in battle, 
only load our memories with their names. The 
local descriptions of " Leonidas," however, its 
pure sentiments, and the classical images which 
it recalls, render it interesting, as the monument 
of an accomplished and amiable mind.* 



FROM "LEONIDAS," BOOK I. 



The virtuous Spartan, who resign'd his life 
To save his country at the CEtfean straits, 
Thermopylae, when all the peopled East 
In arms with Xerxes fiU'd the Grecian plains, 
O Muse, record ! The Hellespont they pass'd, 
O'erpow'ring Thrace. The dreadful tidings swift 
To Corinth flew. Her Isthmus was the seat 
Of Grecian council. Alpheus thence returns 
To Laccdemon. In assembly full 
He finds the Spartan people with their kings; 
'J'heir kings, who boast an origin divine. 
From Hercules descended. They the sons 
Of Lacedemon had convened, to learn 
The sacred mandates of th' immortal gods. 
That morn expected from the Delphian dome. 
But Alpheus sudden their attention drew, 
And thus address'd them: For immediate war. 
My countrymen, prepare. Barbarian tents - 
Already fill the trembling bounds of Thrace. 
'J'he Isthmian council hath decreed to guard 
Tliermopylaj, the Locrian gate of Greece. 

Here Alpheus paused. Leutychides, who shared 



[* Glover's Leonidas. though only party spirit could 
have extolli'd it as a work of genius, obtaine(l uo ini-on- 
siderable sate, and a reput; tion whi h tiouri.shed for half 
ftientury. It has now a place in the two great general 
collcction.s, and deserves to hold it. The author has the 
■nerit of having departed from bad models, rejected all 



With great Leonidas the sway, uprose 
And spake. Ye citizens of Sparta, hear. 
Why from her bosom should Laconia send 
Her valiant race to wage a distant war 
Beyond the Isthmus"? There the gods have placed 
Our native barrier. In this favour'd land, 
Which Pelops govern 'd, us of Doric blood 
That Isthmus inaccessible secures. 
There let our standards rest. Your solid strength, 
If once you scatter in defence of states 
Remote and feeble, you betray your own, 
And merit Jove's derision. With assent 
The Spartans heard. Leonidas replied : 

O most ungen'rous counsel ! Most unwise! 
Shall we, confining to that Isthmian fence 
Our efforts, leave beyond it every state 
Disown'd, exposed 1 Shall Athens, while her fleets 
Unceasing watch th' innuinerable foes. 
And trust th' impending dangers of the field 
To Sparta's well-known valour, shall she hear. 
That to barbarian violence we leave 
Her unprotected walls ! Her hoary sires, 
Her helpless matrons, and their infant race. 
To servitude and shame 7 Her guardian gods 
Will yet preserve them. Neptune o'er his main, 



false orn!iments and trieks of .style, and trusted to the 
di^rnity of his sul ject. And though the poem is cold and 
bald, stately rather than strong in its best parts, and ia 
general rather stiff than stately, there is in its very naked- 
ness a sort of Spartan severity that commands respect.— 
SooTHET, Life of Ouwper, vol. ii. p. 176.j 




With Pallas, power of wisdom, at their helms, 
Will soon transport them to a happier clime, 
Safe from insulting foes, from ftilse allies, 
And Eleutherian Jove will bless their flight. 
Then shall we feel the unresisted force 
Of Persia's navy, deluging our plains 
With inexhausted numbers. Half the Greeks, 
By us betray'd to bondage, will support 
A Persian lord, and lift th' avenging spear 
For our destruction. But, my friends, reject 
Such mean, such dang'rous counsels, which would 

blast 
Your long-establish'd honours, and assist 
The proud invader. eternal king 
Of yods and mortals, elevate our minds! 
Each low and partial passion thence expel ! 
Greece is our gen'ral mother. AHl must join 
In her defence, or, sep'rate. each must fall. 

This said, autboiity and shame controU'd 
The mute assembly. Agis too appear'd. 
He from the Delphian cavern was return'd, 
Where, taught by Phceiais on Parnassian cliffs, 
The Pythian maid unfolded Heaven's decrees. 
He came; but discontent and grief o'ercast 
His anxious brow. Reluctant was his tongue, 
Yet seem'd full charged to speak. Religious dread 
Each heart relax'd. On every visage hung 
Sad expectation. Not a whisper told 
The silent fear. Intensely all were fix'd. 
All St II as death, to hear the solemn tale. 
As o'er tlie western waves, when every storm 
Is hush'd within its cavern, and a breeze, 
Soft-breathing, lightly with its wings along 
The slacken'd cordage glides, the sailor's ear 
Perceives no sound throughout the vast ex[)anse; 
None, but the murmurs of the sliding prow. 
Which slowly parts the smooth and yielding 

main : 
So through the wide and listen'ngcrowd no sound, 
No voice, but thine, Agis, broke the air! 
While thus the issue of thy awful charge 
Thy lips deliver'd. Spartans, in your name 
I went to Delphi. I inquired the doom 
Of Lacedemon from th' impending war. 
When in these words the deity replied: 

" Inhabitants of Sparta, Pertsia's arms 
Shall lay your proud and ancient seat in dust; 
Unless a king, from Hercules derived. 
Cause Lacedemon for his death to mourn." 

As when the band of Peiseus had disclosed 
The snakes of dire Medusa, all who view'd 
The Gorgon features were congeal'd to stone. 
With ghastly eyeballs on the hero bent. 
And horror, living in their marble form ; 
Thus with amazement rooted, where they stood. 
In speechless terror frozen, on their kings 
The Spartans gazed : but soon their anxious 

looks 
All on the great Leonidas unite. 
Long known his country's refnge. He alone 
Remains unshaken. Rising, he displays 
His godlike presence. Dignity and grace 
Adorn hi.> frame, where manly beauty joins 
With strength Herculean. CJn his aspect shine 
Sublimcst virtue, and desire of fiime, 



Where justice gives the laurel, in his eye 
The inextinguishable spark, which tires 
The .souls of patriots ; while his brow supports 
Undaunted valour, and coiitemi)t of death. 
Serene he cast his looks around, and spake: 

Why this astonishment on every face. 
Ye men of Sparta 1 Does the name of death 
Create this fear and wonder 1 Oil my friends, 
Why do we labour through the arduous paths 
Which lead to virtue? Fruitless were the toil. 
Above the reach of human feet were placed 
The distant summit, if the fear of death 
Could intercept our passage. But a frown 
Of unavailing terror he assumes. 
To shake the firmness of a mind, which knows 
That, wanting virtue, life is pain and woe, 
That, wanting liberty, even virtue mourns, 
.And looks around for happiness in vain. 
Then speak, Sparta, and demand my life ! 
My heart, exulting, answers to thy call. 
And smiles on glorious fate. To live with fame. 
The gods allow to many ; but to die 
With equal lustre is a blessing, Jove 
Among the choicest of his boons reserves. 
Which but on few his sparing hand bestows. 

Salvation thus to Sparta he proclaim'd. 
Joy, wrapt awhile in admiration, paused, 
Suspending praise ; nor praise at last resounds 
In high acclaim to rend the arch of heaven : 
A reverential murmur breathes applause. 
So were the pupils of I^ycurgus train'd 
To bridle nature. Public fear was dumb 
Before their senate, ephori, and kings, 
Nor exultation into clamour broke. 
Amidst them rose Dieneces, and thus: 

Haste to Thermopylae. To Xerxes show 
The discipline of Spartans, long renown'd 
In rigid warfare, with enduring minds. 
Which neither pain, nor want, nor danger bend. 
Fly to the gate of Greece, which open stands 
To slavery and nipine. They will shrink 
Before your standard, and their native seats 
Resume in abject Asia. Arm, ye sires. 
Who with a growing race have bless'd the state; 
That race, your parents, gen'ral Greece forbid 
Delay. Heaven summons. Equal to the caut.e 
A chief behold. Can Spartans ask for more .' 

Bold Alpheus next. Command my swiftretuin 
Amid the Isthmian council, to declare 
Your instant n)arcli. His dictates all approve. 
Back to the Isthmus he unwearied speeds. 



FROM BOOK II. 

Description of the Dwellingof Oi'eu.s, at which the SpartAh 
Army h;ilt on their march to TliermopyUe. 

The moon rode high and clear. Her light 
benign 
To their pleased eyes a rural dwelling show'd. 
All unado.n'd, but seemly. Either side 
Was fenced by trees high-sha<lowing. The fron 
Look'd on a crystal pool, by feather'd tribes 
At every dawn fequented. From the springs 
A small .•edundaiice led a shallow brook, 



RICHARD GLOVER. 



O'er smoothest pebbles rippling, just to wake 
Not startle silence, and the ear of night 
Entice to listen undisturb'd. Around 
The grass was cover'd by reposing sheep, 
Whose drowsy guard no longer bay'd the moon. 
The warriors stopp'd, contemplating the seat 
Of rural quiet. Suddenly a swain 
Steps forth. His fingers touch the breathing reed. 
Uprise the fleecy train. Each faithful dog 
Is roused. All heedful of the wonted sound 
Their known conductor follow. Slow behind 
Th' observing warriors move. Ere long they reach 
A broad and verdant circle, thick inclosed 
With birches straight and tall, whose glossy rind 
Is clad in silver from Diana's car. 
The ground was holy, and the central spot 
An altar bore to Pan. Beyond the orb 
Ofskrecning trees th' external circuit swarm'd 
With sheep and beeves, each neighbouring ham- 
let's wealth 
Collected. Thither soon the swain arrived, 
Whom, by the name of Melibceus hail'd, 
A peasant throng surrounded. As their chief. 
He nigh the altar to his rural friends 
Address'd these words : Oh sent from dilTrent lords 
With contribution to the public wants, 
Time presses. God of peasants, bless our course ! 
Speed to the slow-paced ox for once impart ! 
That o'er these valleys, cool'd by dewy night, 
We to our summons true, ere noon-tide blaze, 
May join Oileus. and his praise obtain. 

He ceased. To rustic madrigals and pipes. 
Combined with bleating notes and tinkling bells, 
With clamour shrill from busy tongues of dogs, 
Or hollow-sounding from the deep-mouth'd ox. 
Along the valh^y herd and flock are driven 
Successive, halting oft to harmless spoil 
Of flow'rs and herbage, springing in their sight. 
While Melibceus marshall'd with address 
The inoffensive host, unseen in shades 
Dieneces applauded, and the youth 
Of Menalippus caution'd. Let no word 
Impede the careful peasant. On his charge 
Depends our welfare. Diligent and staid 
He suits his godlike master. Thou wilt see 
That righteous hero soon. Now sleep demands 
Our debt to nature. On a carpet dry 
Of moss beneath a wholesome beach they lay, 
Arm'd as they were. 'I'heir slumber short retires 
With night's last shadow. At their warning 

roused. 
The troops proceed. Th' admiring eye of youth 
In Menalippus caught the morning rays 
To guide its travel o'er the landscape wide 
Of --ultivated hillocks, dales, and lawns. 
Where mansions, hamlets interposed, where domes 
Rose to their gods through consecrated shades. 
He then exclaims: Oh say, can Jove devote 
riipse fields to ravage, those abodes to flames'? 

The Spartan answers : Ravage, sword, and fire. 
Must be endured as incidental ills. 
SulHce it, these invaders, soon or late. 
Will leave this soil more fertile by their blood. 
With spoils abundant to rebuild the fines, 
''recarious benefits are these, thou see'st, 



So framed by heaven ; but virtue is a good 
No foe can spoil, and lasting to the grave. 

Beside the public way an oval fount 
Of marble sparkled with a silver spray 
Of falling rills, collected from above. 
The army halted, and their hollow casques 
Dipp'd in the limpid stream. Behind it rose 
An edifice, composed of native roots, 
And oaken trunks of knotted girth unwrought. 
Within were beds of moss. Old, batter'd arms 
Hung from the roof. The curious chiefs approach. 
These words, engraven on a tablet rude, 
Megistias reads; the rest in silence hear. 
" Yon marble fountain, by Oileus placed, 
To thirsty lips in living water flows ; 
For weary steps he framed this cool retreat ; 
A grateful off'fing here to rural peace ; 
His dinted shield, his helmet he resign'd. 
O passenger, if born to noble deeds 
Thou would'st obtain perpetual grace from Jove, 
Devote thy vigour to heroic toils, 
And thy decline to hospitable cares. 
Rest here ; then seek Oileus in his vale." 



FROM BOOK VI. 

The Grecian commanders, after a battle, havintr retired 
to a cave on thii side of Jlount Oita, Dilhyrambus, dis- 
covering' a passage ttirougb it, ascends to the Temple of 
the Muses. 

A CAVE, not distant from the Phocian wall. 
Through (Eta's cloven side had nature form'd 
In spacious windings. This in moss she clad ; 
O'er h;ilf the entrance downward from the roots 
She hung the shaggy trunks of branching firs. 
To heaven's hut ray impervious. Near the mouth 
Relucent laurels spread before the sun 
A broad and vivid foliage. Hisih above. 
The hill was darken'd by a solemn shade, 
Difl"used from ancient cedars. To this cave 
Diomedon, Demophilus resort. 
And Thespia's youth. A deep recess appears. 
Cool as the azure grot where Thetis sleeps 
Beneath the vaulted ocean. Whisper'd sounds 
Of waters, trilling from the riven stone 
'J''o feed a fountain on the rocky floor, 
In purest streams o'erflowing to the sea. 
Allure the warriors, hot with toil and thirst. 

To this retreat serene. Against the sides 
Their disencumber'd hands repose their shields; 
The helms they loosen from their glowing cheeks; 
Propp'd on their spears, they rest: when Agis 

brings 
From Lacedemon's leader these commands. 

Leonidas recalls you from your toils. 
Ye meritorious Grecians. You have reap'd 
The first bright harvest on the field of fame. 
Our eyes in wonder from the Phocian wall 
On your unequall'd deeds incessant gazed. 

To whom Platffla's chief Go, Agis, say 
To Lacedemon's ruler, that, untired, 
Diomedon can yet exalt his sj)ear, 
Nor feels the armour heavy on his limbs. 
'J'hen shall I quit the contest? Ere he sinks, 
Shall not this early sun again behold 



The slaves of Xerxes tremWe at my lance, 
Should they adventure on a fresh assault'? 

To hiin the Thespian youth. My friend, my 
guide 
To noble actions, since thy gen'rous heart 
Intent on fame disdains to rest, oh grant 
I loo thy glorious labours may partake. 
May learn once more to imitate thy deeds. 
Thou, gentlest Agis, Sparta's king entreat 
Not to command us from the field of war. 

Yes, persevering heroes, he replied, 
I will return, will Sparta's king entreat 
Not to command you from the field of war. 

Then interposed Demophilus. Oh friend, 
Who lead'st to conquest brave Plataea's sons ; 
Thou, too, loved otTspring of the dearest man, 
Who dost restore a brother to my eyes; 
My soul your magnanimity applauds: 
But, oh reflect, that unabating toil 
Subdues the mightiest. Valour will repine. 
When the weak hand obeys the heart no more. 
Yet I, declining through the weight of years, 
Will not assign a measure to your strength. 
If still you find your vigour undecay'd. 
Stay and augment your glory. So, when time 
Casts from your whiten'd heads the helm aside ; 
When in the temples your enfeebled arms . 
Have hung their consecrated shields, the land 
Which gave you life, in her defence einploy'd, 
Shall then by honours, doubled on your age, 
Bequit the gen'rous labours of your prime. 

So spake the senior, and forsook the cave. 
But from the fount Diomedon receives 
Th' overflowing waters in his concave helm, 
Addressing thus the genius of the stream. 

Whoe'er thou art, divinity unstain'd 
Of this fiiir fountain, till unsparing Mars 
Heap'd carnage round thee, bounteous are thy 

streams 
To me, who ill repay thee. I again 
Thy silver-gleaming current must pollute. 
Which, mix'd with gore, shall tinge the Malian 
slime. 

He said, and lifted in his brimming casque 
The bright, refreshing moisture. 'I'hus repairs 
The spotted panther to Hydaspes' side. 
Or eastern Indus, feasted on the blood 
Of some torn deer, which nigh his cruel grasp 
Had roam'd, unheeding, in the secret shade; 
Rapacious o'er the humid brink he.stoops. 
And in the pure and fluid crystal cools 
His reeking jaws. Meantime the Thespian's eye 
Roves round the vaulted space; when sudden 

sounds 
Of music, utter'd by melodious harps. 
And melting voices, distant, but in tones 
By distance soften'd, while the echoes sigh'd 
In lulling replication, fill the vault 
With harmony. In adniiratix)n mute. 
With nerves unbraced by rapture, he, entranced. 
Stands like an 6agle, when his parting plumes 
The balm of sleep relaxes, and his wings 
Fall from his languid side. Plataea's chief, 
Observing, roused the warrior. Son of Mars, 
Shall music's softness from thy bosom steal 



The sense of glory 1 From his neighb'ring camp 

Perhaps the Persian sends fresh nations down. 

Soon in bright steel Thermopylse will blaze. 

Awake. Accustom'd to the clang of arms, 

Intent on vengeance for invaded Greece, 

My ear, my spirit in this hour admit 

No new sensation, nor a change of thought. 

The Thespian starting from oblivious sloth 
Of ravishment and wonder, quick replied. 

These sounds were more than human. Hark! 
Again ! 
Oh honour'd friend, no adverse banner streams 
In sight. No shout proclaims the Persian freed 
From his late terror. Deeper let us plunge 
In this* mysterious dwelling of the nymphs, 
Whose voices charm its gloom. In smiles rc- 
Diomedon. I see thy soul enthrall'd. [join'd 
Me thou would'st rank among the unletter'd rout 
Of yon barbarians, should I press thy stay. 
Time favours too. 'J'ill Agis be return'd, 
We cannot act. Indulge thy eager search. 
Here will I wait, a sentinel unmoved, 
To watch thy coming. In exploring haste 
Th' impatient Thespian penetrates the cave. 
He finds it bounded by a steep ascent 
Of rugged steps ; where down the hollow rock 
A modulation clear, distinct, and slow 
In movement solemn from a lyric string. 
Dissolves the stagnant air to sweet accord 
With these sonorous lays. Celestial maids ! 
While, from our clifils contemplating the war, 
We celebrate our heroes, oh impart 
Orphean magic to the pious strain ! 
That from the mountain we may call the groves, 
Swift motion through these marble fragments 
To overleap the high CEtean ridge, [breathe 

And crush the fell invaders of our peace. 

The animated hero upward springs 
Light, as a kindled vapour, which, confined 
In subterranean cavities, at length 
Pervading, rives the surface to enlarge 
The long-imprison'd flame. Ascending soon. 
He sees, he stands abash'd, then rev'rend kneels 

An aged temple with insculptured forms 
Of Jove's harmonious daughters, and a train 
Of nine bright virgins, round their priestess 
Who stood in awful majesty, receive [ranged 
His unexpected feet. The song is hush'd. 
The measured movement on the lyric chord 
In faint vibration dies. The priestess sage, 
Whose elevated port and aspect rose 
To more than mortal dignity, her lyre 
Consigning graceful to attendant hands, 
Looks with reproof The loose, uncovered hair 
Shades his inclining Jbrehead, while a flush 
Of modest crimson dyes his youthful cheek. 
Her pensive vision softens to a smile, 
On worth so blooming, which she thus accosts. 

I should reprove thee, inadvertent youth. 
Who through the sole access by nature left 
To this pure mansion, with intruding steps 
Dost interrupt our lays. But rise. Thy sword 
Perhaps embellish'd that triumphant scene. 
Which waked these harps to celebrating notes. 
What is the impress on thy warlike shield ! 



63-2 



RICHARD GLOVER. 



A golden eagle on my shield I bear, 
Still bending low, he answers. She pursues. 

Art thou possessor of that glorious orb, 
By me distinguish'd in the late defeat 
Of Asia, driven before thee f Speak thy name. 
Who is thy sire ] Where lies thy native seat 1 
Comest thou for glory to this fatal spot, 
Or from barbarian violence to guard 
A parent's age, a spouse, and tender babes, 
Who call thee father? Humbly he again. 

I am of Thespia, Dithyrambus named, 
The son of Harmatides. Snatch'd by fate. 
He to his brother, and my second sire, 
Demophilus, consign'd me. Thespia's sons 
By him are led. His dictates I obey. 
Him to resemble strive. No infant voice 
Calls me a father. To the nuptial vow 
I am a stranger, and among the Greeks 
The least entitled to thy partial praise. 

None more entitled, interposed the dame. 
Deserving hero, thy demeanour speaks, 
It justifies the fame, so widely spread. 
Of Harmatides' heir. Oh grace and pride 
Of that fair city, which the Muses love, 
Thee an acceptant visitant I hail 
In this their ancient temple. Thou shalt view 
Their sacred haunts. Descending from the dome. 
She thus pursues. First know, my youthful hours. 
Were exercised in knowledge. Homer's muse 
To daily meditation won my soul, 
With my young spirit mix'd undying sparks 
Of her own rapture. By a father sage 
Conducted, cities, manners, men I saw. 
Their institutes and customs. I return'd. 
The voice of Locris call'd me to sustain 
The holy function here. Now throw thy sight 
Across that meadow, whose enliven'd blades 
Wave in the breeze, and glisten in the sun 
Behind the hoary fane. My bleating train 
Are nourish'd there, a' spot of plenty spared 
From this surrounding wilderness. Remark 
That fluid mirror, edged by shrubs and flow'rs, 
Shrubs of my culture, flow'rs by Iris dress'd, 
Nor pass that smiling concave in the hill. 
Whose pointed crags are soften'd to the sight 
By figs and grapes. She pauses; while around 
His eye, delighted, roves, in more delight 
Soon to the spot returning, where she stood 
A deity in semblance, o'er the place 
Presiding awful, as Minerva wise, 
August like Juno, like Diana pure, 
But not more pure than fair. 



rnOM THE EPISODE OF "TERIBAZUS AND 
AIUAXA." 
BOOK vm. 
Amid the van of Persia was a youth. 
Named Teribazus, not for golden stores, 
Not for wide pastures, traversed o'er by herds, 
By fleece-abounding sheep, or gen'rous steeds. 
Nor vet for power, nor splendid honours famed. 
Rich was his mind in every art divine; 
Through every path of science had he walk'd, 



The votary of wisdom. In the years, 
When tender down invests the ruddy cheek, 
He with the Magi turn'd the hallow'd page 
Of Zoroastres. Then his tow'ritig thoughts 
High on the plumes of contemplation soar'd. 
He from the lofty Babylonian fane [sphere. 

With learn'd Chaldseans traced fheir heavenly 
There number'd o'er the vivid fires, which gleam. 
On night's bespangled bosom. Nor unheard 
W'ere Indian sages from sequester'd bow'rs, 
While on thejianks of Ganges they disclosed 
The powers of nature, whether in the woods, 
The fruitful glebe, or flower, the healing plant, 
The limpid waters, or the ambient air, 
Or in the purer element of fire. 
The realm of old Sesostris next he view'd, 
Mysterious Egypt with her hidden rites 
Of Isis and Osiris. Last he sought 
The Ionian Greeks, from Athens sprung, nor 
Miletus by, which once in rapture heard [pass'd 
The tongue of Thales, nor Priene's walls. 
Where wisdom dwelt with Bias, nor the seat 
Of Pittacus, revered on Lesbian shores. 

The enlighten'd youth to Susa now return'd. 
Place of of his birth. His merit soon was dear 
'J'o Hyperanthes. It was now the time. 
That discontent and murmur on the banks 
Of Nile were loud and threat'ning. Chembes 
The only faithful stood, a potent lord, [there 
Whom Xerxes held by promised nuptial ties 
With his own blood. To this Egyptian prince 
Bright Ariana was the destined spouse. 
From the same bed with Hyperanthes born. 
Among her guards was Teribazus named 
By that fond brother, tender of her weal. 

The Egyptian boundaries they gain. They 
Of insurrection, of the Pharian tribes [hear 

In arms, and Chembes in the tumult slain. 
They pitch their tents, at midnight are assail'd, 
Surprised, their leaders massacred, the slaves 
Of Ariana captives borne away. 
Her own pavdion forced, her person seized 
By ruffian hands : when timely to redeem 
Her and the invaded camp from further spoil 
Flies Teril)azus with a rallied band, 
Swift on the chariot seats the royal fair, 
Nor waits the dawn. Of all her menial train 
None but three female slaves are left. Her guide. 
Her comforter and guardian fate provides 
In him, distinguish'd by his worth alone, 
No prince, nor satrap, now the single chief 
Of her surviving guard. Of regal birth, 
But with excelling graces in her soul. 
Unlike an eastern princess, she inclines 
To his consoling, his instructive tongue 
An humbled ear. Amid the converse sweet 
Her charms, her mind, her virtues he explores, 
Admiring. Soon his admiration changed 
To love; nor loves he sooner than despairs. 
From morn till eve her passing wheels he guards 
Back to Euphrates. Often, as she mounts, 
Or quits the car, his arm her weight sustains 
With trembling pleasure. His assiduous hand 
From purest fountains wafts the living flood. 
Nor seldom by the fair one's soft command 



Would he repose him, at her feet reclined ; 

While o'er his lips her lovely forehead bow'd, 

Won by h s grateful eloquence, which soothed 

With sweet variety the tedious inarch, • 

Beguiling time. He too would then forget 

His pains awhile, in raptures vain entranced, 

Delusion all, and fleeting rays of joy. 

Soon overcast by more intense despair; 

Like vvint'iy clouds, which, op'ning for a time, 

Tinge their black folds with gleams of scatter'd 

Then, swifily closing, on the brow of morn [light, 

Condense their horrors, and in thickest gloom 

Tiie ruddy beauty veil. They now approach 

The tower of Belus. Hyperanthes leads 

Through Babylon an army to cliastise 

The crime of Egypt. Teribazus here 

Parts from his princess, marches bright in steel 

Beneath his patron's banner, gathers palms 

On Lonquer'd Nile. To 8usa he returns, 

To Ariana's residence, and bears 

Deep in his heart the iminedic'able wound. 

But unreveafd and silent was his pain; 

Nor yet in solitary shades he roam'd, 

Nor shunn'd resort: but o'er his sorrows cast 

A sickly dawn of gladness, and in smiles 

Conceal'd his anguish; while the secret flame 

Raged in his bosom, and its peace consumed : 

His soul still brooding o'er these mournful 

thoughts. 

* * * * 

The day arrived, when Xerxes first advanced 
His arms from Susa's gates. 'I'he Persian dames, 
So were accustom'd all the eastern fair, 
In sumptuous cars accompanied his inarch, 
A beauteous train, by A nana graeed. 
Her Teiibazus Ibllows, on her wheels 
Attends and pines. Such woes oppress the youth, 
0[)press, but not enervate. From the van 
He in this second conflict had withstood 
The tlireat'ning frown of adainantiue Mars, 
He singly, while his bravest friends recoil'd. 
His manly temples no tiara bound. 
T^je slender lance of Asia he disdain'd. 
And her light target. Eminent he tower'd 
In Grecian arms, the wonder of his foes; 
Among the lonians were his strenuous limbs 
'I'ram'd in tlie gymnic school. A fulgent casque 
Inclosed his head. Belbre his face and chest 
Down to the knees ^n ample shield was spread. 
A pond'rous spear he shook. The well-aiin'd point 
Sent two Piihafiaiis to the realms of death 
W ith lour TegfEans, whose indignant chief. 
Brave Hcgesander, vengeance breathed in vain, 
W iih streaming wounds repulsed. Thus far un- 

niatch'd. 
His arm prevaii'd ; when Hyperanthes call'd 
from light his fainting legions. Now each band 
riieir languid courage reinforced by rest. 
Vleaiitiine With 'I'er.bazus thus conlierr'd [youth, 
I'he applauding prince. Thou much-deserving 
Had twenty warriors in the dang'rous van 
Like thee iiiaiiUaiu'd the onset, Urcece had wept 
Her prostrate laiiUs- The weaned light awhile 
1 now relax, till Abradatcs strong, 
Orontes and Mazsus are advanced. 



Then to the conflict will I give no pause. 
If not by prowess, yet by endless toil 
Successive numbers shall exhaust the foe. 

He said. Immersed in sadness, scarce replied. 
But to himself complain'd the am'rous youth. 

Still do I languish, mourning o'er the fame 
My arm acquires. 'J'ormented heart: thou seat 
Of constant sorrow, what deceitful smiles 
Yet canst thou borrow from unreal hope 
To flatter life] at Ariana's feet 
What if with supplicating knees I bow. 
Implore her pity, and reveal my love. 
Wretch ! canst thou climb to yon effulgent orb, 
And share the splendours which irradiate heaven 1 
Dost thou aspire to that exalted maid, 
Great Xerxes' sister, rivalling the claim 
Of Asia's proudest potentates and kings ] 
Unless within her bosom I inspired 
A passion fervent as my own, nay more, 
Such, as dispelling every virgin fear. 
Might, unrestrain'd, disclose its fond desire. 
My love is hopeless; and her willing hand. 
Should she bestow it, draws from Asia's lord 
On both perdition. By despair benumb'd. 
His limbs their action lose. A wish for death 
O'ercasts and chills his soul. When sudden cries 
From Ariamnes rouse his drooping powers. 
Alike in manners, they of equal age 
Were friends, and partners in the glorious toil 
Of war. Together they victorious chased 
The bleeding sons of Nile, when Egypt's pride 
Befi)re the sword of Hyperanthes fell. 
That loved companion 'I'eribazus views 
By all abandon'd, in his gore outstretch'd, 
The victor's spoil. His languid spirit starts; 
He rushes ardent from the Persian line ; 
The wounded warrior in his strong embrace 
He bears away. By indignation stung. 
Fierce from the Grecians Diophantus sends 
A loud defiance. Teribazus leaves 
His rescued friend. His massy shield he rears; 
High-brandishing his formidable spear. 
He turns intrepid on the approaching foe. 
Amazement lollows. On he strides, and shakes 
The plumed honours of his shining crest. 
The ill-fated Greek awaits the unequal fight. 
Pierced in the throat, with sounding arms he falls. 
Through every file the Mantineans mourn. 
Long on the slain the victor fix'd his sight 
With these reflections. By thy splendid arms 
Thou art a Greek of no ignoble rank. 
From thy ill fortune I perhaps derive 
A more conspicuous lustre— What if heaven 
Should add new victims, such as thou, to grace 
My undeserving hand? who knows, but she 
Might smile upon my trophies. Oh ! vain thought' 
I see the pride of Asia's monarch swell 
With vengeance fatal to her beauteous head. 
Disperse, ye phantom hopes. Too long, ton) 

heart, 
Hast thou with grief contended. Lo ! I plant 
My foot this moment on the verge of death. 
By fame invited, by despair impell'd 
To pass the irremeable bound. No more 
S^hall 'I'eribazus backward turn his step, 



634 



RICHARD GLOVER. 



But here conclude his doom. Then cease to heave, 
Thou troubled bosorn, every thought be calm 
Now at the approach of everlasting peace. 

He ended; when a mighty foe drew nigh, 
Not less than Dilhyrambus. Ere they join'd. 
The Persian warrior to the Greek began: 

Art thou the unconquerable chief, who mow'd 
Our battle down? That eagle on thy shield 
Too well proclaims thee. To attempt thy force 
I rashly purposed. That my single arm [know 
Thou deign'st to meet, accept my thanks, and 
The thought of conquest less employs my soul. 
Than admiration of thy glorious deeds, 
And that by thee I cannot fall disgraced. 

He ceased. These words the Thespian youth 
return'd : 
Of all the praises from thy gen'rous mouth, 
The only portion my desert may claim, 
Is this my bold adventure to confront [mark'd 
Thee, yet unmatch'd. What Grecian hath not 
Thy fluming steel? from Asia's boundless camp 
Not one hath equall'd thy victorious might. 
But whence thy armour of the Grecian form ? 
Whence thy tall spear, thy helmet? Whence the 

weight 
Of thai strong shield ? Unlike thy eastern friends, 
Oh if thou be'st some fugitive, who, lost 
To liberty and virtue, art become 
A tyrant's vile stipendiary, that arm. 
That valour thus triumphant I deplore, 
Which after all their efforts and success 
Deserve no honour from the gods, or men. 

Here Teribazus in a sigh rejoin'd : 
I am to Greece a stranger, am a wretch 
To thee unknown, who courts this hour to die, 
Yet not ignobly, but in death to raise 
My name from darkness, while I end my woes. 

The Grecian then : I view thee, and I mourn. 
A dignity, which virtue only bears, 
Firm resolution, seated on thy brow. 
Though grief hath dimm'd thy drooping eye, de- 
My veneration : and whatever be [mand 

The malice of thy fortune, what the cares, 
Infesting thus thy quiet, they create 
Within my breast the pity of a Ij-iend. 
Why then, constraining my reluctant hand 
To act against thee, will thy might support 
The unjust ambition of malignant kings, 
The foes to virtue, liberty, and peace ? 
Yet free from rage or enmity I lift 
My adverse weapon. Victory I ask. 
Thy life may fate for happier days reserve. 

This said, their beaming lances they protend. 
Of hostile hate, or fury both devoid. 
As on the Isthmian, or Olympic sands 
For fame alone contending. Either host. 
Poised on their arms, in silent wonder gaze. 
'J'he fight commences. Soon the Grecian spear, 
Which ail the day in constant battle worn, 
Unnuniber'd shields and corselets had transfix'd, 
Against the Persian buckler, shiv'ring, breaks. 
Its master's hand disarming. Then l>egan 
The sense of honour, and the dread of shame 
To swell in Dithyrambus. Undisinay'd, 
He grappled with his foe, and irjstant seized 



His threat'ning spear, before the uplifted arm 
Could execute the meditated wound. 
The weapon burst between their struggling grasp 
Their hold tl.ey loosen, bare their shining swords 
With equal swiftness to defend or charge, 
Each active youth advances and recedes. 
On every side they traverse. Now direct. 
Obliquely now the wheeling blades descend. 
Still is the conflict dubious ; when the Greek, 
Dissembling, points his falchion to the ground, 
His arm depressing, as o'ercome by toil: 
While with his buckler cautious he repels 
The blows, repeated by his active foe. 
Greece trembles for her hero. Joy pervades 
The ranks of Asia. Hyperanthes strides 
Before the line, preparing to receive 
His friend triumphant: while the wary Greek, 
Calm and defensive, bears the assault. At last, 
As by the incautious fury of his strokes. 
The Persian swung his covering shield aside, 
The fatal moment Dithyrambus seized. 
Light darting forwanl with his feet outstretch'd. 
Between the unguarded ribs he plunged his steel. 
Affection, grief, and terror, wing the speed 
Of Hyperanthes. From his bleeding foe 
The Greek retires, not distant, and awaits 
The Persian prince. But he with watery cheeks 
In speechless anguish clasps his dying friend ; 
From whose cold lip, with interrupted phrase. 
These accents break : Oh dearest, best of men ! 
Ten thousand thoughts of gratitude and love 
.Are struggling in my heart — O'erpow'ring fate 
Denies my voice the utterance — Oh my friend ! 

Hyperanthes! Hear my tongue unfold 
What, had I lived, thou never should'st have 

known. 

1 loved thy sister. With despair I loved. 
Soliciting this honourable doom. 
Without regret in Persia's sight and thine 
I fall. The inexorable hand of fate 

Weighs down his eyelids, and the gloom of death 
His fleeting light eternally o'ershades. 
Him on Choaspes o'er the blooming verge 
A frantic mother shall bewail ; shall strew 
Her silver tresses in the crystal wave: 
While all the shores re-echo to the name 
Of Teribazus lost. 



THE SAME CONTINUED. 

FROM BOOK IX. 

In sable vesture, spangled o'er with stars. 
The Night assumed her throne. Recall'd from wai 

j Their toil, protracted long, the Greeks forget, 
Dissolved in silent slumber, all but those 

i Who watch th' uncertain perils of the dark, 

' A hundred warriors. Agis was their chief. 
High on the wall intent the hero sat. 
Fresh winds across the undulating bay 
From Asia's host the various din convey'd 
In one deep murmur, swelling on his car. 
When by the sound of footsteps down the pass 
Alarm'd, he calls aloud. What feet are these 
Which beat the echoing pavement of the rock? 

I Reply, nor tempt inevitaJ)le fate. 



RICHARD GLOVER. 



635 



A voice TPpIirJ. No enemies we come, 
But crave admittance in an huml)le tone. 

The Spartan answers. Through the midnight 
shade 
What purpose draws your wand'ring steps abroad? 

To whom the stranger. We are friends to 
Greece. 
Through thy assistance we implore access 
To Lacedemon's king. The cautious Greek 
Still hesitates; when nnis'cally sweet 
A tender voice his wond'ring ear allures. 

O gen'rous warrior, listen to the pray'r 
Of one distress'd. whom grief alone hath led 
Through midnight shades to these victorious tents, 
A wretched woman, innocent of fraud. 

The chief, descending, through th' unfolded 
gates 
Upheld a flaming torch. The light disclosed 
One first in servile garments. Near his side 
A woman graceful and majestic stood^ 
Not with an aspect, rivalling the pow'r 
Of fatal Helen, or th' ensnaring charms 
Of love's soft queen, hy such as far surpass'd 
Whate'er the lily, blending with the rose. 
Spreads on the cheek of beauty soon to fade; 
Such as express'd a mind by wisdom ruled, 
By sweetness temper'd ; virtue's purest light 
Illumining the countenance divine: 
Yet could not soften rig'rous fate, nor charm 
Malignant fortune to revere the good; 
W^hich oft with anguish rends a spotless heart, 
And oft associates wisdom with despair. 
In courteous phrase began the chief humane. 

Exalted fair, whose form adorns the night, 
Forbear to blame the vigilance of war. 
My slow com|)liance, to the rigid laws 
Of Mars impute. In me no longer pause 
Shall from the presence of our king withhold 
This thy apparent dignity and worth. 

Here ending, he conducts her. At the call 
Of his loved brother, from his couch arose 
Ijponidas. In wonder he survey'd 
Th' illustrious virgin, whom his presence awed. 
Her eye submissive to the grouml declined 
In veneration of the godlike man. 
His mien, his voice, her anxious dread dispel, 
Benevolent and hospitable thus. 

Thy looks, fiir stranger, amiable and great, 
A mind delineate, which from all commands 
Supreme regard. Relate, thou noble dame, 
By what relentless destiny compell'd, 
'J'hy temler feet the paths of darkness tread; 
Rehearse th' afflictions whence ihy virtue mourns. 

On her wan cheek a sudden blush arose 
Like day, first dawning on the twilii^ht pale; 
W her., wrapt in grief these words a passage found. 

If to he most unhappy, and to know 
That hope is irrccoveraldy fled; 
[f to be great and wretched mny deserve 
t'oriimiseration from the brave; behold, 
Thou glorious leader of unconquer'd bands, 
BeboKI. descended from Darius' loins, 
'J'he afflicted Ariana; and my pray'r 
Accept with \yty, nor my tears disdain. 
First, that I loved the best of human race. 



Heroic, wise, adorn'd by every art. 

Of shame unconscious doth my heart reveal. 

This day, in Grecian arms conspicuous clad. 

He fought, he fell. A passion, long conceal'd, 

For me, alas ! within my brother's arms, 

His dying breath resigning, he disclosed. 

Oh ! I will stay my sorrows ! will forbid 

My eyes to stream before thee, and my breast, 

O'erwhelm'd by anguish, will from sighs restraui! 

For why should thy humanity be grieved 

At my distress? why learn from me to mourn 

The lot of mortals doom'd to pain and woe. 

Hear then, O king, and grant my sole request, 

To seek his body in the heaps of slain. 

Thus to the hero sued the royal maid, 
Resembling Ceres in majestic woe, 
When supplicating Jove, from Stygian gloom, 
And Pluto's black embraces, to redeem 
Her loved and lost Proserpina. A while 
On Ariana fixing stedfast eye^. 
These tender thoughts Leonidas recall'd. 

Such are thy sorrows, oh for ever dear, 
Who now at Lacedsemon dost deplore 
My everlasting absence. Then aside 
He turn'd and sigh'd. Recov'ring, he address'd 
His brother. Most beneficent of men. 
Attend, assist this princess. Night retires 
Before the purple-winged morn. A band 
Is call'd. The well-remember'd spot they find, 
Where Teribazus from his dying hand 
Dropt in their sight his formidable sword. 
Soon from beneath a pile of Asian dead 
They draw the hero, by his armour known. 

Then, Ariana, what transcending pangs 
Were thine! what horrors! In thy tender breast 
Love still was mightiest. On the bosom cold 
Of Teribazus, grief-distracted maid, [huo 

Thy beauteous limbs were thrown. Thy snowy 
The clotted gore disfigured. On his wounds 
Loose flow'd thy hair ; and, bubbling from thy eyes. 
Impetuous sorrow laved th' empurpled clay. 
* * * * 

Then, with no trembling hand, no change ol 
look. 
She drew a poniard, which her garment veil'd ; 
And instant sheathing in her heart the blade, 
On her slain lover silent sunk in death. 
The unexpected stroke prevents the care 
Of Aiiis, pierced by horror and distress. 
Like one, who, standing on a stormy beach, 
Beholds a found'ring vessel, by the deep 
At once engulf'd ; his pity feels and mourns. 
Deprived of pow'r to save : so Agis view'd 
The prostrate pair. He dropp'd a tear, and thus 

Oh ! much lamented ! Heavy on your heads 
Hath evil fuH'n, which o'er your pale remains 
Commands this sorrow from a stranger's eye. 
Illustrious ruins ! May the grave impart 
That peace which bfe denied ! and now receive 
This pious office from a hand unknown. 

He spake, unclasping from his shoulders broad 
His ample robe. He strew'd the waving folds 
O'er each wan visage; turning then address'd 
The slave, in mute dejection standing near. 

Thou, who, attendant on this hapless fair. 



f;36 



RICHARD GLOVER. 



Hast view d this dreadful spectacle, return. 
These bleeding relics bear to Persia's king, 
Thou with four captives, whom I free from 1 



bonds. 



FROM BOOK Xn. 
Soni of the Priestess of the Musl's to the rho?cn Band after 
their Heturn fmm the Inroad into the Persian Camp, on 
the Night before the Battle of Therm' ipylse. 
Back to the pass in gentle march he leads 
Th' embattled warriors. They, behind the shrubs, 
Where Medon sent such numi>ers to the shades, 
In ambush lie. The tempest is o'erblown. 
Soft breezes only from the Malian wave 
O'er each grim face, besmear'd with smoke and 

gore. 
Their cool refreshment breathe. The healing gale, 
A crystal rill near CEta's verdant feet. 
Dispel the languor from their harass'd nerves. 
Fresh braced by strength returning. O'er their 
Lo! in full blaze of majesty appears [heads 

Melissa, bearing in her hand divine 
Th' eternal guardian of illustrious deeds. 
The sweet PhcEbean lyre. Her graceful train 
Of white-robed virgins, seated on a range 
Ilalf down the cliff, o'ershadowing the Greeks, 
All with concordant strings, and accents clear, 
A torrent pour of melody, and swell 
A high, triumphal, solemn dirge of praise, 
Anticipating fame. Of endless joys 
In bless'd Elysium was the song. Go, meet 
Lycurgus, Solon, and Zaleucus sage, 
Let them salute the children of their laws. 
Meet Homer, Orpheus and th' Ascrsean bard, 
Who with a spirit, by ambrosial food 
Refined, and more exalted, shall contend 
Your splendid fate to warble through the bow'rs 
Of amaranth and myrtle ever young. 
Like your renown. Your ashes we will cull. 
In yonder fane deposited, your urns, 
Dear to the Muses, shall our lays inspire. 
Whatever off' ring, genius, science, art 
Can dedicate to virtue, shall be yours, 
The gifts of all the Muses, to transmit 
You on th' enliven'd canvas, marble, brass, 
In wisdom's volume, in the poet's song, 
In every tongue, through every age and clime. 
You of this earth the brightest flow'rs, not crept. 
Transplanted only to immortal bloom 
Of praise with men, of happiness with gods. 



ADMRAL HOSIER'S GHOST. 



As near Porto-Bello lying 
On the gently swelling flood. 

At midnight with streamers flying, 
Our triumphant navy rode; 



[* The case of Hosier, wliich is htTo so rathetinally 
repre-cnteil, was hrietly this. In Ai'ril 172ii that <om- 
maiider was sent with a strong fleet into the Spanish 
Weft Indies, to b'o k up the gilleons in the ports of that 
country, or. should thoy presume lo cnie out. to seize 
and la-ry them into England: he acrrrdinirly jirrived sit 
th» liaslimentoes near I'orto-IJello. hut biig em;i!eyod 
rather to overawe than to aita'k the Ppanianls, wi h whom 
it was probably not our interest to go to war, he conti- 



There while Vernon sat all-glorious 
From the Spaniards' late defeat ; 

And his crews, with shouts victorious. 
Drank success to England's fleet: 

On a sudden, shrilly sounding, 

Hideous yells and shrieks were heard; 
Then each heart with fear confounding, 

A sad troop of ghosts appear'd, 
All in dreary hammocks shrouded, 

V\'hich for winding sheets they wore, 
And with looks by sorrow clouded, 

Frowning on that hostile shore. 

On them gleam'd the moon's wan lustre, 

When the shade of Hosier brave 
His pale bands were seen to muster, 

Rising from their wat'ry grave: 
O'er the glimm'ring wave he hied him. 

Where the Burfordf rear'd her sail. 
With three thousand ghosts beside him 

And in groans did Vernon hail. 

" Heed, oh heed, our fatal story, 

I am Hosier's injured ghost. 
You, who now have purchased glory 

At this place where I was lost; 
Though in Porto-Bello's ruin 

You now triumph free from fears. 
When you think on our undoing. 

You will mix your joy with tears. 

" See these mournful spectres, sweeping 

Ghastly o'er this hated wave. 
Whose wan cheeks are stain'd with weeping'. 

These were English captains brave : 
Mark those numbers pale and horrid, 
'J'hose were once my sailors bold, 
Lo ! each hangs his drooping forehead, 

While his dismal tale is told. 

"I, by twenty sail attended. 

Did the Spanish town affright : 
Nothing then its wealth defended 

But iny orders not to fight: 
Oh ! that in this rolling ocean 

I had cast them with disdain. 
And obey'd my heart's warm motion, 

To have quell'd the pride of Spain 

" For resistance I could fear none. 

But with twenty ships had done 
What thou, brave and happy Vernon, 

Hast achieved with six alone. 
Then the Bastimentos never 

Had our foul dishonour seen. 
Nor the sea the sad receiver 

Of this gallant train had been. 

nued long inaetive on that station, to his own gr^'.itregrrt 
lie af.eiwaid removed to('artha:ena. and remiuned crui.s- 
ing in thc.-e seas till far the g'eatep part of his men pe- 
rii-hed deplorablv ly ifae disea'' snf th t unhealthy rliinale. 
This brave man .'eeinsr his best ofliiers aid men thus 
daily swept awav, his ships exposed to inevitable vleslrCic- 
tion, and him«olf made the sport of the enemy, is said to 
have died of a broken heart — PiiEcy.] 
[t Admiral Vernon's ship.] 



JOHN HALL STEPHENSON. 



" Thus, like thee, proiul Spain dismaying, 

And her galleons leading home, 
Though condemn'd for disobeying, 

I had met a traitor's doom ; 
To have fall'n, my country crying 

He has play'd an English part, 
Had been better far than dying 

Of a grieved and broken heart. 

" Unrepining at thy glory, 

Thy successful arms we hail ; 
But remember our sad story. 

And let Hosier's wrongs prevaiL 
Sent in this foul clime to languish, 

Think what thousands fell in vain, 
Wasted with disease and anguish, 

Not in glorious battle slain. 



"Hence, with all my train attending 

From their oozy tombs below, 
Through the hoary foam ascending. 

Here I feed my constant woe : 
Here the Bastimentos viewing, 

We recall our shameful doom. 
And our plaintive cries renewing. 

Wander through the midnight gloom. 

" O'er these waves for ever mourning 

Shall we roam deprived of rest, 
If to Britain's shores returning. 

You neglect my just request. 
After this proud foe subduing, 

When your patriot friends you see. 
Think on vengeance for my ruin, 

And for England shamed in me."* 



JOHN HALL STEPHENSON. 

[Born, 1718. Died, 1785.] 

I HAVE met with no account of this writer's I as a volume of poems, which bears his name, i« 
life, nor have I been very anxious to seek for it, \ disgraced by obscenity. 



THE BLACKBIRD. A MACARONI FABLE. 

In concert with the curfew bell, 
An Owl was chanting vespers in his cell ; 
Upon the outside of the wall, 
A blackbird, famous in that age. 
From a bow-window in the hall, 
Hung dangling in a wicker cage ; 
Instead of psalmody and prayers, 
Like those good children of St. Francis, 
He secularized all his airs. 
And took delight in wanton fancies. 
Whilst the bell toll'd, and the Owl chanted, 
Every thing was calm and still ; 
All nature seem'd rapt and enchanted. 
Except the querulous, unthankful rill; 
Unawed by this imposing scene, 
Our Blackbird the enchantment broke; 
Flourish'd a sprightly air between, 
And whistled the Black Joke. 
This lively unexpected motion 
Set nature in a gayer light; 
Quite overturn'd the monks' devotion, 
And scatter'd all the gloom of night. 
I have been taught in early youth. 
By an expert metaphysician, 
That ridicule's the test of truth. 
And only match for superstition, 
Imposing rogues, with looks demure, 
At Rome keep all the world in awe; 
Wit is profane, learning impure. 
And reasoning against the law. 
Between two tapers and a book, 
Upon a dresser clean and neat. 
Behold a sacerdotal cook. 
Cooking a dish of heavenly meat! 



How fine he curtsies ! Make your bow ; 
Thump your breast soundly, beat your poll; 
Lo ! he has toss'd up a ragout, 
To fill the belly of your soul. 
Even here there are some holy men 
Would fain lead people by the nose ; 
Did not a blackbird, now and then, 
Benevolently interpose. 
My good Lord Bishop, Mr. Dean, 
You shall get nothing by your spite; 
Tristram shall whistle at your spleen, 
And put Hypocrisy to flight. 



TO MISS . 

Thanks to 5'our wiles, deceitful fair. 

The gods so long in vain implored, 
At last have heard a wretch's prayer; 

At last I find myself restored, 

From thy bewitching snares and thee ■ 
I feel for once this is no dream • 

I feel my captive soul is free ; 
And I am truly what I seem. 



Without a blush your name I hear. 
No transient glow my bosom heats ; 

And when I meet your eye, my dear, 
My fluttering heart no longer beats. 



[* I wns much amused with hearing old Leonidae 
Glover sing hi': own fine ballad of H -ner's Ghost, which 
was very affcctinir. He is past eightj. — Hannaj Mors 
Life, voi. i. p. 405.1 ' 

3D 



I dream, but I no longer find 
Your form still present to my view; 

1 wake, but now my vacant mind 
No longer waking dreams of you. 



I meet you now without alarms, 
Nor longer fearful to displease, 

I talk with ease about your charms, 
E'en with my rival talk with ease. 

MHiether in angry mood you rise, 
Or sweetly sit with placid guile. 

Vain is the lightning of your eyes, 
And vainer still your gilded smile. 

Loves in your smiles no longer play; 

Your lips, your tongue have lost their art ; 
Those eyes have now forgot the way 

That led directly to my heart. 



Hear me ; and judge if I'm sincere ; 

That you are beauteous still I swear: 
But oh! no longer you api)ear 

The fairest, and the only fair. 

Hear me ; but let not truth offend, 
In that fine form, in many places, 

I now spy faults, my lovely friend, 
Which I mistook before for graces. 

And yet, though free, I thought at first. 
With shame my weakness I confess. 



My agonizing heart would burst. 

The agonies of death are less. 

* * * 

The little songster thus you see 

Caught in the cruel schoolboy's toils, 

Struggling for life, at last like me. 

Escapes, and leaves his feather'd spoils. 

His plumage soon resumes its gloss. 
His little heart soon waxes gay ; 

Nor falls, grown cautious from his loss, 
To artifice again a prey. 



It is not love, it is not pique, 

That gives my whole discourse this cast; 
'Tis nature that delights to speak. 

Eternally of dangers past. 

Carousing o'er the midnight bowl 
The soldier never ceasing prates, 

Shows every scar to every soul, 

And every hair-breadth 'scape relates. 



Which of us has most cause to grieve 1 
"Which situation would you chuse? 

I, a capricious tyrant leave, 
And you, a faithful lover lose. 

I can find maids in every rout, 

With smiles as false, and forms as fine ; 
But you must search the world throughout 

To find a heart as true as mine. 



EDWARD THOMPSON. 



[Born, 1738. Died, 1786.] 



Captain Edwakd Thomp.son was a native of 
Hull, and went to sea so early in life as to be 
precluded from the advantages of a liberal educa- 
tion. At the age of nineteen, be acted as lieu- 
tenant on board the Jason, in (he engagement off 
Ushant, between Hawke and Conflans. Coming 
to London after the peace, he resided, for some 
time, in Kew-lane, where he wrote some light 
pieces for the stage, and some licentious poems ; 
the titles of which need not be revived. At the 
breaking out of the American war, Garrick's 
interest obtained promotion for him in his own 
profession ; and he was appointed to the com- 
mand of the Hyisna frigate, and made his fortune 



by the single capture of a French East Indiaman. 
He was afterward in Rodney's action ofl Cape 
St. Vincent, and brought home the tidings of the 
victory. His death was occasioned by a fever, 
which he caught on board the Grampus, while 
he commanded that vessel off the coast of Africa. 
Though a dissolute man, he had the character 
of an able and humane commander. 

A few of his sea songs are entitled to remem- 
brance. Besides his poems and dramatic pieces, 
he published "Letters of a Sailor;" and edited 
the works of John Oldham, P. Whitehead, and 
Andrew Marvell. For the last of those tasks he 
was grossly unqualified. 



THE SAILOR'S FAREWELL. 



The topsails shiver in the wind, 
The ship she casts to sea ; 

But yet my soul, my heart, my mind, 
Are, Mary, moor'd by thee: 

For '.hough thy sailor's bound afar, 

Still love shall be his leading star. 



Should landmen flatter when we're sail'd, 

Oh doubt their artful tales ; 
No gallant sailor ever fail'd, 

If Cupid fill'd his sails: 
Tliou art the compass of my soul. 
Which steers my heart from pole to polel 



HENRY HEADLEY. 



639 



Sirens in every port we meet, 
More fell than rocks and waves ; 

But sailors of the British fleet 
Are lovers, and not slaves: 

No foes our courage shall subdue. 

Although we've left our hearts with you. 

These are our cares; but if you're kind 
We'll scorn the dashing main, 

The rocks, the billows, and the wind, 
The powers of France and Spain. 

Now Britain's glory rests with you. 

Our sails are full — sweet girls, adieu ! 



SONG. 



Behold upon the swelling wave, 
With streaming pendants gay, 

Our gallant ship invites the brave, 
While glory leads the way ; 

And a cruising we will go. 

Whene'er Monsieur comes in view. 

From India richly fraught. 
To gain the prize we're firm and true. 

And fire as quick as thought. 

With hearts of oak we ply each gun, 

Nur fear the least dismay ; 
We either take, or sink, or burn. 

Or make them run away. 

The lovely maids of Britain's isle 
We sailors ne'er despise ; 



Our courage rises with each smile, 
For them we take each prize. 

The wind sets fair, the vessel's trim. 

Then let us boldly go ; 
Old Neptune guides us while we swim, 

To check the haughty foe. 

United let each Briton join. 

Courageously advance. 
We'll baffle every vain design. 

And check the pride of France. 



Loose every sail to the breeze, 
The course of my vessel improve; 

I've done with the toils of the seas. 
Ye sailors, I'm bound to my love. 

Since Emma is true as she's fair. 
My griefs I fling all to the wind : 

'Tis a pleasing return for my care. 
My mistress is constant and kind. 

My sails are all fiU'd to my dear ; 

What tropic bird swifter can move? 
Who, cruel, shall hold his career 

That returns to the nest of liis love ! 

Hoist every sail to the breeze. 

Come, shipmates, and join in the song; 
Let's drink, while the ship cuts the seas, 

To the gale that may drive her along. 



HENRY HEADLEY. 



[Born, 1766. Died, 1788.] 



Henry Headlet, whose uncommon talents 
were lost to the. world at the age of twenty-two, 
was born at Irstead, in Norfolk. He received 
his education at the grammar-school of Norwich, 
un<ler Dr. Parr: and, at the age of sixteen, was 
admitted a member of Trinity College, Oxford, 
'i'here the example of 'J'hoinas Warton, the senior 
of his college, led him to explore the beauties of 
our elder poets. About the age of twenty he 
published some pieces of verse, which exhibit no 
very remarkable promise; but his "Select 
Beauties of the Ancient English Poets," which 
appeared in the following year, were accompanied 
with critical observations, that showed an unpa- 
ralleled ripeness of mind for his years. On 
leaving the university, after a residence of four 
years, he married, and retired to Matlock, in 
Derbyshire. His matrimonial choice is said to 
have been hastily formed, amid the anguish of 
disappointment in a previous attachment. But 



short as his life was, he survived the lady whom 
he married. 

The symptoms of consumption having appeared 
in his constitution, he was advised to try the 
benefit of a warmer climate; and he took the 
resolution of repairing to Lisbon, unattended by 
a single friend. On landing at Lisbon, far from 
feeling any relief from the climate, he found him- 
self opj)re.ssed by its sultriness; and in this 
forlorn state, was on the point of expiring, when 
Mr. De Vismes, to whom he had rer eived a letter 
of introduction from the late Mr. Windham, con- 
veyed him to his healthful villa, near Cintra, 
allotted spacious apartments for his use, procured 
for him the ablest medical assistance, and treated 
him with every kindness and amusement that 
could console his sickly existence. But his 
malady proved incurable; and, returning to 
England at the end of a few months, he expired 
at Norwich. 



640 



THOMAS RUSSELL. 



FROM ins "INVOCATION TO MELANCHOLY." 
* * * * 

Child of the potent spell and nimble eye, 
Young Faney, oft in rainbow vest array'd, 
Points to new scenes that in succession pass 
Across the wond'rous mirror that she bears, 
And bids thy unsated soul and wondering eye 
A wider range o'er all her prospects take; 
Lo, at her call, New Zealand's wastes arise ! 
Casting their shadows far along the main. 
Whose brows, cloud-capp'd in joyless majesty, 
No human foot hath trod since time began; 
Here death-like silence ever-brooding dwells, 
"Save when the watching sailor startled hears, 
Far from his native land at darksome night, 
The shrill-toned petrel, or the penguin's voice. 
That skim their trackless flight on lonely wing, 
Through the bleak regions of a nameless main : 
Here danger stalks, and drinks with glutted ear 
The wearied sailor's moan, and fruitless sigh, 
Who, as he slowly cuts his daring way, 
Affrighted drops his axe, and stops awhile. 
To hear the jarring echoes lengthen'd din, 
That fling from pathless cliffs their sullen sound : 
Oft here the fiend his grisly visage shows, 
His limbs, of giant form, in vesture clad ' 
Of drear collected ice and stiffen'd snow, 
The same he wore a thousand years ago. 
That thwarts the sunbeam, and endures the 
day.' 

'Tis thus, by Fancy shown, thou kenn'st en- 
tranced 
Long tangled woods, and ever stagnant lakes. 
That know no zephyr pure, or temperate gale, 



By baneful Tigris banks, where oft, they say, 
As late in sullen march for prey he prowls. 
The tawny* lion sees his shadow'd form, 
At silent midnight by the moon's pale gleam, 
On the broad surface of the dark deep wave ; 
Here, parch'd at mid-day, oft the passenger 
Invokes with lingering hope the tardy breeze. 
And oft with silent anguish thinks in vain 
On Europe's milder air and silver springs. 

Thou, unappall'd, canst view astounding fear 
With ghastly visions wild, and train unbless'd 
Of ashy fiends, at dead of murky night. 
Who catch the fleeting soul, and slowly pace, 
With visage dimly seen, and beckoning hand, 
Of shadowy forms, that, ever on the wing. 
Flit by the tedious couch of wan despair. 
Methinks I hear him, with impatient tongue, 
The lagging minutes chide, whilst sad he sits 
And notes their secret lapse with shaking head. 
See, see, with tearless glance they mark his fall, 
And close his beamless eye, who, trembling, meets 
A late repentance, and an early grave. 

With thine and elfin Fancy's dreams well 
pleased. 
Safe in the lowly vale of letter'd ease. 
From all the dull buffoonery of life. 
Thy sacred influence grateful may I own ; 
Nor till old age shall lead me to my tomb. 
Quit thee and all thy charms with many a tear. 

On Omole, or cold Soracte's top. 
Singing defiance to the threat'ning storm, 
Thus the lone bird, in winter's rudest hour, 
Hid in some cavern, shrouds its rufl[led plumes. 
And through the long, long night, regardless hears 
The wild wind's keenest blast and dashing rain. 



THOMAS RUSSELL. 



CBorn, 1762. Died? 1788.1 



[Thomas Russell was the son of an attorney 
at Bridport, and one of Joseph Warton's wonder- 
ful boys at Winchester School. He became fellow 
of New College, Oxford, and died of consumption 
at Bristol Hot-Wells in his twenty-sixth year. 

His poems were posthumous. The sonnet on 



Philoctetes is very fine; and of our young writers, 
mature rather in genius than in years, Russell 
holds no humble place. Mr. Southey has num- 
bered five, and Russell is among them — Chat- 
terton, Bruce, Russell, Bampfylde, and Kirke 
White.] 



TO VALCLUSA. 

What though, Valclusa, the fond bard be fled. 
That woo'd his fair in thy sequester'd bowers. 
Long loved her living, long bemoan'd her dead, 
\nd hung her visionary shrine with flowers ! 
What though no more he teach thy shades lo mourn 
The hapless chances that to love belong. 



As erst when drooping o'er her turf forlorn. 
He charm'd wild Echo with his plaintive song. 
Yet still, enamour'd of the tender tale. 
Pale Passion haunts thy grove's romantic gloom, 
Yet still soft music breathes in every gale. 
Still undecay'd the fairy garlands bloom. 
Still heavenly incense fills each fragrant vale. 
Still Petrarch's Genius weeps o'er Laura's tomb. 



JOHN LOGAN. 



641 



SUPPriSED TO BE WRITTEN AT L"MXns. 
On this lone isle, whose rugged rocks affright 
The cautious pilot, ten revolving years 
Great Pseon's son, unwonted erst to tears. 
Wept o'er his wound: alike each rolling light 
Of heaven he watch'd, and blamed its lingering 

flight: 
By day the sea-mew, screaming round his cave, 
Drove slumber from his eyes, the chiding wave, 



And savage bowlings chased his dreams by night 
Hope still was his ; in each low breeze thaw 

sigh'd 
Through his rude grot, he heard a coming oar : 
In each white cloud a coming sail he spied ; 
Nor seldom listen'd to the fancied roar 
Of CEtna's torrents, or the hoarser tide 
That parts famed Trachis from th' Euboic 

shore. 



JOHN LOGAN. 



[Born, 1748. Died, 1788.] 



John Logan was the son of a farmer, in the 
parish of Fala, and county of Mid-Lothian, Scot- 
land. He was educated for the church, at the 
university of Edinburgh. There he contracted 
an intimacy with Dr. Robertson, who was then 
a student of his own standing; and he was in- 
debted to that eminent character for many friendly 
offices in the course of his life. After finishing 
his theological stutlies, he lived for some time in 
the family of Mr. Sinclair, of Ulbster, as tutor 
to the late Sir John Sinclair. In his twenty-fifth 
year, fie was ordained one of the ministers of 
Leith; and had a principal share in the scheme 
for revising the psalmody of the Scottish church, 
under the authority of the General Assembly. He 
contributed to this undertaking several scriptural 
translations, and paraphiases, of his own compo- 
sition. Ahout the same time, he delivered, during 
two successive seasons, in Edinburgh, Lectures 
on History, which were attended with so much 
approbation, that he was brought forward as a 
candidate for the Professorship of History in the 
university ; but, as the chair had been always 
filled by one of the members of the faculty of 
advocates, the choice fell upon another competitor, 
who possessed that qualification. \^"hen disap- 
pointed in thi.s oliject, he published the substance 
of his lectures in a work, entitled, "Elements of 
the Philosophy of History;" and, in a separate 
essay, " On the Manners of Asia." 

His poems, which had hitherto been only cir- 
culated in MS. or printed in a desultory manner, 
were collected and published in 1781. The 
favourable reception which they met with, en- 
couraged him to attempt the composition of a 
tragedy, and he chose the charter of Runnymede 
for his subject. This innocent drama was sent 
to the manager of Covent Garden, by whom it 
was accepted, and even put into rehearsal ; but. 



on some groundless rumour of its containing dan- 
gerous political matter, the Lord Chamberlain 
thought fit to prohibit its representation. It was, 
however, acted on the Edinburgh boards, and 
afterward published ; though without exhibiting 
in its contents any thing calculated to agitate 
either poetical or political feelings. 

In the mean time our author unhappily drew 
on himself the displeasure of his parishioners. 
His connection with the stage was deemed im- 
proper in a clergyman. His literary pursuits 
interfered with his pastoral diligence; and, what 
was worse, he was constitutionally subject to fits 
of depression, from which he took refuge in ine- 
briety. Whatever his irregularities were, (for 
they have been differently described,) he was 
obliged to compound for them, by resigning his 
flock, and retiring upon a small annuity. He 
came to London, where his principal literary em- 
ployments were, furnishing articles for the Engli.sh 
Review, and writing in vindication of Warren 
Hastings. He died at the age of forty, at his 
lodgings, in Marlborough-street. His Sermons, 
which were published two years after his death, 
have obtained considerable popularity. 

His " Ode to the Cuckoo" is the most agree- 
able effusion of his fancy. Burke was so much 
pleased with it, that, when he came to Edinburgh, 
he made himself acquainted with its author. His 
claim to this piece has indeed been disputed by 
the relatives of Michael Bruce; and it is certain, 
that when Bruce's poems were sent to Logan, he 
published them intermixed with his own, without 
any marks to discriminate the respective authors. 
He is further accused of having refused to restore 
theMSS. But as the charge of stealing the Cuckoo 
from Bruce was not brought against Logan in 
his life-time, it cannot, in charity, stand against his 
memory on the bare assertion of his accusers.* 



ODE TO THE CUCKOO. 
H.AiL, beauteous stranger of the grove ! 

Thou messenger of Spring ! 
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat. 

And woods thy welcome sing. 

What time the daisy decks the green. 
Thy certain voice we hear ; 
81 



Hast thou a star to guide thy path, 
Or mark the rolling year ? 



[* Because some pieces wliich are printed among the 
rcmmna of poor Mii'hael Bruce, have been ascritwd to 
liO^an, Mr. Chalmers has not thought it proper to aJDiit 
Bruce'a poems into his coUectioa. — Socihet, Quar. Rkv 
vol. xi. p. 501.J 

3l>2 



642 



JOHN LOGAN 



Delightful visitant! with thee 

I hail the time of flowers, 
And hear the sound of music sweet 

From birds among the bowers. 

The schoolboy, wandering through the wood 

To pull the primrose gay, 
Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear, 

And imitates thy lay. 

What time the pea puts on the bloom, 

Thou fliest thy vocal vale, 
An annual guest in other lands, 

Another Spring to hail. 

Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green. 

Thy sky is ever clear ; 
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song. 

No winter in thy year ! 

Oh could I fly, I'd fly Mrith thee ! 

We'd make, with joyful wing. 
Our annual visit o'er the globe, 

Companions of the Spring. 



THE LOVERS. 
Har. 'Tis midnight dark : 'tis silence deep. 
My father's house is hush'd in sleep ; 
In dreams the lover meets his bride. 
She sees her lover at her side ; 
The mourner's voice is now supprcss'd, 
A while the weary are at rest: 
'Tis midnight dark ; 'lis silence deep ; 
I only wake, and wake to weep. 

The window's drawn, the ladder waits, 
I spy no watchman at the gates ; 
No tread re-echoes through the hall, 
No shadow moves along the wall. 
I am alone. 'Tis dreary night. 
Oh come, thou partner of my flight! 
Shi(!ld me from darkness, from alarms; 
Oh take me trembling to thine arms ! 

The dog howls dismal in the heath, 

The raven croaks the dirge of death; 

Ah me ! disaster's in the sound ! 

The terrors of the night are round ; 

A sad mischance my fears forebode. 

The demon of the dark's abroad. 

And lures, with apparition dire. 

The night-struck man through flood and fire. 

The owlet screams ill-boding sounds, 
The spirit walks unholy rounds; 
The wizard's hour eclipsing rolls; 
The shades of hell usurp the poles: 
The moon retires ; the heaven departs, 
From opening earth a spectre starts: 
My spirit dies — Away my fears. 
My love, my life, my lord appears ! 

Hen. I come, I come, my love ! my life ! 
\nd nature's dearest name, my wife ! | 



Long have I loved thee ; long have sought : 
And dangers braved, and battles fought; 
In this embrace our evils end ; 
From this our belter days ascend ; 
The year of suffering now is o'er. 
At last we meet to part no more ! 

My lovely bride ! my consort, come ! 
The rapid chariot rolls thee home. 

Har. I fear to go 1 dare not stay. 

Look back 1 dare not look that way. 

Hen. No evil ever shall betide 
My love, while I am at her side. 
Lo! thy protector and thy friend. 
The arms that fold thee will defend. 

Har. Still beats my bosom with alarms ; 
I tremble while I'm in thy arms ! 
What will impassion'd lovers do ] 
What have I done — to follow you? 
I leave a father torn with fears ; 
I leave a mother bathed in tears; 
A brother, girding on his sword. 
Against my life, against my lord. 

Now, without father, mother, friend, 
On thee my future days depend ; 
Wilt thou, for ever true to love, 
A father, mother, brother prove 1 

Henry ! to thy arms I fall. 

My friend! my husband! and my all! 
Alas ! what hazards may I run ? 
Shouldst thou forsake me — I'm undone. 

Hen. My Harriet, dissipate thy fears, 
And let a husband wipe thy tears; 
For ever join'd our fates combine. 
And I am yours, and you are mine. 
The fires the firmament that rend. 
On this devoted head descend. 
If e'er in thought from thee I rove, 
Or love thee less than now I love ! 

Although our fathers have been foes, 

From hatred stronger love arose ; 

From adverse briers that thrcat'ning stood, 

And threw a horror o'er the wood. 

Two lovely roses met on high. 

Transplanted to a better sky ; 

And, grafted in one stock, they grow, 

In union spring, in beauty blow. 

Har. My heart believes my love ; but still 
My boding mind presages ill: 
For luckless ever was our love. 
Dark as the sky that hung above. 
While we embraced, we shook with fears, 
And with our kisses mingled tears; 
We met with murmurs and with sighs, 
And parted still with watery eyes. 

An unforeseen and fatal hand 

Cross'd all the measures love had plann'd 

Intrusion marr'd the tender hour, 

A demon started in the bower; 



ROBERT NUGENT, EARL NUGENT. 



643 



If, like the past, the future run, 
And my dark day is hut hegun, 
What clouds may hang ahove my head? 
What tears may I have yet to shed? 

Hen. Oh do not wound that gentle breast, 
Nor sink, with fancied ills oppiest; 
For softness, sweetness, all, thou art, 
And love is virtue in thy heart. 
That bosom ne'er shall heave again 
But to the poet's tender strain ; 
And never more these eyes o'erflow 
But for a hapless lover's woe. 

Long on the ocean tempest-tost. 
At last we gain the happy coast ; 
And safe recount upon the shore 
Our sufferings past, and dangers o'er: 
Past scenes; the woes we wept erewhile 
Will make our future minutes smile: 
When sudden joy from sorrow springs, 
How the heart thrills through all its strings ! 

Har, My father's castle springs to sight ; 
Ye towers that gave me to the light ! 
O hills ! vales ! where I have piay'd ; 
Ye woods, that wrap me in your shade ! 
O scenes I've often wander'd o'er! 

scenes I shall behold no more ! 

1 take a long, last, lingering view: 
Adieu ! my native land, adieu ! 

O father, mother, brother dear ! 
O names still utter'd with a tear ! 
Upon whose knees I've sat and smiled, 
Whose griefs my blandishments beguiled; 
Whom I forsake in sorrows old. 
Whom I shall never more behold ! 



Farewell, my friends, a long farewell. 
Till time shall toll the funeral knell. 

Hen. Thy friends, thy father's house resign ; 
My friends, my house, my all is thine: 
Awake, arise, my wedded wife. 
To higher thoughts, and happier life! 
For thee the marriage feast is spread, 
For thee the virgins deck the bed ; 
The star of Venus shines above, 
And all thy future life is love. 

They rise, the dear domestic hours ! 
The May of love unfolds her flow'rs; 
Youth, beauty, pleasure, spread the feast, 
And friendship sits a constant guest; 
In cheerful peace the morn ascends, 
In wine and love the evening ends; 
At distance grandeur sheds a ray, 
To gild the evening of our day. 

Connubial love has dearer names. 
And finer ties, and sweeter claims, 
Than e'er uriwedded hearts can feel, 
Than wedded hearts can e'er reveal; 
Pure as the charities above. 
Rise the sweet sympathies of love; 
And closer cords than those of life 
Unite the husband to the wife. 

Like cherubs new come from the skies, 
Henrys and Harriets round us rise ; 
And playing wanton in the hall, 
With accent sweet their parents call ; 
To your fair images I run. 
You clasp the husband in the son; 
O how the mother's heart will bound; 
O how the father's joy be crown'd ! 



EGBERT NUGENT, EARL NUGENT, 



[Born, 1709. Died, 1788.] 



Robert Nugent was descended from the 
Nutents of Carlanstown, in the county of West- 
meath, and was a younger son of Michael Nugent, 
by the daughter of Robert Lord Trimlestown. 
In the year 1741, he was elected member of 
parliament for St. Mawes, in Cornwall ; and, 
becon)ing attached to the party of the Prince of 
Wales, was appointed in (1747) comptroller of 
his Royal Higlincss's household. On the death 
of the Prince he made his peace with the court, 
and was named successively a lord of the trea- 
sury, one of the vice-treasurers of Ireland, and 
.. lord of trade. In 1767 be was created Baron 
Nugent and Viscount Clare, and subsequently 
Earl Nugent. He was thrice married. His 
second wife, with whom he acquired a large for- 
tune, was sister and heiress to Secretary Craggs, 
the friend of Addison. 



His political character was neither independent 
nor eminent, except for such honours as the court 
could bestow ; but we are told that in some in- 
stances he stood forth as an advocate for the inte- 
rests of Ireland. His zeal for the manufactures 
of his native island induced him, on one occasion, 
to present the queen with a new-year's gift of 
Irish grogham, accompanied with a copy of verses; 
and it was wickedly alleged, that her majesty had 
returned her thanks to the noble author for bolh 
las pieces of sivff. 

A volume of his poems was published anony- 
mously, by Dodsley, in 1739. Lord Orford re- 
marks, that " he was one of those men of parts, 
whose dawn was the brightest moment of a long 
life. He was first, known by a very spirited ode 
on his conversion from popery ; yet he relapsed 
to the faith he had abjured. On the circuip 



644 



ROBERT NUGENT, EARL NUGENT. 



stance of his re-conversion it is uncharitable to 
lay much stress against his memory. There have 
been instances of it in men, whom either church 
would have been proud to appropriate. But it 
cannot be denied that his poem on Faith formed, 



at a late period of his life, an anti-climax to the 
first promise of his literary talents ; and though 
he possessed al)iiities, and turned them to his 
private account, he rose to no public confidence 
as a statesman.* 



ODE TO WILLIAM PULTENEY, ESQ.f 

Remote from liberty and truth. 
By fortune's crime, my early youth 

Drank error's poison'd springs. 
Taught by dark creeds and mystic law, 
Wrapt up in reverential awe, 

I bow'd to priests and kings. 

Soon reason dawn'd, with troubled sight 
I caught the glimpse of painful light, 

Aflficted and afraid ; 
Too weak it shone to mark my way, 
Enough to tempt my steps to stray 

Along the dubious shade. 

Restless I roam'd, when from afar 
Lo, Hooker shines ! the friendly star 

Sends forth a steady ray. 
Thus cheer'd, and eager to pursue, 
I mount, till glorious to my view, 

Locke spreads the realms of day. 

Now warm'd with noble Sidney's page, 
I pant with all the patriot's rage; 

Now wrapt in Plato's dream, 
With More and Harrington around 
I tread fair Freedom's magic ground. 

And trace the flatt'ring scheme. 

But soon the beauteous vision flies; 
And hideous spectres now arise. 

Corruption's direful train : 
The partial judge perverting laws. 
The priest forsaking virtue's cause. 

And senates slaves to gain. 

Vainly the pious artist's toil 
Would rear to heaven a mortal pile. 

On some imrnortal plan ; 
Within a sure, though varying date, 
Confined, alas! is every state 

Of empire and of man. 

What though the good, the brave, the wise. 
With adverse force undaunted rise. 

To break the eternal doom ! 
Though Cato lived, though Tully spoke, 
Though Brutus dealt the godlike stroke. 

Yet perish'd fated Rome.J 



[* Goldsmith, who ndmitted his> Epistle to a Lndt/ amonK 
hi" Beauties of British Poetry, addressed his Haunch of 
remson to him. 

"I am tola," writes Mr. John Grsty to Smollett, "that 
Dr. Goldsmith now generally lives with his countryman, 
I,ord Clare, who has lost his only son Colonel Nugent." 
London, Juli/ 9, 1771. Europ. Mag. icl. xlv.] 



To swell some future tyrant's pride, 
Good Fleury pours the golden tide 

On Gallia's smiling shores; 
Once more her fields shall thirst in vain 
For wholesome streams of honest gain, 

While rapine wastes her stores. 

Yet glorious is the great design. 

And such, O Pulteney ! such is thine; 

To prop a nation's frame : 
If crush'd beneath the sacred weight, 
The ruins of a falling state 

Shall tell the patriot's name. 



ODE TO MANKIND. 
Is there, or do the schoolmen dream 1 
Is there on earth a power supreme, 

The delegate of heaven. 
To whom an uncontroll'd command, 
In every realm o'er sea and land, 

By special grace is given 1 

Then say, what signs this god proclaim ? 
Dwells he amidst the diamond's flame, 

A throne his hallow'd shrine 1 
The borrow'd pomp, the arm'd array, 
Want, fear, and impotence, betray 

Strange proofs of power divine ! 

If service due from human kind. 
To men in slothful ease reclined. 

Can form a sovereign's claim: 
Hail, monarchs! ye, whom heaven ordains, 
Our toil's unshared, to share our gains, 

Ye idiots, blind and lame ! 

Superior virtue, wisdom, might. 
Create and mark the ruler's right. 

So reason must conclude: 
Then thine it is, to whom belong 
The wise, the virtuous, and the strong, 

Thrice sacred multitude ! 

In thee, vast All ! are these contain'd, 
For thee are those, thy parts ordain'd. 

So nature's systems roll : 
The sceptre's thine, if such there be ; 
If none there is, then thou art free, 

Great monarch ! mighty whole ! 



[t " Mr. Nugent," says Gray to Walpole, " sure did not 
write his own Ode. Mallet, it was universally believed, 
had trimmetl and doctored it up."] 

\X This very fine verse is quoted by Gibbon in his char 
racter of Brutus, — an honour it deserves.] 



ROBERT NUGENT, EARL NUGENT. 



Let the proud tyrant rest his cause 
On faith, prescription, force, or laws, 

An host's or senate's voice ! 
His voice affirms thy stronger due, 
Who for the many made the few, 

And gave the species choice. 

Unsanctified hy thy command, 
Unown'd by thee, the scepter'd hand 

The trembhng slave may bind ; 
But loose from nature's moral ties, 
The oath by force imposed belies 

The unassenting mind. 

Thy will's thy rule, thy good its end ; 
You punish only to defend 

What parent nature gave: 
And he who dares her gifts invade, 
By nature's oldest law is made 

Thy victim or thy slave. 

Thus reason founds the just degree 
On universal liberty, 

Not private rights assign'd: 
Through various nature's wide extent, 
No private beings e'er were meant 

To hurt the general kind. 

Thee justice guides, thee right maintains, 
The oppressor's wrongs, the pilf'rer's gains, 

Thy injured weal impair. 
Thy waruiest passions soon subside, 
Nor partial envy, hate, nor pride. 

Thy temper'd counsels share. 

Each instance of thy vengeful rage. 
Collected from each clime and age, 

Though malice swell the sum, 
Would seem a spotless scanty scroll. 
Compared with Marius' bloody roll. 

Or Sylla's hippodrome. 

But thine has been imputed blame. 
The unworthy few assume thy name, 

The rabble weak and loud ; 
Or those who on thy ruins feast, 
The lord, the lawyer, and the priest; 

A more ignoble crowd. 

Avails it thee, if one devours. 

Or lesser spoilers share his powers. 

While both thy claim oppose 7 
Monsters who wore thy sullied crown. 
Tyrants who puU'd those monsters down. 

Alike to thee were foes. 

Far other shone fair Freedom's band. 
Far other was the immortal stand. 

When Hatiipden fought for thee: 
They snatch'd from rapine's gripe thy spoils, 
The fruits and prize of glorious toils. 

Of arts and industry. 

On thee yet foams the preacher's rage. 
On thee tierce frowns the historian's page, 

A false apostate train : 
Tears stream adown the martyr's tomb; 
Unpitied in their harder doom, 

Thy thousands strow the plain. 



These had no charms to please the sense. 
No graceful port, no eloquence, 

To vvm the Muse's throng : 
Unknown, unsung, unmark'd they lie; 
But Caesar's fate o'ercasts the sky, 

A"r>d Nature mourns his wrong. 

Thy foes, a frontless hand, invade; 
Thy friends afford a timid aid, 

And yield up half the right. 
Ev'n Locke beams forth a mingled ray. 
Afraid to pour the flood of day 

On man's too feeble sight. 

Hence are the motley systems framed, 
Of right transferr'd, of power reclaim'd : 

Distinctions wieak and vain. 
Wise nature mocks the wrangling herd; 
For unreclaim'd, and untransferr'd. 

Her jwwers and rights remain. 

While law the royal agent moves. 
The instrument thy choice approves. 

We bow through him to you. 
But change, or cease the inspiring choice, 
The sovereign sinks a private voice. 

Alike in one, or few ! 

Shall then the wretch, whose dastard heart 
Shrinks at a tyrant's nobler part. 

And only dares betray; 
With reptile wiles, alas ! prevail. 
Where force, and rage, and priestcraft fail. 

To pilfer power away ] 

Oh ! shall the bought, and buying tribe, 
The slaves who take, and deal the bribe, 

A people's claims enjoy ! 
So Indian murd'rers hope to gain 
The powers and virtues of the slain. 

Of wretches they destroy. 

" Avert it. Heaven ! you love the brave. 
You hate the treach'rous, willing slave. 

The self-devoted head ; 
Nor shall an hireling's voice convey 
That sacred prize to lawless sway, 

For which a nation bled." 

Vain prayer, the coward's weak resource ! 
Directing reason, active force. 

Propitious heaven bestows. 
But ne'er shall flame the thund'ring sky, 
To aid the trembling herd that fly 

Before their weaker foes. 

In names there dwell no magic charms. 
The British virtues, British arms 

Unloosed our fathers' band: 
Say, Greece and Rome ! if these should fail, 
What names, what ancestors avail, 

To save a sinking land 1 

Far, far from us such ills shall be, 
Mankind shall boa^t one nation free. 

One monarch truly great: 
Whose title speaks a people's choice. 
Whose sovereign will a people's voice 

Whose strength a prosp'rous stat<v 



WILLIAxM JULIUS MICKLE. 



[Born, 1731. Died, 1788.] 



William Julitts Mickle was born at Lang- 
holm, in Dunfriesshire. His father, who was a 
clergyman of the Scottish church, had lived for 
some time in London, and had preached in the 
dissenting meeting-house of the celebrated Dr. 
Watts. He returned to Scotland on being pre- 
sented to the living of Langholm, the duties of 
which he fulfilled for many years; and, in con- 
sideration of his long services, was permitted to 
retain the stipend after he had removed to Edin- 
burgh, for the better education of his children. 
His brother-in-law was a brewer in Edinburgh, 
on whose death the old clergyman unfortunately 
embarked his property, in order to continue his 
business, under the name of his eldest son. 
William, who was a younger son, was taken from 
the high-school of Edinburgh, and placed as a 
clerk in the concern : and, on coming of age, took 
the whole responsibility of it upon himself. W hen 
it is mentioned, that Mickle had, from his boyish 
years, been an enthusiastic reader of Spenser, 
and that, before he was twenty, he had composed 
two tragedies and half an epic poem, which were 
in due time consigned to the flames, it may be 
easily conceived that his habits of mind were not 
peculiarly fitted for close and minute attention to 
a tra<le which required incessant superintendence. 
He was, besides, unfortunate, in becoming secu- 
rity for an insolvent acquaintance. In the year 
1763 he became a bankrupt; and being a))pre- 
hensive of the severity of one of his creditors, he 
repaired to London, feeling the misery of his own 
circumstances aggravated by those of his relations 
whom he had left behind him. 

Before leaving Scotland, he had corresponded 
with Lord Lyttelton, to whom he had submitted 
some of his poems in MS., and one, entitled 
"Providence," which he had printed in 1762. 
Lord Lyttelton patronised his Muse rather than 
his fortune. He undertook (to use his lordship's 
own phrase) to be his "schoolmaster in poetry;" 
but his fastidious blottings could be of no service 
to any man who had a particle of genius: and 
the only personal benefit which he attempted to 
render him was to write to his brother, the 
governor of Jamaica, in Mickle's behalf, when 
our plot had thoughts of going out "to that island. 
Mickle, however, always spoke with becoming 
liberality of this connection. He was pleased 
wiih the suavity of Lord Lyttelton's manners, 
and knew that his means of patronage were very 
slender. In the meintime, he lived nearly two 
years in London, upon remittances from his friends 
in Scotland, and by writing for the daily papers. 

A (ler having fluctuated between several schemes 

for subsistence, he at length accepted of the 

situation of corrector to the Clarendon press, at 

Oxford. Whilst he retained that office, he 

U6 



published a poem, which he at first named 
"The Concubine;" but on finding that the title 
alarmed delicate ears, and suggested a false idea 
of its spirit and contents, he changed it to " Syr 
Martyn."* At Oxford he also engaged in polemi- 
cal divinity, and published some severe animad- 
versions on Dr. Harwoods's recent translation of 
the New Testament. He also showed his fidelity 
to the cause of religion in a tract, entitled " Vol- 
taire in tlie Shades; or Dialogues on the Deistical 
Controversy." 

His greatest poetical undertakitig was the 
translation of "The Lusiad," which he began in 
1770, and finished in five years. For the sake 
of leisure and retirement, he gave up his situa- 
tion at the Clarendon press, and resided at the 
house of a Mr. Tomkins, a farmer at Forest 
Hill, near Oxford. The Engli-h Lusiad was 
dedicated, by permission to the Duke of Buc- 
cleugh ; but his Grace returned not the slightest 
notice or kindness to his ingenious countryman. 
Whatever might be the duke's reasons, good or 
bad, for this neglect, he was a man fully capable 
of acting on his own judgment ; and there was no 
necessity for making any other person responsible 
for his conduct. But Mickle, or his friends, 
suspected that Adam Smith and David Hume 
had maliciously stood between him and the 
Buccleuch patronage. This was a mere sus- 
picion, which our author and his friends ought 
either to have proved or suppressed. Mickle 
was indeed the declared antagonist of Hume ; he 
had written against him, and could not hear his 
name mentioned with temper; but there is not 
the slightest evidence that the hatred was mu- 
tual. Tl>at Adam Smith should have done him 
a mean injury, no one will believe probable, who 
is acquainted with the traditional private charac- 
ter of that philosopher. But Mickle was also 
the antagonist of Smith's doctrines on political 
economy, as may be seen in his " Dissertation 
on the Charter of the East India Company." The 
author of the " Wealth of Nations," forsooth, 
was jealous of his opinions on monopolies ! Even 
this paltry supposition is contradicted by dates, 
for Mickle's tract upon the subject of Monopolies 
was published several years after the preface to 
the Lusiad. Upon the whole, the suspicion 
of his philosophical enemies having poisoned 
the ear of the Duke of Buccleuch seems to 
have proceeded from the same irritable vanity, 
which made him threaten to celebrate Garrick 



[* Mickle's facility of Ti»rsificati<in was so great, that, 
being a printer by prof ssion, he frequently put his lines 
into type without taking the trouble previously to put 
them into writing; thus uni.ing the cimposilion of ihe 
author with the mechanical operation whi< h typograi hers 
call by the same name. — SiR Walter Scoii, J^/et. Huris, 
vol. i.'p. 7U.1 



WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. 



647 



as the hero of a second Dunciad when he re- 
fused to accept of his tragedy, '» The Siege of 
Marseilles."* 

Though the Lusiad had a tolerable sale, his 
circumstances still made his friends solicitous 
that he should obtain some settled provision. 
Dr. Lowth offered to provide for him in the 
church. He refused the offer with honourable 
delicacy, lest his former writings in favour of 
religion should be attributed to the prospect of 
reward. At length the friendship of his kins- 
man, Commodore Johnstone, relieved him from 
unsettled prospects. Being appointed to the 
command of a squadron destined for the coast 
of Portugal, he took out the translator of Camoens 
as his private secretary. Mickle was received 
with distinguished honours at Lisbon. The Duke 
of Braganza, in admitting him a member of the 
Royal Academy of Lisbon, presented him with 
his own picture. 

He returned to England in 1780, with a con- 
siderable acquisition of prize-money, and was ap- 
pointed an agent for the distribution of the prize 
profits of the cruise. His fortune now enabled 
him to discharge the debts of his early and mer- 
cantile life. He married the daughter of Mr. 
Tonikins, with whom he had resided while trans- 
lating the Lusiad ; and, with every prospect of 
spending the remainder of his life in affluence 
and tranquillity, purchased a house, and settled 
at VV'heatley, near Oxford. So far his circum- 
stances have almost the agreeable air of a con- 
cluding novel; but the failure of a banker with 
whom he was connected as prize agent, and a 
chancery suit in which he was involved, greatly 
diminished his finances, and disturbed the peace 
of his latter years. He died at Forest Hill, after 
a short illness. 

His reputation principally rests upon the trans- 
lation of the I^usiad, which no Englishman had 
attempted before him, except Sir Richard Fan- 
shawe. Sir Richard's version is quaint, flat, and 
harsh; and he has interwoven many ridiculously 
conceited expressions which are foreign both to 
the spirit and style of his original; but in gene- 
ral it is closer than the modern translation to 
the literal meaning of Camoens. Altogether, 
Fanshawe's representation of the Portuguese 
poern may be compared to the wrong side of the 
tapestry. Mickle, on the other hand, is free. 



[* In tlie year 1769 I niiglit have gone to the East Indies 
on very advantaireous terms. 1 have a relation an India 
Director, and there are two others with whom I have great 
interest; I mean Johnstone and Dempster. My conduct 
ill neglecting such advantages api ears to some of my 
friend* as absurd and spiritless; — but they mistake me. 
I am so fir from disliking to venture abrnal, that should 
I fail of |ioetical success, to the East Indiis I wi 1 certainly 
gi: and it Was only in the hopes that my tragedy would 
enable me ti indulge the strong bent of my inclinations, 
that in 1769 prevented me. — Mickle to T. Warton, Oxford, 
April IS, 1771.] 

t A happy example of this occurs in the description of 
De (Jama's fleet anchoring by moonlight in the harbour 
of .Mozambique. 
"The moon, full orb'd. forsakes her watery cave, 

And liftv her love'.y head above the w.ive; 

The snowy sp endiiurs of her modest ray 

Stream o'er the glistening waves, and glistening play : 



flowery, and periphrastical ; he is incomparabl\ 
more spirited than Fanshawe ; but still he de 
parts from the majestic simplicity of Camoens' 
diction as widely as Pope has done from that of 
Homer.t The sonorous and simple language of 
the Liisitanian epic is like the sound of a trumpet; 
and Mickle's imitation like the shakes and flou- 
rishes of the flute. 

Although he was not responsible for the faults 
of the original, he has taken abundance of pains 
to defend them in his notes and preface. In 
this he has not been successful. The long 
lecture on geography and Portuguese history, 
which Gama delivers to the king of Melinda, is 
a wearisome interruption to the narrative; iuul 
the use of Pagan mythology is a radical and 
unanswerable defect. Mickle informs us as an 
apology for the latter circumstance, that all this 
Pagan machinery was allegorical, and that the 
gods and goddesses of Homer were allegorical 
also ; an assertion which would require to be 
proved, before it can be admitted. Camoens 
himself has said something about his conceal- 
ment of a moral meaning under his Pagan 
deities; but if he has any such morality, it is so 
well hidden that it is impossible to discover it. 
The Venus of the Lusiad, we are told, is Divine 
Love ; and how is this Divine Love employed ? 
For no other end than to give the poet an 
opportunity of displaying a scene of sensual 
gratification, an island is purposely raised up in 
the ocean ; Venus conducts De Gama and his 
followers to this blessed spot, where a bevy of 
the nymphs of Venus are very good-naturedly 
prepared to treat them to their favours; not as 
a trial, but as a reward for their virtues ! Vol- 
taire was certainly justified in pronouncing this 
episode a piece of gratuitous indecency. In the 
same allegorical spirit no doubt, Bacchus, who 
opposes the Portuguese discoverers in the coun- 
cils of Heaven, disguises himself as a Popish 
priest and celebrates the rites of the catholic 
religion. The imagination is somewhat puzzled 
to discover why Bacchus should be an enemy to 
the natives of a country, the soil of which is so 
productive of his beverage ; and a friend to the 
Mahometans who forbid the use of it: although 
there is something amusing in the idea of the 
jolly god officiating as a Romish clergyman. 

Mickle's story of Syr Marty n is the most 



Around her, glittering on the Heavens' aroh'd brow, 
Unnumber d stars enclosed in azure glow, 
Thick as the dew drops in the April dawn. 
Or May flowers crowding o'er thedai.sy lawn. 
The canvas whitens in the silvery beam. 
And with a mild pale-rod the pendants gleam : 
The mast's tall shadows tremble o'er the deep, 
. The peaceful lines a holy silence keep ; 

The watchman's carol, echoed from the prows. 
Alone, at times, awakes the still repose.' 
In this beautiful sea-piece, the circumstance of " the 
mast's tall shadow trembling o'er the deep," and of the 
" carol of the watchman e^-hoed from the prows," are 
touches of the translator's adJition. Mickle has. however, 
got more credit fjr improving the Lusiad tlian he deserves. 
[Camoens copied H( mer in the above quotation, and Mickle 
had his eye intently fixed on Pope's translation of the 
passage.] 



648 



WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. 



pleasing of his original pieces. The object of 
the narrative is to exhibit the degrading eflecU 
ot concubinage, in the history of an amiable man, 
who is reduced to despondency and sottishness, 
under the dominion of a beldam and a slattern. 
The defect of the moral is, that the same evils 
might have happened to Syr Martin in a state 



of matrimony. The simplicity of the tale is also, 
unhappily, overlaid by a weight of allegory and 
of obsolete phraseology, which it has not import- 
ance to sustain. Such a style, applied to the 
history of a man and his housekeeper, is like 
building a diminutive dwelling in all the pomp of 
Gothic architecture.* 



FROM "SYR MARTIN." 
* * * * 

" Fleet past the months ere yet the giddy boy 
One thought bestowd on what would surely be ; 
But well his aunt perceivd his dangerous toy, 
And sore she feard her auncient famiiie 
Should now be staind with blood of base degree: 
For sooth to tell, her liefest hearts delight 
Was still to count her princely pedigree, 
Through barons bold all up to Cadwall bight, 
Thence up to Trojan Brute ysprong of Venus 
bright. 

" But, zealous to forefend her gentle race 
From baselie matching with plebeian bloud, 
Whole nights she schemd to shonne thilke foull 

disgrace. 
And Kathrins bale in wondrous wrath she vowd: 
Yetcould she not with cunning portaunceshroud, 
So as might best succede her good intent, 
But clept her lemman and vild slut aloud ; 
That soon she should her gracelesse thewes re- 
pent, 
And stand in long white sheet before the parson 
shent." 

So spake the wizard, and his hand he wavd. 
And prompt the scenerie rose, where listless lay 
The knight in shady bowre, by streamlet lavd, 
While Philomela soothd the parting day : 
Here Kathrin him approachd with features gay. 
And all her store of blandishments and wiles; 
The knight was touchd— but she with soft delay 
And gentle teares y blends her languid smiles. 
And of base falsitie th' enamourd boy reviles. 

Amazd the boy beheld her ready teares, 

And, faultring oft, exclaims with wondring 

stare, 
"What mean these sighs'! dispell thine ydle 

feares ; 
And, confident in me, thy griefes declare." 
"And need," quoth she, " need I my heart to 

bare, 
And tellen what untold well knowne mote bel 
Lost is my friends goodwill, my mothers care — 
By you deserted — 'ah ! unhappy me ! 
Left to your aunts fell spight, and wreakfull 

crueltie." 



[* Many of Miekle's old poems are in Evans" Okl liaUrids. 
'• Perhaps," says Mr. Southey. "'it would not yet be too 
late to discover other pieces of this very able writer wliich 
exist in the periodioal publications of the day. The Old 
Bachelor, a poem of stnkin<; merit, which was reprinted 
iu the Annual Anthology from the Town and Country 



" My aunt !" quoth he, " forsooth shall she com- 
mand ? 
No; sooner shall yond hill forsake his place," 
He laughing said, and would have caught her 

hand ; 
Her hand she shifted to her blubberd face. 
With prudish modestie, and sobd, "Alas! 
Grant me your bond, or else on yonder tree 
These silken garters, pledge of thy embrace, 
Ah, welladay ! shall hang thy babe and me. 
And everie night our ghostes shall bring all Hell 
to thee." 

Ythrilld with horror gapd the wareless wight, 
As when, aloft on well-stored cherrie-tree. 
The thievish elfe beholds with pale affright 
The gardner near, and weets not where to flee: 
" And will my bond forefend thilke miserie? 
That shalt thou have ; and for tjiy peace beside, 
What mote I morel housekeeper shalt thou 

be."— 
An awful oath forthwith his promise tied, 
And Kathrin was as blythe as ever blythesome 

bride. 

His aunt fell sick for very dole to see 
Her kindest counsels scornd, anil sore did pine 
To think what well she knew would shortly be, 
Cadwallins blood debasd in Kathrins line; 
For very dole she died. sad propine, 
Syr knight, for all that care which she did takel 
How many a night, for coughs and colds of thine. 
Has she sat up, rare cordial broths to make, 
And cockerd thee so kind with many a daintie cake ! 

Soft as the gossamer in summer shades 
Extends its twinkling line from spray to spray, 
Gently as sleep the weary lids invades. 
So soft, so gently pleasure mines her way : 
But whither will the smiling fiend betray, 
Ah, let the knights approaching days declare ! 
Though everie bloome and flowre of buxom May 
Bestrew her path, to deserts cold and bare 
The mazy paths betrays the giddy wight unware. 

" Ah !" says the wizard, " what may now availe 
His manlie sense that fairest blossoms bore. 
His temper gentle as the whispering gale. 
His native goodnesse, and his vertuous lore ! 



Magazine, seems to bear the mark of his hnnils."—Quar. 
Hen. vol. xi. p. f.Ol. 

Mickle was the author of that very beautiful sona;, 
"There's nae luck about the houfe," and, on his baUad 
of -Cumnor Hall," Scott founded hisroman(eof -'Kenil- 
worth.'^— See Scott's Misc. Pr. Warks, vol. xvii. pp. 123-1 'iS. 



WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. 



649 



Now through his veins, all uninflamd before, 

Th' enchanted cup of dissipation hight 

Has shedd, with subtil stealth, through everie 

pore. 
Its giddy poison, brewd with magicke might, 
Each budd of gentle worth and better thought to 

blight. 

" So the Canadian, traind in drery wastes 
To chase the foniing bore and fallow deer, 
At first the traders beverage shylie tastes; 
But soon with headlong rage, unfelt whyleare, 
Inflamd he lusts for the delirious cheer: 
So bursts the boy disdainful of restreiit, 
Headlong attonce into the wylde career 
Of jollitie, with all his mind unbent, 
And dull and yrksome hangs the day in sports un- 
spent. 

" Now fly the wassal seasons wingd with glee, 
Each day affords a floode of roring joy; 
The springs green months ycharmd with cock- 
ing flee, 
The jolly horse-race summers grand employ, 
His harvest sports the foxe and hare destroy, 
But the substantial comforts of the bowl 
Are thine, O Winter! thine to fire the boy 
With Englands cause, and swell his mightie 
soul. 
Till dizy with his peres about the flore he rowl. 

" Now round his dores ynaild on cloggs of wood 
Hang many a badgers snout and foxes tail, 
The which had he through many a hedge persewd, 
Through maish, through meer, dyke, ditch, and 

delve and dale ; 
To hear his hair-breadlh scapes would make you 

pale; 
Which well the groome hight Patrick can relate, 
Wluleas on holidays he quaffs his ale ; 
And not one circumstance will he forgett, 
So keen the braggard chorle is on his hunting 

sett. 

" Now on the turf the knight with sparkling eyes 
Beholds the springing racers sweep the ground; 
Now lightlie by the post the foremost flies. 
And thondring on, the rattling hoofs rebound ; 
The coursers groan, the cracking whips resound : 
And gliding with the gale they rush along 
Right to the stand. The knight stares wildly 

round, 
\nd, rising on his sell, his jocund tongue 
Is heard above the noise of all the noisie throng. 

"While thus the knight persewd the shaddow joy. 
As ^'outliful spirits thoughtlesse led the way. 
Her gdden baits, ah, gilded to decoy ! 
Kathrin did eve and morn before him lay, 
WatchfuU to please, and ever kindlie gay ; 
Till, like a thing bewitchd, the carelesse wight 
Resigns himself to her capricious sway ; 
Then soon, perdie, was never charme-bound 
spright 
In necromancers thrall in halfe suchpitteous plight. 



" Her end accomplishd, and her hopes at stay. 
What need her now, she recks, one smyle bestow; 
Each care to please were trouble thrown away. 
And thriftlesse waste, with many maxims moe, 
As, What were she the better did she so? 
She conns, and freely sues her native bent; 
Yet still can she to guard his thralldom know. 
Though grimd with snuff in tawdrie gown she 
went, [jolliment. 

Though peevish were her spleen and rude her 

" As when the linnett hails the balmie morne, 
And roving through the trees his mattin sings. 
Lively with joy, till on a luckless thorne 
He lights, where to his feet the birdlime clings; 
Then all in vain he flapps his gaudie wings ; 
The more he flutters still the more foredone : 
So fares it with the knight: each morning brings 
His deeper thrall; ne can he brawling shun, 
For Kathrin was his thorne and birdlime both in 
o^ie. 

" Or, when atop the hoary western hill 
The ruddie sunne appear."! to rest his chin. 
When not a breeze disturbs the murmuring rill. 
And mildlie warm the falling dewes begin, 
The gamesome trout then shows her silverie skin, 
As wantonly beneath the wave she glides, 
Watching the buzzing flies that never blin. 
Then, dropt with pearle and golde, displays her 
sides, [divides. 

While she with frequent leape the ruffled streame 

" On the greene banck a truant schoolboy stands: 
Well has the urchin markt her merry play. 
An ashen rod obeys his guilefull hands. 
And leads the mimick fly across her way ; 
Askaunce, with wistly look and coy delay. 
The hungrie trout the glitteraund treachor eyes, 
Semblaunt of life, with speckled wings so gay; 
Then, slylie nibbling prudish from it flies, 
Till with a bouncing start she bites the truthless 
prize. 

" Ah, then the younker gives the fatefull twitch ; 
Struck with amaze she feels the hook ypight 
Deepe in her gills, and, plonging where the 

beech 
Shaddows the poole, she runs in dred affright ; 
In vain her deepest rock, her late delight. 
In vain the sedgy nook for help she tries ; 
The laughing elfe now curbs, now aids her flight, 
The more entangled still the more she flies, 
And soon amid the grass the panting captive lies. 

" Where now, ah pity ! where that sprightly play, 
That wanton bounding, and exulting joy. 
That lately welcomd the retourning ray. 
When by the rivlett bancks, with blushes coy 
April walkd forth — ah ! never more to toy [dies. 
In purling streaine, she pants, she gasps, and 
Aye me ! how like the fortune of the boy. 
His days of revel and his nights of noise 
Have left him now, involvd, his lemmans haplesu 
prize. 



650 



WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. 



'See now the changes that attend her sway ; 
The parke where rural elegance had plaed 
Her sweat retreat, where cunning art did play 
Her hiipp'est freaks, that nature undefacd 
Rereivd new charms ; ah, see, how foul disgracd 
Now lies thiike parke so sweetlie wylde afore! 
Each grove and bowery walke be now laid waste ; 
The bowling-green has lost its shaven flore, 
And snowd with washing suds now yawns beside 
the dore. 

" All round the borders where the pansie blue, 
Crocus, and polyanthus speckld fine, 
And daffodils in fayre confusion grew 
Etiiong the rose-bush roots and eglantine 
These now their place to cabbages resign, 
And tawdrie pease supply the Idy's stead ; 
Rough artichokes now bristle where the vine 
Its purple clusters round the windows spread, 
.\nd laisie coucumbers on dung recline the 
head. 

" The fragrant orchard, once the summers pride. 
Where oft, by moonshine, on the dasied greene, 
In jovial daunce, or tripping side by side, 
Pomona and her buxom nymphs were seene; 
Or, where the clear canal stretchd out atweene, 
Deffly their locks with blossomes would they brede 
Or, resting by the primrose hillocks sheene, 
Beneath the apple boughs and walnut shade, 
They sung their loves the while the fruitage gaily 
spread : 

"The fragrant orchard at her dire command 
In all the pride of blossome strewd the plain ; 
The iiiilocks gently rising through the land 
Must now no trace of natures steps retain ; 
The clear canal, the mirrour of the swain. 
And bluish lake no more adorn the greene, 
Two clurty watering ponds alone remain; 
And where the moss-floord filbert bowres had 

beene, 
Is now a turnip-field and cow-yarde nothing 

cleane. 

"An auncient crone, yclepd by housewives Thrift, 
All this devisd for trim oeconoinie ; 
But certes ever from her birth bereft 
Of elegance, ill fitts her title high : 
Coarse were her looks, yet smoothe her courtesie, 
Hoyden her shapes, but grave was her atlyre, 
And ever fixt on trifles was her eye; 
And still she plodden round the kitchen fyre. 
To save the smallest crombe her pleasure and 
desyre. 

" Bow-bent with eld, her steps were soft and slow, 
Fast at her side a bounch of keys yhong. 
Dull care sat brooding on her jealous brow. 
Sagacious |)roverbs dropping from her tongue : 
Yet sparing though she beene her guests emong, 
Ought by herself that she mote gormondise. 
The foul curmudgeon would have that ere long. 
And hardly could her witt her gust suffice ; 
Albee in varied stream, still was it covetise. 



"Dear was the kindlie love which Kathrin bore 
This crooked ronion, for in soothly guise 
She was her genius and her counsellor: 
Now cleanly niilking-pails in careful wise 
Bedeck each room, and much can she despise [ill ; 
The knights complaints, and thrifllesse judgment 
Eke versd in sales, right wondrous cheaj) she buys, 
Parlour and bedroom too her bargains fill ; 
Though uselesse, cheap they beene, and cheap 
she purchased still. 

"His tenants whilhom been of thriflie kind, 
Did like to sing and worken all the day, 
At seedtime never were they left behind, 
And at the harvest feast still first did play ; 
And ever at the terme their rents did pay. 
For well they knew to guide their rural geer. 
All in a row, yclad in homespun gray. 
They marchd to church each Sunday of the year, 
Their imps yode on afore, the carles brought up 
the rear. 

" Ah, happy days ! but now no longer found : 
No more with social hospitable glee 
The village hearths at Christmas tide resound, 
No more the Whitsun gamboU may you see, 
Nor morrice daunce, nor May daye jollitie. 
When the blythe maydens foot the dewy green; 
But now in place, heart-sinking penurie 
And hopelesse care on every face is seen, 
As these the drerv times of curfeu bell had 



" For everie while, with thief-like lounging pace, 
And dark of look, a tawdrie villain came. 
Muttering some words with serious-meaning face, 
And on the church dore he would fix their name : 
Then, nolens voiens, they must heed the same. 
And quight those fieldes their yeomen grandsires 

plowd [w.th fame, 

Eer since black Edwards days, when, crownd 

From Cressie field theknightsoldgrandsire pr-owd 

Led home his yeomandrie, and each his glebe 

allowd. 

"But now the orphan sees his harvest fielde 
Beneath the gripe of laws sterne rapine fall. 
The friendlesse widow, from her hearth expelld. 
Withdraws to some poor hutt with earthen wall: 
And these, perdie, were Kathrins projects all; 
For, sooth to tell, grievd was the knight full sore 
Such sinful deeds to see: yet such his tiirall. 
Though he had pledgd his troth, yet nathemore 
It mote he keep, except she willd the same be- 
fore. 

" Oh wondrous powre of womans wily art. 
What for thy withcraft too secure may be ! 
Not Circes cup may so transform the heart. 
Or bend the will, fallacious powre, like thee ; 
Lo manly sense, of princely dignitie, 
Witchd i)y thy spells, thy crowching slave is seen; 
Lo, high-hrowd honour bends the groveling knee, 
And every bravest virtue, sooth I ween. 
Seems like a blighted flowre of dank unlovely mien 



WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. 



651 



" Ne may grim Saracene, nor Tartar man, 
Such ruthlesis bondage on his slave impose, 
As Kalhrin on the knight full deffly can : 
Ne may the knight escape, or cure his woes: 
As he who dreams he climbs some mountains 

brows, 
With painful struggling up the steep height 

strains, 
Anxious he pants and toils, but strength foregoes 
His feeble limbs, and not a step he gains; 
So toils the powerlesse knight beneath his servile 

chains. 

" His lawyer now assumes the guardians place ; 
Lcaind was thilk clerk in deeds, and passing she ; 
Slow was his speeche, and solemn was his face 
As that grave bird which Athens rankt so high ; 
Pleased Dullness basking in his glossie eye. 
The smyle would oft steal through his native 

phlegm ; 
And well he guards syr Martyns propertie, 
Till not one peasant dares invade the game; 
But certes, seven yeares rent was soon his own just 

claim. 

" Now mortgage follows mortgage ; cold delay 

Still yawns on eveiie long-depending case. 

The knights gay bloome the while slid fast away ; 

Kathrin the while brought bantling imps apace ; 

While everie day renews his vile disgrace, 

And straitens still the more his flailing thrall ; 

See now what scenes his household hours de- 
base. 

And rise successive in his cheerlesse hall." 
So spake the seer, and prompt the scene obey'd his 
call. 

"See," quoth the wizard, ''how with faltering 

mien, 
And discomposd, yon stranger he receives; 
Lo, how with sulkie look, and moapt with spleen. 
His frowning mistresse to his friend behaves ; 
In vain he nods, in vain his hand he waves, 
Ne will she heed, ne will she sign obay ; 
Nor corner dark his awkward blushes saves, 
Ne may the hearty laugh, ne features gay ; 
The hearty laugh, perdie, does but his pain be- 
tray. 

" A worthy wight his friend was ever known , 
Some generous cause did still his lips inspire; 
He begs the knight by friendships long agone 
To shelter from his lawyers cruel ire 
An auncient hinde, around whose cheerlesse fire 
Sat grief, and pale disease. The poor mans wrong 
Artects the kmght: his inmost harts desire 
Gleams through his eyes; yet all confusd, and 

stung 
With inward pain, he looks, and silence guards 

his tongue. 

" See, while his friend entreats and urges still, 
See, how with sidelong glaunce and haviour shy 
He steals the look to read his lemmans will, 
Watchful the dawn of an assent to spy. 



Look as he will, yet will she not comply. 
His friend with scorn beholds his awkward pain 
From him even pity turns her tear-dewd eve. 
And hardlie can the bursting laugh restrain. 
While manlie honour frowns on his unmanly 
stain. 

" Let other scenes now rise," the wizard said . 
He wavd his hand, and other scenes arose. 
" See there," quoth he, " the knight su[)inely laid 
Invokes the household houres of learnd repose: 
An auncient song its manly joys bestows: 
The melting passion of the nutt-browne mayde 
Glides through bis breast ; his wandering fancy 

glows, 
Till into wildest reveries betrayd, 
He hears th' imagind faire, and wooes the lovely 

shade. 

"Transported he repeats her constant vow. 
How to the green wode shade, betide whateer, 
She with her banished love would fearlesse goe 
And sweet would be with him the hardest cheer. 
'0, Heaven!' he sighs, 'what blessings dwell 

sincere 
In love like this !' — But instant as he sighd. 
Bursting into the room, loud in his ear 
His lemman thonders, ' Ah ! fell dole betide 
The girl that trusts in man, before she bees his 
bride ! 

"'And must some lemman of a whiffling song 
Delight your fancy ]' she disdainful cries; 
When straight her imps all brawling round her 

throng. 
And, bleard with teares, each for revenge applies; 
Him chiefe in s|)leene the father means chastise, 
But from his kindlie hand she saves him still; 
Yet for no fault, anon, in furious wise 
Yon yellow elfe she little spares to kill; 
And then, next breath, does all to coax its stub- 
born will. 

" Pale as the ghoste that by the gleaming moon 

Withdraws the curtain of the murderers bed. 

So pale and cold at heart, as half aswoon [sed 

The knight stares round ; yet good nor bad he 

Alas! though trembling anguish inward bled. 

His best resolve soon as a meteor dies: [fled, 

His present peace and ease mote chance have 

He deems ; and yielding, looks most wondrous 

wise. 

As from himself he hopd his grief and shame 

disguise. 

" Woe to the wight whose hated home no more 
The hallowd temple of content may be! 
While now his days abroad with groomes he wore, 
His mistresse with her liefest companie, 
A rude unletterd herd ! with dearest glee. 
Enjoys each whisper of her neighbours shame 
And still anon the flask of ratifie 
Improves their tales, till certes not a name 
Escapes their blasting tongue, or goody, wench 
or dame." 



NATHANIEL COTTON. 




[Born, 1707. 


Died, 17880 




Natiiantel Cotton was a physician, who paid 


at St. Albans. Cowper was for some time under 




particular attention to the subject of mental <iis- 


his care. 




iTTilers ; and kept a receptacle for insane patients 






THE FIKESIDE* 


No borrow'd joys ! they're all our own, 




Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd, 


While to the world we live unknown, 




The vain, the wealthy, and the proud, 


Or by the world forgot : 




In folly's maze advance ; 


Monarchs ! we envy not your state. 




Though singularity and pride 


We look with pity on the great, * 




Be call'd our choice, we'll step aside, 


And bless our humble lot. 




Nor join Ihe giddy dance. 


Our portion is not large, indeed, 




From the grty world we'll oft retire 


But then how little do we need, 




To our own family and fire, 


For nature's calls are few ! 




Where love our hours employs; 


In this the art of living lies, 




No noisy neighbour enters here. 


To want no more than may suffice. 




No intermeddling stranger near, 


And make that little do. 




To spoil our heartfelt joys. 


We'll therefore relish with content. 




If solid happiness we prize, 


Whate'er kind Providence has sent, 




Within our breast this jewel lies. 


Nor aim beyond our power ; 




And they are fools who roam ; 


For, if our stock be very small, 




The world hath nothing to l)estow. 


'Tis prudence to enjoy it all. 




From our own selves our bliss must flow, 


Nor lose the present hour. 




And that dear hut our home. 






Of rest was Noah's dove bereft. 


To be resign'd when ills betide. 
Patient when favours are denied. 




When with impatient wing she left 

That safe retreat, the ark ; 
Giving her vain excursions o'er. 


And pleased with favours given; 
Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part. 
This is that incense of the heart. 






The disappointed bird once more 
Explored the sacred bark. 


Whose fragrance smells to heaven. 




Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers, 


We'll ask no long protracted treat. 




We, who improve his golden hours, 


Since winter-life is seldom sweet; 




By sweet experience know. 


But when our feast is o'er, 




That marriage, rightly understood. 


Grateful from table we'll arise. 




Gives to the tender and the good 


Nor grudge our sons, with envious eyes, 




A paradise below. 


The relics of our store. 




Our babes shall richest comfort bring; 


Thus hand in hand through life we'll go; 




If tulor'd right they'll prove a spring 


Its checker'd j)aths of joy and woe 




Whence pleasures ever rise ; 


With cautious steps we'll tread ; 




We'll form their minds with studious care. 


Quit its vain scenes without a tear, 




To all that's manly, good, and fair. 


Without a trouble, or a fear. 




And train them for the skies. 


And mingle with the dead. 




While they our wisest hours engage. 


While conscience like a faithful friend. 




They'll joy our youth, support our age, 


Shall through the gloomy vale attend. 




And crown our hoary hairs ; 


And cheer our dying breath ; 




They'll grow in virtue every day, 


Shall, when all other comforts cease. 




And they our fondest loves repay. 


Like a kind angel whisper peace. 




And recompense our cares. 


And smooth the bed of death. 




[* O.tfon's well-knowu stanzas entitle,! The Fiv^ide, 


A poem like tl.is. which depends a'togetlier upon its 




still hold, and are likely to retain, a p'.arc in (Oijular 


triitlifuluess, should have nothing to do with Chloe or with 




SBloclions."— 8ouTH£y, Li/e of Cowptr, vol. i. p. 148. 


Hymen.] 





TIMOTHY DWIGHT. 



Of this American poet I am sorry to be able 
te eive the British reader no account. I beHeve 



his personal history is as little known as ni« 
poetry on this side of the Atlantic. 



iTROM HIS "CONQUEST OF CANAAN," BOOK V. 

LOND. REPRINTED 1788. 

DEATH OP IRAD, AND LAMENTATION OF SELIMA 

OVER HIS BODY. 
Mid countless warrior's Irad's limbs were spread, 
Even there distinguish'd from the vulgar dead ; 
Fair as the spring, and bright as rising day, 
His snowy bosom open'd as he lay : 
From the deep wound a little stream of blood 
In silence fell, and on the javelin glow'd. 
Grim Jabin, frowning o'er his hapless head, 
Deap in his bosom plunged the cruel blade ; 
Foes even in death his vengeance ne'er forgave, 
But hail'd their doom insqtiale as the grave; 
No worth, no bravery, could his rage disarm, 
Nor smiling love could melt, nor beauty warm. 

But now th' approaching clarions' dreadful sound 
Denounces flight, and shakes the banner'd ground. 
From clouded plains increasing thunders rise, 
And drifted volumes roll along the skies; 
At once the chief commands th' unnumber'd 

throng. 
Like gathering tempests darkly pour'd along; 
High on the winds, unfurl'd in purple pride, 
The imperial standard cast the view aside ; 
A hero there sublimely seem'd to stand. 
To point the conquest, and the flight command ; 
In arms of burnish'd gold the warrior shone, 
And waved and brighten'd in the falling sun. 



But now sublime, in crimson triumph borne, 
The sacred standard mock'd th' etherial morn ; 
Wide on the winds its waving splendours flow'd. 
And call'd the warriors from the distant wood. 
Behind great Joshua, Hazor's sons to dare, 
Pours the bold thousands to the western war ; 
Beyond Ai's wall the less'ning heathen train 
In well-forni'd squadrons cross the distant plain ; 
Part still in sight their shady files extend, 
Part fill the wood, and part the hills ascend ; 
To cease from toil the prudent chief commands. 
And balmy quiet soothes the wearied bands. 

Half lost in mountain groves the sun's broad ray 
Shower'd a full splendour round his evening 

way. 
Slow Joshua strode the lovely youth to find, 
Th' unwilling bands more slowly moved behind. 
Soon as the matchless form arose to view. 
O'er their sad faces shone the sorrowing dew : 



Silent they stood ; to speak the leader tried, 
But the choked accents on his palate died — 
His bleeding bosom beat. * * * * 

" Ah ! best and bravest of thy race," he Fa id. 

And gently raised the pale reclining head, 

" Lost are thy matchless charms ; thy glory gone, 

Gone is the glory which thy hand hath won. 

In vain on thee thy nation cast her eyes. 

In vain with joy beheld thy light arise, 

In vain she wish'd thy sceptre to obey." 



Borne by six chiefs, in silence o'er the plain. 
Fair Irad moved ; before the mournful train 
Great Joshua's arm sustain'd his sword and shield. 
Th' affected thousands length'ning through the 

field; . 
When, crown'd with flow'rs, the maidens at her 

side. 
With gentle steps advanced great Caleb's pride ; 
Her snowy hand, inspired by restless love, 
Of the lone wild-rose two rich wreaths inwove. 
Fresh in her hands the flowers rejoiced to bloom, 
And round the fair one shed a mild perfume. 
O'er all the train her active glances roved, 
She gazed, and gazing miss'd the youth she loved. 
Some dire mischance her boding heart divined. 
And thronging terrors fill'd her anxious mind. 
As near the host her quick'ning footsteps drew. 
The breathless hero met her trembling view ! 
From her chill'd hand the headlong roses fell, 
And life's gay beauty bade her cheeks farewell. 
And sunk to earth. 



With anguish Caleb saw her faded charms. 
And caught the favourite in his hast'ning arms 
Revived, with piercing voice that froze his soul, 
She forced the big round tear unwish'd to roll: 
By all his love besought him soon to lead 
Where cruel friendship snatch'd the lovely dead. 
In vain the chief his anguish strove to hide. 
Sighs rent his breast and chill'd the vital tide. 

To Joshua then, whose heart beside her mourn'd 
With gaze of keen distress the charmer turn'd. 
" Oh ! generous chief, to misery ever kind. 
Thou lovest my sire — support his sinking mind. 
Thy friendly wish delights to lessen woe. 
See how his tears for fallen Irad flow. 
He claims thy friendship — Generous hero ! see, 
Lost to himself, his fondness bleeds for me. 
3jb2 6.'« 



C54 



TIMOTHY DWIGHT. 



To view the hapless youth distress'd, he fears 
WoulJ wound my soul, and force too copious tears; 
But lead — Oh ! lead me where theyouth is borne — 
Calm is my heart, nor will my bosom mourn; 
So cold that heart it yields no pitying sigh ; 
And see, no tear bedews this marbled eye ! 

She said ; * * * * reclined 

On Joshua's arm, she forced his melting mind. 
Pressing her hand, he traced a gentle way, 
M'here breathless Irad, lost in slumbers, lay. 
From the pale face his chilling hand withdrew 
The decent veil, and gave the youth to view. 
Fix'd o'er the form with solemn gaze she hung. 
And strong deep sighs burst o'er her frozen tongue. 
On Joshua then she cast a wistful look — • 
^'ild was her tearless eye, and rolling spoke 
Anguish unutterable — thrice she tried 
To vent her woes, and thrice her efforts died. 
At length, in accents of ecstatic grief, 
Her voice, bewilder'd, gave her heart relief. 

" Is this the doom we dread ? Is this to die ! 
To sleep, to feel no more, to close the eye ? 
Slight is the change — how vain the childish fear 
That trembles and recoils when death is near. 
I too, methinks, would share the peaceful doom, 
And seek a calm repose in Irad's tomb. 
This breath, I know, this useless breath must f;iil, 
'I'hese eyes be darken'd, and this face grow pale — 
But thou art pale, O youth ! thy lot I crave, 
And every grief shall vanish in the grave!" 

She ceased : the tender chief without delay, 
Soft pressing, kindly forced her steps away. 
Slow toward the camp with solemn pace they drew. 
The corse moves on, the mournful bands pursue. 
Unnumber'd tears their hapless fate bewail, 
And voice to voice resounds the dreadful tale. 
Unhappy, to their tents the host retired. 
And gradual o'er the mountains day expired. 



FROM THE SAME. 

Prediction mnde by the anoiel to Joshua of the future 
discovery and happiness of America — and of the Mil- 
lennium. 

Far o'er yon azure main thy view extend, 
Where seas and skies in blue confusion blend : 
I,o, there a mighty realm, by Heav'n design'd 
The last retreat for poor op})reKs'd mankind; 
Form'd with that pomp which marks the hand 

divine, 
And clothes yon vault where worlds unnumber'd 

shine. 
Here spacious plains in solemn grandeur spread, 
Here cloudy forests cast eternal shade ; 
Rich valleys wind, the sky-tall mountains brave, 
And inland seas for commerce spread the wave. 
With nobler floods the sea-like rivers roll, 
And fairer lustre purples round the pole. 
Here, warm'd by happy suns, gay niines unfold 
'JMie useful iron and the lasting gold; 
Pure, changing gems in silence learn to glow, 
Ajid mock the splendours of the covenant bow. 



On countless hills, by savage footsteps trod, 
That smile to see the future harvest nod, 
In glad succession plants unnumber'd bloom. 
And flowers unnumber'd breathe a, rich perfume. 
Hence life once more a length of days shall claim, 
And health, reviving, light her purple flame. 

Far from all realms this world imperial lies, 
Seas roll between, and threat'ning tempests rise. 
Alike removed beyond ambition's pale, 
And the hold pinions of the vent'rous sail; 
Till circling years the destined period bring, 
And a new Moses lift the daring wing; 
Through trackless seas an unknown flightexplores, 
And hails a new Canaan's promised shores. 

On yon far strand behold that little train 
Ascending vent'rous o'er the unmeasured main; 
No dangers fright, no ills the course delay, 
'Tis virtue prompts, and God directs the way. 
Speed — speed, ye sons of truth ! let Heav'n be- 
friend. 
Let angels waft you, and let peace attend. 
Oh ! smile, thou sky serene; ye storms, retire; 
And airs of Eden every sail inspire. 
Swift o'er the main behold the canvas fly, 
And fade and fade beneath the farthest sky : 
See verdant fields the changing waste unfold; 
See sudden harvest dress the plains in gold ; 
In lofty walls the moving rocks ascend, 
And dancing woods to spires and temples bend. 
Meantime, expanding o'er earth's distant ends, 
Lo, Slavery's gloom in sable pomp ascends ! 
Far round each eastern clime her volumes roll, 
And pour deep shading to the saddcn'd pole. 
How the world droops beneath the fearful blast. 
The plains all wither'd, and the skies o'ercasU 

* * * * 

Bcnumb'd and fix'd the palsied soul expires, 
Blank'd all its views, and quench'd its living 

fires: 
In clouds of boundless shade the scenes decay, 
Land after land departs, and nature fades away. 

In that dread hour, beneath auspicious skies. 
To nobler bliss yon western world shall rise; 
Unlike all former realms by war that stood, 
And saw the guilty throne ascend in blood: 
Here union'd choice shall form a rule divine, 
Here countless lands in one great system join; 
The sway of law, unbroke, unrivall'd grow, 
And bid her blessings every land o'erflow. 

* * * * ■ 

Here empire's last and brightest throne shall rise, 
And Peace, and Right, and Freedom greet the skies. 
'J'o morn's fair realms her trading ships shall sail. 
Or lift their canvas to the evening gale. 
In wisdom's walks her sons ambitious soar, 

j Tread starry fields, and untried scenes explore. 

[ And hark! what strange, what solemn breaking 

I strain 

1 Swells wildly murm'ring o'er the far, far main ! 

[ Down Time's long less'ning vale the notes decay 
And, lost in distant ages, roll away. 



JAMES WHYTE. 



SIMILE. 

?EOM A COLLECTION OF POEMS, PRINTED AT DUBUN, 1789. 
EDITED Bl MR. GBADBERRT. 

You say, sir, once a wit ailow'd 
A woman to be lilce a cloud, 
Accept a simile as soon 
Between a woman and the moon ; 
For let mankind say what they will, 
The sex are heavenly bodies still. 

Grant me to mimic human life — 
The sun and moon are man and wife: 
Whate'er kind Sol affords to lend her, 
Is squander'd upon midnight si)leiidour ; 
And when to rest he lays him down, 
She's up, and stared at through the town. 



From him her beauties close confining, 
And otdy in his absence shining; 
Or else she looks like sullen tapers; 
Or else she's fairly in the vapours; 
Or owns at once a wife's ambition, 
And fully glares in opposition. 

Say, are not these a modish pair, 
Where each for other feels no care ! 
Whole days in separate coaches driving, 
Whole nights to keep asunder striving; 
Both in the dumps in gloomy weather. 
And lying once a month together. 
In one sole point unlike the case is. 
On her own head the horns she places. 



THOMAS WARTON. ' 



[Born, 1728. Died, 1790.] 



Thomas Warton was descended from an an- 
cient family, whose residence was at Beverly, in 
Yorkshire. One of his ancestors was knighted in 
the civil wars, for his adherence to Charles I. ; but 
by the failure of the same cause, the estate of 
the family was confiscated, and they were unable 
to maintain the rank of gentry. The toryism of 
the historian of English poetry was, therefore, 
hereditary. His father was IIb'Iow of Magdalen 
college, Oxford ; professor of poetry in that uni- 
versity ; and vicar of Basingstoke, in Hants, 
and of Coliham, in Surrey. At the age of six- 
teen, our author was admitted a commoner of 
Trinity college, Oxford, of which he continued a 
member, and an ornament, for forty-seven years. 
His first poetical appearance in print has been 
traced to five eclogues in blank verse; the scenes 
of which are laid among the shepherds, oppressed 
by the wars in Germany. 'i'hey appeared in 
Pearch's "Supplement to Dodsley's Collection 
of Fugitive Pieces" Warton disavowed those 
eclogues in his riper years. They aie not dis- 
creditable to him as (he verses of a boy; but it 
was a superfluous offering to the public, to sub- 
join them to his other works, in Mr. Chalmers' 
edition of the British Poets.* His poem, "The 
Pleasures of Melancholy," was written not long 
after. As the composition of a youth, it is en- 
titled to a very indulgent consideration ; and 
perhaps it gives promise of a sens.bilily, which 



[* Mr. Southey in his review of Chilmors' ro'.Ieetion, 
is of a tliff.Tent opinion. '• A valuable sulilit^oii is made," 
he says, "to T. Warton's works, by Ihe c.U overy of five 
pastoral eclogues, the scenes of wliith are m: do !:mong ihe 
bIu'i herds opvrcssed by the war in CJermany. They wrte 
published ia 174.^, ani/ ascribed to him ou the competent 



his subsequent poetry did not fulfil. It was 
profe.'fsedly written in his seventeenth, but pub- 
lished in his nineteenth year, so that it must be 
considored as testifying the state of his genius at 
the latter period ; for until his work had passed 
through the press, he would continue to improve 
it. In the year 1749, he published his " Triumph 
of Isis," in answer to Mason's poetical attack on 
the loyalty of Oxford. The best passage in this 
piece, beginning with the lines, 

"Ye f e'ti'd pinnacles, ye liines sublime, 
Te t wors, that wear the nios.^y vcsl of time, 

discovers that fondness for the beauties of archi- 
tecture, which was an absolute passion in the 
breast of Warton. Joseph Warton relates, that, 
at an early period of their youth, his brother and 
he were taken by their father to see Windsor 
Castle.t Old Dr. Warton complained, that whilst 
the rest of the party expressed delight at the 
n)agnificent spectacle, Thomas made no remarks; 
but Joseph Warton justly observes, that the silence 
of his brother was only a proof of the depth of his 
pleasure; that he was really absorbed in the en- 
joyment of the sight: and that his sul)sequent 
fondness for "caslle imagery," he believed, might 
be traced to the impression which he then received 
from Windsor Castle. 

In 1750 he took the degree of a master of arts; 
and in the following year succeeded to a fellow- 
ship. In 1754 he published his "Observations 

authority of Isaac Reed. They are certainly remarkable 
pro.luc tiuus for a youth of eighteen."— y-tur. Ukv. vul. xi. 
p. 501.] 

[t See the father's poem v.Don viewing Windsor Castle, 
ante, p. H6.\ 

f(ii5 



656 



THOMAS WARTON. 



on Spenser's Faery Queen," in a single volume, 
which he afterward expanded into two volumes, 
hi the edition of 17'j2. In this work he minutely 
nnalyscs the Classic and Romantic sources of 
Spenser's fiction ; and so far enables us to esti- 
mate the power of the poet's genius, that we can 
compare the scattered ore of his fanciful materials, 
with their transmuted appearance in the Faery 
Queen. This work, probably, contributed to his 
appointment to the professorship of poetry, in 
the utiiversity, in 1757, which he held, according 
to custom, for ten years. While possessed of 
that chair, he delivered a course of lectures on 
poetry, in which he introduced his translations 
from the Greek Anthology, as well as the suh- 
stance of his remarks on the Bucolic poetry of 
the Greeks, which were afterward published in 
his edition of Theocritus. In 1758 he assisted 
Dr. Johnson in the Idler, with Nos. 33, 93, and 
96. About the same time, he published, without 
name or date, "A Description of the City, College, 
and Cathedral of Winchester," and a humorous 
account of Oxford, intended to burlesque the 
popular description of that place, entitled, " A 
Companion to the Guide, or a Guide to the Com- 
panion." He also published anonymously in 
1758, "A Selection of Latin Metrical Inscrip- 
tions." 

Warton's clerical profession forms no very 
prominent part of his history. He had an indis- 
tinct and hurried articulation, which wjis peculi- 
arly unfavourable to his pulpit oratory. His 
ambition was directed to other objects than pre- 
ferment in the church, and he was above soiicf- 
tation. After having served the curacy of Wood- 
stock for nine years, as well as his avocations 
would permit, he was appointed, in 177'I, to the 
small living of Kiddington, in Oxfordshire; and, 
in 1785, to the donative of Hill Farrance, in 
Somersetshire, by his own college. 

The great work to which the studies of his life 
w^ere subservient, was his "History of English 
Poetry," an undertaking which had been succes- 
sively projected by Pope and Gray. Those writers 
had suggested the imposing plan of arranging the 
Brit'sh poets, not by their chronological succes- 
sion, but by their diUcrent schools. Warton 
deliberately relinquished this scheme ; because he 
felt that it was impracticable, except in a very 
vague and general manner. Poetry is of too 
spiritual a nature, to admit of its authors being 
exactly grouped, by a Linnaean system of classifi- 
cation. Striking resemblances and distinctions 
will, no doubt, be found among poets; but the 
shades of variety and gradation are so infinite, 
that to bring every composer within a given line 
of resemblance, would require a new language in 
the philosophy of taste. Warton, therefore, 

f* As Warton's plan excluded the drama, his work very 
111 merited its title of a History of Eng.ish I'oetry. John- 
son's Lives of ihe Poets, where Shakspeare and Spenser 
are omittud. is not a greater misnomer. Such hns been 
tiie vSi'v.l of Warton's plan that no collection of our poets 
has ever included even a portion of the driima; and till 
Mr, Campbell .-elected hia. there were no Specimens where 
Uii-y were; always excepting the Elegant E.xtracts, and 



adojited the simpler idea of tracing our poetry by 
its chronological progress. The work is certainly 
provokingly digressive, in many places, and those 
who have subsequently examined the same subject 
have often complained of its inaccuracies; but 
the chief cause of those inaccuracies was that 
boldness and extent of research, which makes 
the work so useful and entertaining. Those who 
detected his mistakes have been, in no small 
degree, indebted to him for their power of detect- 
ing them. The first volume of his History ap- 
peared in 1774; the second in 1778; and the 
third in 1781. Of the fourth volume only a few 
sheets were printed; and the account of our 
poetry, which he meant to have extended to the 
last century, wa.* continued only to the reign of 
Elizabeth.* 

In the year 1785, he was appointed to the 
Camden Professorship of History, in which situa- 
tion he delivered only one inaugural dissertation. 
In the same year, upon the death of Whitehead, 
he re eived the laureateship. His odes were sub- 
jected to the ridicule of the Rolliad; but his head 
filled the laurel with more learning than it had 
encompassed for 100 years. 

In his .sixty-second year, after a life of uninter- 
rupted good health, he was attacked by the gout; 
went to Bath for a cure, and relumed, as he 
imagined, perfectly recovered ; but his appear- 
ance betrayed that his constitution had received 
a fatal shock. At the close of an evening, which 
he had spent with more than ordinary cheerful- 
ness, in the common-hall of his college, he was 
seized with a paralytic stroke, and expired on the 
following day. 

Some amusing eccentricities of his character 
are mentioned by the writer of his life, (Dr. Mant,) 
which the last editor of the British Poetsf blames 
that biographer for introducing. I am far from 
joining in this censure. It is a miserable system 

j of biography, that would never allow us to smile 
at the foibles and peculiarities of its subject. 

{ The historian of English poetry would sometimes 
forget his own dignity, so far as to drink ale, and 

I smoke tobacco with men of vulgar condition ; 
either wishing, as some have gravely alleged, to 

I study undiguised and unlettered human nature, 
or, which is more probable, to enjoy a heartier 
laugh, and broader humour than could be fotmd 
in polite society. He was also passionately fond 
(not of critical, but) of military reviews and de- 
lighted in martial music. The same strength of 
association which made him enjoy the sound of 
" ilie spirit-slirring chum," led him to be a con- 
stant and curious explorer of the architectural 
monuments of chivalrous times; and during his 
summer excursions into the country, he always 
committed to paper the remarks which he had 

Mr. Lamb's tasteful Selections, which is scarce an instance 
in point.] 

[t The late Alexander Chalmers. Sir Walter Scott and 
Mr. Campbell were to have edited this colie;tion; which 
fell, as muny a noble project has done, into the hiind-i of a 
mere hacU in literature; not destitutp of knowledge, but 
without the means of using it properly, and without taste. 
— .Stf. Lockliart's Life of Scott, vol. ii. p. 240, 2d ed.] 



THOMAS WARTON. 



G57 



make on ancient buildings. During his visits to 
his brother, Dr. .1. Warton, the reverend profes- 
sor became an associate and confidant in all the 
sports of the schoolboys. When engaged with 
them in some culinary occupation, and when 
alarmed by the sudden approach of the master, 
he has been known to hide himself in a dark 
corner of the kitchen; and has been dragged 
from thence by the Doctor, who had taken him 
for some great boy. He also used to help the 
boys in their exercises, generally putting in as 
many fiiults as would disguise the assistance. 

Every Englishman who values the literature of 
his country, must feel himself obliged to Warton 
as a poetical antiquary. As a poet, he is ranked 
by his brother Joseph in the school of Spenser 
and Milton; but this classification can only be 
admitted with a full understanding of the immense 
distance between him and his great masters. He 
had, indeed, "spelt the fabled rhyme;" he 
abounds in allusions to the romantic subjects of 
Spenser, and he is a sedulous imitator of the rich 
lyrical manner of Milton : but of the tenderness 
and peculiar harmony of Spenser he has caught 
nothing; and in his resemblance to Milton, he is 
the heir of his phraseology more than of his spirit. 
His imitation of manner, however, is not confined 
to Milton. His style often exhibits a com- 
posite order of poetical architecture. In his 
verses to Sir Joshua Reynolds, for instance, he 
blends the point and succinctness of Pope, with 
the richness of the elder and more fanciful 
school. It is one of his happiest compositions ; 
and, in this case, the intermixture of styles has no 
unpleasing effect. In others, he often tastelessly 
and elaborately unites his aflectation of antiquity, 
with the case-hardened graces of modern polish, 

If we judge of him by the character of the 
majority of his pieces, I believe that fifty out of 
sixty of them are such, that we should not be 
anxious to give them a second perusal. From 
that proportion of his works, I conceive that an 
unprejudiced reader would pronounce him a 
florid, unaff'ecting describer, whosse images are 



plentifully scattered, but without selection or 
relief. To confine our view, however, to some 
seven or eight of his happier pieces, we shall find, 
in these, a considerable degree of graphic power, 
of fancy, and animation. His "Verses to Sir 
Joshua Reynolds" are splendid and spirited. 
There is also a softness and sweetness in his ode 
entitled " The Hamlet," which is the more wel- 
come, for being rare in his productions ; and his 
"Crusade," and "Grave of Arthur," have a 
genuine air of martial and minstrel enthusiasm. 
Those pieces exhibit, to the best advantage, the 
most striking feature of his poetical character, 
which was a fondness for the recollections of 
chivalry, and a minute intimacy of iiriagination 
with its gorgeous residences, and imposing spec- 
tacles. 'J'he spirit of chivalry, he may indeed be 
said, to have revived in the poetry of modern 
times. His memory was richly stored with all 
the materials for description that can be got from 
books: and he seems not to have been without 
an original enthusiasm for those objects which 
excite strong associations of regard and wonder. 
Whether he would have ever looked with interest 
on a shepherd's cottage, if he had not found it 
described by Virgil or Theocritus, may be fairly 
doubted ; but objects of terror, splendour and 
magnificence, are evidently congenial to his 
fancy. He is very impressive in sketching the 
appearance of an ancient Gothic castle, in the 
following lines : 

" Hiith o'er the trackless heath, at midnight seen, 
No more the windows, ranged in long array, 
(AVhere the tall shaft and fretted nook between 
Thick ivy twines) the taper'd rites betray." 

His memory was stored with an uncommon por- 
tion of that knowledge which supplies materials 
for picturesque description ; and his universal 
acquaintance with our poets supplied him with 
expression, so as to answer the full demand of 
his original ideas. Of his poetic invention, in the 
fair sense of the word, of his depth of sensibility, 
or of his powers of reflection, it is not so easy to 
say any thing favourable.* 



VERSES ON SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDSS PAINTED 
WINDOW, AT NEW COLLEGE, O.VFOKD. 

Ah, stay thy treacherous hand, forbear to trace 
Those faultless forms of elegance and grace! 
Ah, cease to spread the bright transparent mass, 
With Titian's pencil, o'er the speaking glass ! 
Nor steal, by strokes of art with truth combined. 
The fond illusions of rny wayward mind! 
For long enamour'd of a barbarous age, 
A faithless truant to the classic page; 
Long have I loved to catch the simple chime 
Of minstrel-harps, and spell the fabling rune; 
I'o view the festive rites, the knightly play. 
That deck'd heroic Albion's elder day ; 
To mark the mouldering halls of barons bold, 
And the rough castle, cast in giatit mould ; 
83 



With Gothic manners Gothic arts explore. 
And muse on the magnificence of yore. 

But chief, enraptured have I loved to roam, 
A lingering votary, the vaulted dome. 
Where the tall shafts, that mount in massy pride. 
Their mingling branches shoot from side to side ; 
Where elfin sculptors, with fantastic clew, 
O'er the long roof their wild embroidery drew ; 
Where Superstition with capricious hand 
In many a maze the wreathfcd window plann'd. 
With hues romantic tinged the gorgeous pane. 
To fill with holy light the wondrous fane; 

[* In the best of Warton's poems there is a stiffness which 
too ofien gives them the appearance of imitations from the 
Greek. — Culeriikse. 

Thomas Warton has sent me his " Inscriptions," which 
are rather too simple for my taste. — Shenstone.J 



658 



THOMAS WARTON. 



To aid the builder's model, richly rude, 

By no Vitruvian symmetry subdued; 

To suit the genius of the mystic pile : 

Whilst as around the far-retiring aisle, 

And fretted shrines, with hoary trophies hung, 

Her dark illumination wide she flung. 

With new solemnity, the nooks profound, 

The cave of death, and the dim arches frown'd 

From bliss long felt unwillingly we part: 

Ah, spare the weakness of a lover's heart ! 

Chase not the phantoms of my fairy dream. 

Phantoms that shrink at Reason's painful gleam! 

That softer touch, insidious artist, stay. 

Nor to new joys my struggling breast betray ! 

Such was a pensive bard's mistaken strain.— 
But, oh, of ravish'd pleasures why complain 1 
No more the matchless skill I call unkind. 
That strives to disenchant my cheated mind. 
For when again I view thy chaste design. 
The just proportion, and the genuine line; 
Those native portraitures of Attic art. 
That from the lucid surface seem to start; 
Those tints, that steal no glories from the day, 
Nor ask the sun to lend his streaming ray : 
The doubtful radiance of contending dyes, 
That faintly mingle, yet distinctly rise ; 
'Twixt light and shade the transitory strife; 
The feature blooming with immortal life: 
The stole in casual foldings taught to flow, 
Not with ambitious ornaments to glow; 
The tread majestic, and the beaming eye, 
That lifted speaks its commerce with the sky; 
Heaven's golden emanation, gleaming mild 
O'er the mean cradle of the Virgin's child .- 
Sudden, the sombrous imagery is fled. 
Which late my visionary rapture fed: 
Thy powerful hand has broke the Gothic chain, 
And brought my bosom back to truth again ; 
To truth, by no peculiar taste confined. 
Whose universal pattern strikes mankind; 
To truth, whose bold and unresisted aim 
Checks frail caprice, and fashion's fickle claim; 
'J'o truth, whose charms deception's magic quell, 
And bind coy Fancy in a stnmger spell. 

Ye brawny Prophets, that in robes so rich. 
At distance due, possess the crisped niche; 
Ye rows of Patriarchs, that sublimely rear'd 
Difl^use a proud primeval length of beard; 
Ye Saints, who, clad in crimson's bright array, 
More pride than humble poverty display : 
Ye Virgins meek, that wear the palmy crown 
Of patient faith, and yet so fiercely frown: 
Ye Angels, that from clouds of gold recline, 
But boust no semblance to a race divine: 
Ye tragic Tales of legendary lore. 
That draw devotion's ready tear no more ; 
Ye Martyrdoms of unenlighten'd days. 
Ye Miincles, that now no wonder raise: 
Shajes, that with one broad glare the gazer 

strike, 
Kings, bishops, nuns, aprtstles, all alike ! 
Ye Colours, that th' unwary sight amaze. 
And only dazzle in the noontide blaze! 
No more the sacred window's round disgrace, 
Uut yield to Grecian groups the shining space. 



Lo, from the canvas Beauty shifts her throne, 
liO, Picture's powers a new formation own ! 
Behold, she prints upon the crystal plain. 
With her own energy, th' expressive stain! 
The mighty Master spreads his mimic toil 
More wide, nor only blends the breathing oil; 
But calls the lineaments of life complete 
From genial alchymy's creative heat; 
Obedient forms to the bright fusion gives, 
While in the warm enamel Nature lives. 

Reynolds, 'tis thine, from the broad window' 
height, 
To add new lustre to religious light: 
Not of its pomp to strip this ancient shrine. 
But bid that pomp with purer radiance shine: 
With arts unknown before, to reconcile 
The willing Graces to the Gothic pile. 



INSCRIPTION IN A HERMITAGE. 

AT A?fSLET-HALL, Uf WARWICKSHIRE. 

Beneath this stony roof reclined, 
I soothe to peace my pensive mind ; 
And while, to shade my lowly cave, 
Embowering elms their umbrage wave; 
And while the maple dish is mine. 
The beechen cup, unstain'd with wine; 
I scorn the gay licentious crowd. 
Nor heed the toys that deck the proud. 

Within my limits lone and still 
The blackbird pipes in artless trill; 
Fast by my couch, congenial guest, 
The wren has wove her mossy nest; 
From busy scenes, and brighter skies, 
To lurk with innocence, she flies; 
Here hopes in safe repose to dwell, 
Nor aught suspects the sylvan cell. 

At morn I take my custom'd round, 
To mark how buds yon shrubby mound; 
And every opening primrose count, 
That trimly paints my blooming mount: 
Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude, 
That grace my gloomy solitude, 
I teach in winding wreathes to stray 
Fantastic ivy's gadding spray. 

At eve, within yon studious nook, 

I ope my brass-embossed book, 

Portray'd with many a holy deed 

Of martyrs, crown'd with heavenly meed; 

Then, as my taper waxes dim. 

Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn; 

And, at the close, the gleams behold 

Of parting wings bedropt with gold. 

While such pure joys my bliss create, 
Who but would smile at guilty state? 
Who but would wish his holy lot 
In calm Oblivion's humble groti 
Who but would cast his pomp away, 
To take my staff, and amice gray ; 
And to the world's tumultuous stage 
Prefer the blameless hermitage 1 



THE HAMLET. 

AN ODB. 

The hinds how hless'd, who ne'er beguiled 
To quit their hamlet's hawthorn wild ; 
Nor haunt the crowd, nor tempt the main, 
For splendid care, and guilty gain ! 

When morning's twilight-tinctured beam 
Strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam, 
They rove abroad in ether blue. 
To dip the scythe in fragrant dew ; 
The sheaf to bind, the beech to fell. 
That nodding shades a craggy dell. 

Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear, 
"Wild nature's sweetest notes they hear: 
On green untrodden banks they view 
The hyacinth's neglected hue: 
In their lone haunts, and woodland rounds, 
They spy the squirrel's airy bounds: 
And startle from her ashen spray, 
Across the glen, the screaming jay : 
Each native charm their steps explore 
Of Solitude's sequester'd store. 

For them the moon with cloudless ray 

Mounts, to illume their homeward way: 

Their weary spirits to relieve, 

The meadow's incense breathe at eve. 

No riot mars the simple fare. 

That o'er a glimmering hearth they share : 

But when the curfew's measured roar 

Duly, the darkening valleys o'er, 

Has echoed from the distant town. 

They wish no beds of cygnet-down, 

No trophied canopies, to close 

Their drooping eyes in quick repose. 

Their little sons, who spread the bloom 
Of health around the clay-built room, 
Or through the primrosed coppice stray, 
Or gambol in the new-mown hay ; 
Or quaintly braid the cowslip-twine, 
Or drive afield the tardy kine ; 
Or hasten from the sultry hill, 
To loiter at the shady rill ; 
Or cli(nb the tall pine's gloomy crest, 
I'o rob the raven's ancient nest. 

Their humble porch with honey'd flowers 
The culling woodbine's sliade embowers: 
From the small garden's thy my mound 
Their bees in busy swarms resound ; 
Nor fell Disease, before his time, 
Hastes to consume life's golden prime: 
But when iheir temples long have wore 
The silver crown of tresses hoar ; 
As studious still calm peace to keep. 
Beneath a flowery turf they sleep. 



THE SUICIDE. 

A.\ ODE. 

Beneath the beech, whose branches bare. 
Sunt with the lightning's livid glare, 
O'erhang the craggy road, 



And whistle hollow as they wave; 
Within a solitary grave, 
A Slayer of himself holds his accursed abode. 

Lower'd the grim morn, in murky dyes 
Damp mists involved the scowling skies, 

And dimm'd the struggling day ; 
As by the brook, that ling'ring laves 
Yon rush-grown moor with sable waves, 
Full of the dark resolve he took his sullen way. 

I mark'd his desultory pace, 

His gestures strange, and varying face. 

With many a mutter'd sound ; 
And ah ! too late, aghast I view'd 
The reeking blade, the hand embrued ; 
He fell, and groaning grasp'd in agony the ground. 

Full many a melancholy night 

He watch'd the slow return of light; 

And sought the powers of sleep. 
To spread a momentary calm 
O'er his sad couch, and in the balm 
Of bland oblivion's dews his burning eyes to steep. 

Full oft, unknowing and unknown. 
He wore his endless noons alone, 

Amid the autumnal wood : 
Oft was he wont, in hasty fit. 
Abrupt the social board to quit, [flood. 

And gaze with eager glance upon the tumbling 

Beckoning the wretch to torments new, 
Despair, for ever in his view, 

A spectre pale, appear'd ; 
While, as the shades of eve aro^e. 
And brought the ilay's unwelcome close, 
More horrible and huge hergiant-shape she rear'd. 

" Is this," mistaken Scorn will cry, 
"Is this the youth whose genius high 

Could build the genuine rhyme? 
Who&e bosom mild the favouring Muse 
Had stored with all her ample views. 
Parent of fairest deeds, and purposes sublime. 

Ah ! from the Muse that bosom mild 
By treacherous magic was beguiled. 

To strike the deathful blow : 
She fill'd his soft ingenuous mind 
With many a feeling too reiined, [woe. 

And roused to livelier pangs his wakeful sense of 

Though doom'd hard penury to prove. 
And the sharp stings of hopeless love ; 

To griefs congenial prone. 
More wounds than nature gave he knew, 
While misery's form his fancy drew 
In dark ideal hues, and horrors not its own. 

Then wish not o'er his earthy tomb 
The baleful nightshade's lurid bloom 

To drop its deadly dew : 
Nor oh ! forbid the twisted thorn. 
That rudely binds his turf forlorn, [anew. 

With spring's green-swelling buds to vegetatf 

What though no marble-piled bust 
Adorn his desolated dust. 

With speaking sculpture wrought ■* 



060 



THOMAS WARTON. 



Pity shall woo the weeping Nine, 
To build a visionary shrine, [brought. 

Hung with unfading flowers, from fairy regions 

What though refused each chanted rite? 
Here viewless mourners shall delight 

To touch the shadowy shell : 
And Petrarch's harp, that wept the doom 
Of Laura, lost in early bloom, [knell. 

In many a pensive pause shall seem to ring his 

To soothe a lone, unhallow'd shade, 
This votive dirge sad duty paid, 

Within an ivied nook: 
Sudden the half-sunk orb of day 
More radiant shot its parting ray, [took. 

And thus a cherub-voice my charm'd attention 

" Forbear, fond bard, thy ])artial praise ; 
Nor thus for guilt in specious lays 

The wreath of glory twine: 
In vain with hues of gorgeous glow 
Gay Fancy gives her vest to flow, [confine. 
Unless Truth's matron-hand the floating folds 

" Just Heaven, man's fortitude to prove, 
Permits through life at large to rove 

The tribes of hell-born Woe: 
Yet the same power that wisely sends 
Life's fiercest ills, indulgent lends 
Religion's golden shield to break the embattled foe. 

"Her aid divine had lull'd to rest 

Yon foul self-murderer's throbbing breast. 

And stay'd the rising storm : 
Had bade the sun of hope appear 
To gild his darken'd hemisphere, [form. 

And give the wonted bloom to nature's blasted 

"Vain Man ! 'tis Heaven's prerogative 
To take, what first it deign'd to give. 

Thy tributary breath : 
In awful expectation placed. 
Await thy doom, nor impious haste [death." 
To pluck from God's right hand his instruments of 



THE CRUSADE. 

AN ODE. 

BouNT) for holy Palestine, 
Nimbly we brush'd the level brine, 
All in azure steel array'd ; 
O'er the wave our weapons play'd, 
And made the dancing billows glow ; 
High upon the trophicd prow. 
Many a warrior-minstrel swung 
His sounding harp, and boldly sung: 

" Syrian virgins, wail and weep, 
English Richard ploughs the deep ! 
Tremble, watchmen, as ye spy. 
From distant towers, with anxious eye. 
The radiant range of shield and lance 
Down Damascus' hills advance: 
From Sion's turrets as afar 
Ye ken the march of Europe's war ! 
Saladin, thou paynim king. 
From Albion's isle revenge we bring ! 



On Aeon's spiry citadel, 

Thougli to the gale thy banners swell. 

Pictured with the silver moon ; 

England shall end thy glory soon ! 

In vain, to break our firm array. 

Thy brazen drums hoarse discord bray: 

Those sounds our rising fury fan : 

English Richard in the van, 

On to victory we go, 

A vaunting infidel the foe." 

Blondel led the tuneful band, 
And swept the wire with glowing hand. 
Cyprus, from her rocky (nound. 
And Crete, with piny verdure crown'd, 
Far along the smiling main 
Echoed the prophetic strain. 

Soon we kiss'd the sacred earth 
That gave a murder'd Saviour birth; 
Then, with ardour fresh endued, 
Thus the solemn song renew'd. 

" Lo, the toilsome voyage past, 
Heaven's favour'd hills appear at last! 
Object of our holy vow. 
We tread the Tyrian valleys now. 
From Carmel's almond-shaded steep 
We feel the cheering fragrance creep: 
O'er Engaddi's shrubs of balm 
Waves the date-empurpled palm. 
See Lebanon's aspiring head 
Wide his immortal umbrage spread ! 
Hail, Calvary, thou mountain hoar, 
Wet with our Redeemer's gore ! 
Ye trampled tombs, ye fanes forlorn. 
Ye stones, by tears of pilgrims worn ; 
Your ravish'd honours to restore. 
Fearless we climb this hostile shore ! 
And thou, the sepulchre of God ! 
By mocking pagans rudely trod, 
Bereft of every awful rite, 
And quench'd thy lamps that beam'd so 

bright; 
For thee, from Britain's distant coast, 
Lo, Richard leads his faithful host ! 
Aloft in his heroic hand. 
Blazing, like the beacon's brand, 
O'er the far-afl'righted fields, 
Resistless Kalihurn he wields. 
Proud Saracen, pollute no more 
The shrines by martyrs built of yore! 
From each wild mountain's trackless crown 
In vain thy gloomy castles frown ; 
Thy battering engines, huge and high, 
In vain our steel-clad steeds defy ; 
And, rolling in terrific state. 
On giant-wheels harsh thunders grate. 
When eve has hush'd the buzzing camp, 
Amid the moonlight vapours damp, 
Thy necromantic forms, in vain, 
Haunt us on the tented plain : 
We bid those spectre-shapes avaunt, 
Ashtaroth, and Termagaunt ! 
With many a demon pale of hue, 
Doom'd to drink the bitter dew 
That drops from Macon's sooty tree, 
Mid the dread grove of ebony. 



THOMAS 


WTARTON. 661 


Nor ma^ic charms, nor fipiiils of bell, 


O'er his wounds she sprinkled dew 


The Christian's holy courage quell. 


From flowers that in Arabia grew: 


Salem, in ancient majesty 


On a rich inchanted bed 


Arise, and lift thee to the sky ! 


She pillow'd his majestic head ; 


Soon on thy battlements divine 


O'er his brow, with whispers bland, 


Shall wave the badge of Constantino I 


Thrice she waved an opiate wand; 


Ye Barons, to the sun unfold 


And to soft music's airy sound. 


Our Cross with crimson wove and gold !" 


Her magic curtains closed around. 




There, renew'd the vital spring, 
Again he reigns a mighty king ; 


* 


THE GEAVE OF KING ARTHUR. 


And many a fair and fragrant clime. 




Blooming in immortal prime. 


AN ODE. 


By gales of Eden ever fann'd. 


Stately the feast, and high the cheer: 


Owns the monarch's high command- 


Girt with many an armed peer, 


Thence to Britain shall return. 


And canopied with golden pall, 


(If right prophetic rolls I learn,) 


Amid Cdgarran's castle hall. 


Borne on victory's spreading plume, 


Sublime in formidable state. 


His ancient sceptre to resume ; 


And warlike splendour, Henry sate; 


Once more, in old heroic pride. 


Prepared to stain the briny flood 


His barbed courser to bestride; 


Of Shannon's lakes with rebel blood. 


His knightly table to restore, 


Illumining the vaulted roof: 


And brave the tournaments of yore." 


A thousand torches flamed aloof: 


They ceased : when on the tuneful stage 


From massy cups, with galden gleam 


Advanced a bard, of aspect sage ; 


Sparkled the red metheglin's stream : 


His silver tresses, thin besprent. 


To grace the gorgeous festival. 


To age a graceful reverence lent ; 


Along the lofty window'd hall, 


His beard, all white as spangles frore 


The storied tapestry was hung: 


That clothe Plinlimmon's forests hoar. 


With minstrelsy the rafters rung 


Down to his harp descending flow'd ; 


Of harps that with reflected light 


With Time's faint rose his features glow'd ; 


From the proud gallery glitter'd bright: 


His eyes diff'uspcl a soften'd fire, 


While gifted bards, a rival throng. 


And thus he waked the warbling wire. 


(From distant Mona, nurse of song. 


"Listen, Henry, to my rede! 


From Teivi, fringed with umbrage brown, . 


Not from fairy realms I lead 


From Elvy's vale, and Cader's crown, 


Bright-robed Tradition, to relate 


From many a shaggy precipice. 


In forged colours Arthur's fate; 


That shades lerne's hoarse abyss, 


Though much of old rouiantic lore 


And many a sunless solitude 


On the high theme I keep in store: 


Of Radnor's inmost mountains rude,) 


But boastful Fiction should be dumb. 


To crown the banquet's solemn close, 


Where Truth the strain might best become. 


Themes of British glory chose ; 


If thine ear may still be won 


And to the strings of various chime 


With songs of Uther's glorious son. 


Atternper'd thus the fabling rhyme. 


Henry, I a tale unfold. 


" O'er Cornwall's cliffs the tempest roar'd, 


Never yet in rhyme enroH'd, 


High the screaming sea-mew soar'd ; 


Nor sung nor harp'd in hall or bower; 


On Tintaggel's topmost tower 


Which in my youth's full early flower. 


' Darksome fell the sleety sliower ; 


A minstrel, sprung of Cornish line. 


Round the rough castle shdily sung 


Who spoke of kings from old Locrine, 


The whirling blast, and wildly flung 


Taught me to chant, one vernal dawn, 


On each tall rampart's thundering side 


Deep in a diff'-encircled lawn. 


The surges of the tumliling tide: 


What time the glistening vapours fled 


When Arthur ranged his red-cross ranks 


From cloud-enveloped Clyder's head; 


On conscious Camlan's crimson'd banks: 


And on its sides the torrents gray 


By Mordred's faithless guile decreed 


Shone to the morning's orient ray. 


Beneath a Saxon spear to bleed ! 


" When Arthur bow'd his haughty crest. 


Yet in vain a paynim foe 


No princess, ved'd in azure vest, 


Arm'd with fate the mighty Mow; 


Snatch'd him, by Merlin's p. tent spell, 


For when he fell, an elfin queen. 


In groves of golden bliss to dwell; 


All in secret, and unseen, 


Where, crown'd with wreaths of misletoe. 


O'er the fainting hero threw 


Slaughter'd kings in glory go : 


Her mantle of ambrosial blue: 


But when he fell, with winged speed, 


And bade her spirits bear him far. 


His champions, on a milk-white steed, 


In Merlin's agate-axled car. 


From the battle's hurricane. 


To her green isle's enamell'd steep. 


Bore him to Joseph's tower'd fane. 


Far in the navel of the deep. 


o i- 



THOMAS BLACKLOCK. 



In the fair vale of Avalon :* 

There, with chanted (irison, 

And tb-^ long blaze of tapers clear, 

The stoied fathers met the bier; 

Through the dim aisles in order dread 

Of martial woe, the chief they led, 

And deep entonib'd in holy ground, 

Before the altar's solemn bound. 

Around no dusky banners wave, 

No mouldering trophies mark the grave : 

Away the ruthless Dane has torn 

Each trace that 'J'mie's slow touch had worn ; 

And long, o'er the neglected stone, 

Oblivion's vail its shade has thrown: 

The faded tomb, with honour due, 

'Tis thine, O Henry, to renew ! 

Thither, when Conquest has restored 

Yon recreant isle, and sheath'd the sword, 

When peace with palm has crown'd thy brows, 

Haste thee, to pay thy pilgrim vows. 

There, observant of my lore. 

The pavement's hallow'd depth explore ; 

And thrice a fathom underneath 

Dive into the vaults of death. 

There shall thine eye, with wild amaze, 

On his gigantic stature gaze; 

There shall thou find the monarch laid, 

All in warrior-weeds array'd ; 

Wearing in death his helmet-crown, 

And weapons huge of old renown. 

Martial prince, 'tis thine to save 

From dark oblivion Arthur's grave! 

So may thy ships securely stem 

The western frith : thy diadem 

Shine victorious in the van. 

Nor heed the slings of Ulster's clan : 

Thy Norman pikemen win their way 

Up the dun rocks of Harald's bay I'f 

And from the steeps of rough Kildare 

Thy prancing hoofs the falcon scare : 

So may thy bow's unerring yew 

Its shai'ts in Roderick's heart imbrue." 



Amid the pealing symphony 
The spiced goblets mantled high ; 
With passions new the song impress'd 
The listening king's impatient breast: 
Flash the keen lightnings from his eyes; 
He scorns awhile his hold emprise ; 
E'en now he seems, with eager pace, 
The consecrated floor to trace, 
And ope, from its tremendous gloom, 
The treasure of the wondrous tomb: 
E'en now he burns in thought to rear, 
From its dark bed, the ponderous spear. 
Rough with the gore of Pictish kings : 
E'en now fond hope his fancy wings, 
To poise the monarch's massy blade. 
Of magic-temper'd metal made ; 
And drag to day the dinted shield 
That felt the storm of Camlan's field. 
O'er the sepulchre profound 
E'en now, with arching sculpture crown'd, 
He plans the chantry's choral shrine. 
The daily dirge, and rites divine. 



WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WHTON HOUSE. 

From Pembroke's princely dome, where mimic 
Art 
Decks with a magic hand the dazzling bowers, 
Its living hues where the warm pencil pours. 
And breathing forms ficm the rude marble start, 
How to life's humbler scene can I depart ! 
My breast all glowing from those gorgeous towers, 
In my low cell how cheat the sullen hours ! 
Vain the complaint: for Fancy can impart 
(To Fate superior and to Fortune's doom) 
Whate'cr adorns the stately storied hall: 
She, 'mid the dungeon's solitary gloom. 
Can dress the Graces in their Attic pall; 
Bid the green landscape's vernal beauty bloom, 
And in bright trophies clothe the twilight wall. 



THOMAS BLACKLOCK. 



Thomas Blacklock was born at Annan, in 
Dumfriesshire, where his father was a brick- 
layer. Before he was six months old he was 
totally deprived of sight by the small-pox. From 
an early age he discovered a fondness for listen- 
ing to books, especially to those in poetry ; and 
by the kindness of his friends and relations, he 
acquired a slight acquaintance with the Latin 
tongue, and with some of the popular English 
classics. He began also, when very young, to 

[* Glastonliury Abbey, said to le four.dod by .Tosepli of 
Arimathea, in a spjt auiienlly ca.kd the island, or valley 
of Avalonia.] 

(t The bay of Dublin. H:TaId, or Harsaper, tl.e Fair- 
hniiH'd King nf Norway, is >aid to have comiuereJ lreUii.d, 
and to have founded JJubliu.l 



compose verses ; and some of these having been 
shown to Dr. Stevenson, an eminent physician 
of the Scottish capital, the doctor benevolently 
took him to Edinburgh, where Blacklock improved 
his knowledge of Latin, and completed his studies 
at the university. The publication of his poems 
excited a general interest in his favour, and 
Professor Spence, of Oxford, having prefixed to 
them an account of his life and character, a 
second edition of them was liberally encouraged 
in London. In 1759, he was licensed as a 
preacher of the Scottish church. He soon after- 
ward married a Miss Johnston, a very worthy, 
but homely woman ; whose beauty, however, he 
was accustomed to extol with an ecstasy that 



THOMAS BLACKLOCK. 



663 



made his friends regard his blindness, as, in one 
instance, no misfortune. By the patronage of 
the Earl of Selkirk, he was presented to the 
living of Kirkcudbright; but in consequence of 
the violent objections that were made by the 
parishioners to having a blind man for their 
clergyman, he resigned the living, and accepted 
of a small annuity in its stead. With this slen- 
der provision he returned to Edinburgh, and sub- 
sisted, for the rest of his life, by taking young 
gentlemen as boarders in his house, whom he 
occasionally assisted in their studies. 

He published an interesting article on Blind- 
ness in the Encyclopajdia Britannica, and a work 
entitled " Paraclesis, or Consolations of Religion," 
in two dissertations, the one original, the other 
translated from a work which has been sometimes 
ascril)ed to Cicero, but which is more generally 
believed to have been written by Vigonius of 
Padua. He died of a nervous fever, at the age 
of seventy. 

Blacklock was a gentle and social being, but 
prone to melancholy ; probably more from con- 
stitution than from the circumstance of his 
blindness, which he so often and so deeply de- 
plores. From this despondent disposition, he 
sought refuge in conversation and music. He 



was a tolerable performer on the flute, and 
used to carry a flageolet in his pocket, on 
which he was not displeased to be solicited for a 
tune. 

His verses are extraordinary for a man blind 
from his infancy; but Mr. Henry Mackenzie, in 
his elegant biographical account of him, has cer- 
tainly over-rated his genius; and when Mr. 
Spence, of Oxford, submitted Blacklock's de- 
scriptive powers as a problem for metaphysicians 
to resolve, he attributed to his writings a degree 
of descriptive strength which they do not possess. 
Denina* carried exaggeration to the utmost 
when he declared that Blacklock would seem a 
fable to posterity, as he had been a prodigy to 
his contemporaries. It is no doubt curious 
that his memory should have retained so many 
forms of expression for things which he had never 
seen; but those who have conversed with intel- 
ligent persons who have been blind from their 
infancy, must have often remarked in them a 
familiarity of language respecting the objects of 
vision which, though not easy to be accounted for, 
will be found sufficiently common to make the 
rhymes of Blacklock appear far short of mar- 
vellous. Blacklock, on more than one occasion, 
betrays something like marks of blindness.f 



THE AUTHOR'S PICTURE. 

While in my matchless graces wrapt I stand. 
And touch each feature with a trembling hand ; 
Deign, lovely self! with art and nature's pride, 
To mix the colours, and the pencil guide. 

Self is the grand pursuit of half mankind; 
How vast a crowd by self, like me, are blind ! 
By self the fop in magic colours shown. 
Though scorn'd by every eye, delights his own: 
When age and wrinkles seize the conqu'ring maid. 
Self, not the glass, reflects the flattering shade. 
Then, wonder-working self! begin the lay; 
Thy charms to others as to me display. 

Straight is my person, but of little size ; 
Lean are my cheeks, and hollow are my eyes; 
My youthful down is, hke my talents, rare ; 
Politely distant stands each single hair. 
My voice too rough to charm a lady's ear; 
So smooth a child may listen without fear; 
Not form'd in cadence soft and warbling lays, 
Tosoothe the fairthrough pleasure's wanton ways. 
My form so fine, so regular, so new. 
My port so manly, and so fresh my hue ; 
Oft, as I meet the crowd, they laughing say, 
" See, see Memento Mori cross the way." 
The ravish'd Proserpine at last, we know. 
Grew fondly jealous of her sable beau ; 
But, thanks to nnture! none from me need fly; 
One heart the devil could wound — so cannot I. 

Yet, though my person fearless may be seen. 
There is some danger in my graceful mien : 
For, as some vessel toss'd by .wind and tide. 
Bounds o'er the waves and rocks from side to 
side ; 



In just vibration thus I always move: 

This who can view and not be forced to love ] 

Hail ! charming self! by whose propitious aid 
My form in all its glory stands display'd: 
Be present still ; with inspiration kind, 
Let the same faithful colours paint the mind. 

Like all mankind, with vanity I'm bless'd. 
Conscious of wit I never yet possess'd. 
To strong desires my heart an easy prey. 
Oft feels their force, but never owns their sway. 
This hour, perhaps, as death I hate my foe; 
The next, I wonder why I should do so. 
Though poor, the rich I view with careless eye 
Scorn a vain oath, and hate a serious lie. 
I ne'er for satire torture common sense; 
Nor show my wit at God's nor man's expense. 
Harmless I live, unknowing and unknown ; 
Wish well to all, and yet do good to none. 
Unmerited contempt I hate to bear; 
Yet on my faults, like others, am severe. 
Dishonest flames my bosom never fire ; 
The bad I pity, and the good admire ; 
Fond of the Muse, to her devote my days. 
And scribble — not for pudding, but for praise. 

These careless lines, if any virgin hears. 
Perhaps, in pity to my joyless years. 
She may consent a generous flame to own ; 
And I no longer sigh the nights alone. 
But should the fair, affected, vain, or nice, 
Scream with the fears inspired by frogs or mice ; 

* In his Disc rso della Literatura. 

[t Blacklcick's poetry sleeps fe'ure in undisturbed me 
diocrity. and Blacklock him-e.'f is best rememlerp.1 t om 
Johnson's rnweidial lonk and tlie influence a letter o) lii« 
bud upon the fate and fortunes of Burns.] 



664 



WILLIAM HAYWARD ROBERTS. 



Cry, " Save us, heaven ! a spectre, not a man !' 
Her hartshorn snatch or interpose her fan : 
If I my tender overture repeat; 
Oh ! may my vows her kind reception meet ! 
May she new graces on my form bestow. 
And with tall honours dignify my brow ! 



ODE TO AURORA, ON MELISSA'S BIRTHDAY. 

Of time and nature eldest born, 

Emerge, thou rosy-finger'd morn, 

Emerge, in purest dress array'd, 

And chase from Heaven night's envious shade 

That I once more may, pleased, survey, 

And hail Melissa's natal day. 

Of time and nature eldest born. 
Emerge, thou rosy-finger'd morn; 



In order at the eastern gate 
The Hours to draw thy chariot wait; 
Whilst zephyr, on his balmy wings, 
Mild nature's fragrant tribute brings, 
With odours sweet to strew thy way, 
And grace the bland revolving day. 

But as thou lead'st the radiant sphere, 

That gilds its birth, and marks the year, 

And as his stronger glories rise, 

Diifused around th' expanded skies. 

Till clothed with beams serenely bright, 

All Heaven's vast concave flames with light; 

So, when, through life's protracted day, 

Melissa still pursues her way. 

Her virtues with thy splendour vie, 

Increasing to the mental eye : 

Though less conspicuous, not less dear, 

Long may they Bion's prospect cheer; 

So shall his heart no more repine, 

Bless'd with her rays, though robb'd of thine. 



WILLIAM HAYWARD ROBERTS. 

[Born, 1745. Died, 1791J 



Hk was educated at Eton, and from thence was 
elected to King's college, Cambridge, where he 
took the degree of master of arts, and of doctor 
in divinity. From being an under-master at 
Eton he finally rose to be provost of the college, 
ill the year 1781. He was also chaplain to the 
king, and rector of Farnham Royal, in Bucking- 



hamshire. In 1771 he published, in three parts, 
" A Poetical Essay on the Attributes and Provi- 
dence of the Deity." Two years afterward, 
"A Poetical Epistle to Christopher Anstey, on 
the English Poets, chiefly those who had written 
in blank verse ;" and in 1774, his poem of 
" Judah Restored," a work of no common merit. 



FROM "JUDAH RESTORED." 

BOOK I. 

The .subject proposed — State of the .Tews in Captivity — 
CliHracter of Belshazzar — Feast of Baal — Daniel visited 
hy the Angel Gabriel. 

The fall of proud Belshazzar, the return 
Of Benjamin, and Judah, captive tribes, 
I sing. Spirit of God, who to the eyes 
Of holy seers in vision didst reveal 
Events far distant; thou who once didst touch 
Their lips with heavenly fire, and tune their harps 
To strains sublimcr than the Tuscan stream 
Caught from his Latian bards, or echoed round 
'I'he wide ^Egean from Ionia's shore, 
Inspire my soul; bless'd spirit, aid my song. 

'i'he sun full seventy times had pass'd the realm 
Of burning Scorpius, and was hastening down 
The steep convex of heaven, since Babylon 
Received her mourning prisoners. Savage taunts. 
And the rude insult of their barbarous lords, 
Einl)itter all their woe. Meanwhile the Law, 
Pioclaim'd on Horeb's top, neglected lies; 
Nor kid, nor evening lamb, nor heifer bleeds. 
Nor incense smokes, nor holy Levite claims 
Choice fruits, and rich oblations. On the trees. 
That o'er the waters bend, their untuned harps. 
Harps which their fathers struck to festal hymns. 
Hang useless. 'Twas the hill, 'twas Sion's hill, 



Which yet Jehovah loved. There once he dwelt; 
There stood his temple ; there from side to side 
The cherub stretch'd his wings, and from the cloud 
Beam'd bright celestial radiance. Thence, though 
In early childhood to a stranger's land, [driven 
Or born sad heirs of slavery, still they cast 
An anxious look from Perath's willowy vale. 
Toward Jordan, sacred stream ; and when the sun 
Sunk in the west, with eager eye pursued 
His parting beams; and pointed to the place. 
Where from their sight the faint horizon hid. 
Those hills, which round deserted Salem's walls 
Stood like a bulwark. And as some tired hart. 
Driven by keen hunters o'er the champain wild, 
j Pants for the running brook, so long the tribes 
Of captive Judah for their native clime. 
Again to sing the strains of Jesse's son. 
Again to raise a temple to their God. 

But, qh ! what hope, what prospect of return, 
While fierce Belshazzar reigns? He, undismay'd 
Though hostile banners stream near Babels towers, 
Round his gall'd prisoners binds the griping chain, 
And scofts at Judah's God. Even now a shout 
Is heard through every street, and with loud voice 
Arioch, an herald tall, proclaims a feast 
To Bel. Chaldaan- idol ; and commands 
That when the morrow davi'ns, soon as is heard 
The sound of cornet, dulcimer, and harp, 



WILLIAM HAYWARD ROBERTS. 



Rackbut, ami psaltery, each knee be bent 
Before the mighty dragon. ^Silent stand, 
With eyes dejected, Solyma's sad sons. 
Shall they comply ] but will .lehovah then 
E'er lead them back to Canaan, pleasant land] 
Shall they refuse ? but who, oh ! who shall check 
Belshazzar's waken'd wrath? who shall endure 
The burning cauldron, or what lingering death 
The tyrant's cruel vengeance may devise 1 
Thus they irresolute wait the fotal hour. 

JNow night invests the pole : wrapt is the world 
In awful silence ; not a voice is heard, 
Nor din of arms, nor sound of distant foot, 
Through the still gloom. EuphratesluUshis waves, 
Which sparkle to the moon's reflected beam ; 
Nor does one sage from Babylon's high towers 
Descry the planets, or the fix'd, and mark 
Their distance or their number. Sunk to rest, 
With all her horrors of the morrow's doom, 
liies Sion's captive daughter : sleep, soft sleep. 
His dusky mantle draws o'er every eye. 
But not on Daniel's unpillow'd head 
One opiate dew-drop falls. Much he revolves 
Dark sentences of old; much pious zeal 
For great Jehovah's honour fires his soul; 
And thus, with lifted hands, the prophet cries. 

"Father of truth, and mercy, thou whose arm 
Even from the day when Abraham heard thy voice, 
Stretch'd o'er thy chosen race, protects us still. 
Though now awhile thou suffer us to groan 
Beneath a tyrant's yoke; when, gracious Lord, 
Oh when shall we return? Oh when again 
Shall Siloa's banks, and Sion's holy top. 
Be vocal with thy name 1 Said not thy seer, 
When seventy tedious moons had twelve times 

waned, , 

We should again be free? Behold, the day 
Approaches. God of Israel, hath ought changed 
Thine everlasting counsel ? wilt thou leave 
Thy people yet in sad captivity. 
And jc'ii thy prophet with the despised tribe 
Of Babel's false diviners? Not to thee, 
But to great Bel, Chaldsea's frantic priests 
Waft clouds of incense. Soon as morning dawns, 
With shouts the noisy revellers will proclaim 
The triumfih of their God ; nor will they cease 
To rouse their monarch's rage, should Judah dare 
Resist his impious edict. Then, oh then, 
God of our fathers, rise; and in that day, 
Even before night, whose vaulted arch now shines 
With clustering stars, shall visit earth again, 
Confound their horrid rites, and show some sign 
That yet aga'n thy prisoners shall be free." 

He spake, and sudden heard a rushing noise, 
\s when a north-west gale comes hovering round 
8onie cape, the point of spacious continent, 
Or in the Indian or Pacific main ; 
The sailor hears it whistling in his shrouds. 
And bids it hail. Bright as the summer's noon 
Shone all the earth. Before the prophet stood 
Gabriel, seraphic form ; graceful his port. 
Mild was his eye; yet such as might command 
Reverence, and sacred awe, by purest love 
Soften'd, but not impair'd. In waving curls 
0'<»r his arch'd neck his golden tresses hung; 



And on his shoulders two broad wind's were 

placed, 
Wings, which when closed, drew up in many a 

fold. 
But, when extended to their utmost length. 
Were twice ten cubits. Two of smaller size 
Came shadowing round his feet, with which he 

trod 
The elastic air, and walk'd o'er buoyant space, 
As on firm ground. A tunic braced his limbs, 
Blanch'd in the fields of light; and round his waist 
Was clasp'd an azure zone, with lucid stars 
All studded, like that circle broad which cuts 
The equator, burning line. The astonish'd seer 
With low obeisance bow'd his hoary head. 
While thus in voice benign the cherub spake. 

" Servant of God, that prayer was not unlieard 
In heaven. I caught it, as before the throne 
I stood, within the emerald bow, and, mix'd 
With fragrant incense, offer'd it to him, 
The white-robed Ancient of eternal days, 
Even on his golden altar. Forthwith sent 
To thee, with speed impetuous, swifter far 
Than travels light's meridian beam, through realms 
Of space, studded with worlds, which neither 

thought 
Of mortal can conceive, nor numbers count, 
I come, God's messenger. Not twice the morn 
Shall dawn, ere all the woes which Saleiri felt 
Shall fall on Babylon. This, this is he. 
Whose streamers now round these devoted towers 
Wave to the western wind, whom God hath raised 
His instrument of vengeance. Twice hath pass'd 
A century, since him the prophet styled 
Cyrus, the Lord's anointed. He shall say, 
Cities of Judah, rise! He shall command, 
And Solyma's unpeopled streets again 
Shall throng with busy multitudes. To him 
In vision, or in dream, shall God reveal 
His secret purpose; or what other way 
His power shall mould the victor's ductile will 
To execute his promise. One day more 
Shall proud Chaldsea triumph. In that day 
Let not a knee in B.enjamin be bow'd 
Save to Jehovah. What though cruel pHde 
Inflame Belshazzar's soul ! what though his wrath 
Torments unknown prepare; a sign from Heaven 
Shall blast each vain device, a sign obscure. 
But terrible. Ask not what ; for in that hour 
Shall beam celestial knowledge on thy soul, 
And thou shall read the mystic characters 
Of dark futurity. Fear not his frown ; 
But in the sight of his assembled peers 
Hurl bold defiance at his throne; and speak 
As fits a prophet of the living God." 

He spake, nor ended here ; but to the seer 
Matters of import high disclosed, which lay 
Deep in the womb of time. " And these," he 

cried, 
" Record to distant ages, but conceal 
My present errand." Daniel prepared 
Obedient answer; but before he spake, 
Gabriel had furl'd his wings, and now had reaeh'd 
The middle space 'twixt earth, and highest 

heaven. 

3r2 



666 



WILLIAM HAYWARD ROBERTS. 



FROM THE SAME. 

ProcePSicn of the ChaM«an« to thu Temnle of Beliis— T?6- 

fusal of t'le .Tew-J to worship the Iclnl — Huge of Ui'l haz- 

zir— The hanj-writiug on the wall of his palace— 

Daniel's prophecy. 

Now Morn, with rosy-colour'tl finj^er, raised 
The sable pall, which provident Night had thrown 
O'er mortals, and their works, when every street, 
Straight or transverse, that toward Euphrates 

turns 
Its sloping path, resounds with festive shouts, 
And teems with hu.sy multitudes, which press 
M^ith zeal impetuous to the towering fane 
Of Bel. Chaldsean Jove; surpassing far 
That Doric temple, which the Elean chiefs 
Raised to (heir thunderer from the spoils of war, 
Or that Ionic, where the Ephesian hovv'd 
To Dian, queen of heaven. Eight towers arise, 
Each above each, immeasurable height, 
A monument at once of eastern pride 
And slavish superstition. Round, a scale 
Of circling steps entwines the conic pile; 
And at the bottom on vast hinges grate 
Fourbrazen gates, toward the four winds of heaven 
Placed in the solid square. Hither at once 
Come flocking all the sons of Babylon, 
Cbildaean or Assyrian; but retire 
With hutnblest awe, while through their niar- 

shall'd ranks 
Stalks proud Belshazzar. From his shoulders flows 
A robe, twice steep'd in rich Sidonian hues. 
Whose skirts, embroider'd with meand'ring gold. 
Sweep o'er the marble pavement. Round his 

neck 
A broad chain glitters, set with richest gems, 
Ruby, and amethyst. The priests come next, 
With knives, and lancets arm'd ; two thousand 

sheep 
And twice two thousand lambs stand bleating 

round. 
Their hungry god's repast: six loaded wains 
With wine, and frankincense, and finest flour, 
Move slowly. Then advance a gallant band. 
Provincial rulers, counsellors, and chiefs, 
Judges and princes : from their essenced hair 
Steam rich perfumes, exhaled from flower or herb, 
As.syrian spices : last, the common train 
Of humbler citizens. A linen vest 
Enfolds their limbs; o'er which a robe of wool 
Is clasp'd, while yet a third hangs white as snow, 
Even to their sandall'd feet: a signet each, 
Each bears a polish'd staff, on whose smooth top 
In bold relief some well-carved emblem stands, 
Biid, fruit, or flower. Determined, though dis- 

may'd, 
Juda;a's mourning prisoners close the rear. 

And now the unfolded gates on every side 
Admit the splendid train, and to their eyes 
A scene of rich magnificence display, 
('ensers, and cups, and vases, nicely wrought 
In gold with pearls and glittering gems inlaid, 
The furniture of Baal. An altar stands 
Of vast dimensions near the central stone. 
On which the god's high-priest strews frank- 
incense. 



In weight a thousand talents. There he drags 
The struggling elders of the flock; while near, 
Stretch'd on a smaller plate of unmixM gold, 
Bleed the reluctant lambs. The ascending smoke, 
Impregnate with perfumes, fills all the air. 

These rites perform'd, his votaries all advance 
Where stamls their idol ; to compare with whom 
That earth-born crew, which scaled the walls of 

heaven. 
Or that vast champion of Philistia's host, 
Whom in the vale of Elah David slew 
Unarm'd, were 'minish'd to a span. In height 
Twice twenty feet he rises from the ground; 
And every massy limb, and every joint, 
Is carved in due proportion. Not one mine, 
Though branching out in many a vein of gold. 
Sufficed for this huge column. Him the priests 
Had swept, and burnish'd, and perfumed with oils 
Essential odours. Now the sign is given, 
And forthwith strains of mixed melody 
Proclaim their molten thunderer; cornet, flute 
Harp, sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, unite 
In loud triumphal hymn, and all at once 
The King, the nations, and the languages 
Fall prostrate on the ground. But not a head, 
But not one head in all thy faithful bands, 
O .ludah, bows. As when the full-orb'd moon, 
What time the reaper chants his harvest so;ig, 
Ri--:es behind some horizontal hill. 
Flaming with reddest fire; still as she moves, 
The tints all soften, and a yellower light 
Gleams through the ridges of a purple cloud: 
At length, when midnight holds her silent reign, 
Changed to a silver white, she holds her lamp 
O'er the belated traveller; so thy face, 
Belshazzar, from the crimson glow of rage. 
Shifting through all the various hues between. 
Settles into a wan and bloodless pale. 
Thine eyeballs glare with fire. "Now,bygroat Bel," 
Incensed, exclaims the monarch, "soon as morn 
Again shall dawn, my vengeance sh^ll be pour'd 
On every head of their detested race." 

He spake, and left the fane with hasty step. 
Indignant. Him a thousand lords attend, 
The minions of his court. And now they reach 
The stately palace. In a spacious hall, 
Fromwhose high roof seven sparkling lustres hang, 
Round the perpetual board high sofas ranged 
Receive the gallant chiefs. The floor is spread 
With carpels, work'd in Babylonia's looms. 
Exquisite art; rich vessels carved in gold. 
In silver, and in ivory, beam with gems. 
'Midst these is placed whate'er of massy plate, 
Or holy ornament, Nebassar brought 
From Sion's ransack'd temple ; lamps, and cups, 
And bowls, now sparkling with the richest growth 
Of Eastern vineyards. On the table smokes 
All that can rouse the Ijinguid appetite. 
Barbaric luxury. Soft minstrels round 
Chant songs of triumph to symphonious harps. 
Propt on a golden couch Belshazzar lies, 
While on each side fair slaves of Syrian race 
By turns solicit with some amorous tale 
The monarch's melting heart. " Fill me," he 
cries, 



WILLIAM HAYWARD ROBERTS. 



667 



"1 hat largest bowl, with which the Jewish slaves 
Once deck'd the altar of their vanquish'd God. 
Never a^ain shall this capacious gold 
Receive their victims' blood. Henceforth the kings 
Of Babylon, oft as this feast returns, 
Shall crown it with rich wine, nectarious draught. 
Fill high the foaming goblet; rise, my friends; 
And as I quaff' the cup, with loud acclaim 
Thrice hail to Bel." They rose; when all at once 
Such sound was heard, as when the roaring winds 
Burst from their cave, and with impetuous rage 
Sweep o'er the Caspian or the Chronian deep. 
0"er the devoted walls the gate of heaven 
Thtinder'd, an hideous peal; and, lo ! a cloud 
Came darkening all the banquet, whence appear'd 
A hand (if hand it were, or airy form, 
Compound of light and shade) on the adverse wall 
Tracing strange characters. Belshazzar saw, 
And trembled : from his lips the go!)leti fell : 
He look'd again ; perhaps it was a dream ; 
Thrice, four times did he look; and every time 
Still plainer did the mystic lines appear, 
Indelible. Forthwith he summons all 
The wise Chahlseans, who by night consult 
The starry signs, anil in each planet read 
The dark decrees of fate. Silent they stand; 
V^ain are their boasted charms. With eager step 
Merodach's royal widow hastes to cheer 
Her trembling son. " O king, for ever live ; 
Why droops thy soull" shecries; "what though 

this herd 
Of sage magicians own their vanquish'd art, 
Know'st thou not Daniel ? In his heart resides 
'I'he spirit of holy Gods ; 'tw-is he who told 
Thy father strange events, and terrible; 
Nor did Nebassar honour one like him 
'J'hrough all his spacious kingdom. He shall soon 
Dispel thy doubts, and all thy fears allay." 
She spake, and with obeisance low retired. 

"Then be it so ; haste, Arioch, le.ad him here," 
Belshazzar cries; "if he interpret right, 
Even though my soul in just abhorrence holds 
His hatred race, I will revoke their doom. 
And shower rich honours on their prophet's head." 

Nor long he waited, when with graceful step. 
And awe-commanding eye, solemn and slow, 
As conscious of superior dignity, 
Daniel advanced. Time o'er his hoary hair 
Had shed his white snows. Behind him stream'd 
A mantle, ensign of prophetic powers, 
Like that with which inspired Eli'-ha smote 
The parting waters, what time on the bank 
Ol .Ionian from the clouds a fiery car 
Descended, and by flaming coursers drawn 
Bore the sage Tishbite to celestial climes, 
Maugre the gates of death. A wand he bore — 
'J'hat wand by whose mysterious properties 
'J'he shepherd of Horeb call'd the refluent waves 
O'et Pharaoh and his ho.st, with which he struck 
The harren flint, when from the riven cliff 
Gusb'd streams, and water'd all the thirsty tribes 
Of murmuring Israel. Through many an age 
Within the tein|ile's unapproached veil. 
Fast by the rod, which bloom'd o'er Aaron's name, 
Still did the holy relic rest secure. 



At length, when Babylonia's arms prevail'd, 
Seraiah saved it from the flaming shrine. 
With all the sacred wardrobe of the priest, 
And bore it safe to Riblah. Dying there, 
The priest bequealh'd the sacred legacy 
To Daniel. He, when summon'd to explain, 
As now, God's dark decrees, in his right hand 
Brandish'd the mystic emblem. "Art thou he. 
Art thou that Daniel, whom Nebassar brought 
From Salem, whom the vanquish'd tribes adore, 
In wisdom excellent 1 Look there, look there; 
Read but those lines," the afl'righted monarch cries, 
"And clothed in scarlet wear this golden chain, 
The third great ruler of my spacious realm." 

He spake, and thus the reverend seer replied. 
"Thy promises, and threats, presumptuous king, 
My soul alike despises ; yet, so wills 
That spirit, who darts his radiance on my mind, 
(Hear thou, and tremble,) will I speak the words 
Which he shall dictate. ' Number'd is thy realm, 
And finish'd: in the balance art thou weigh'd. 
Where God hath found thee wanting: totheMedes 
And Persians thy divided realm is given.' 
Thus saith the I>ord ; and thus those words import. 
Graven by his high behest. See'st thou this wand ! 
Ne'er has it borne, since first it left the trunk, 
Or bud or blossom : all its shielding rind 
The sharp steel stripp'd, and to dry winds exposed 
The vegetative sap ; even so thy race 
Shall perish : from thy barren stock shall rise 
Nor prince nor ruler ; and that glittering crown. 
Won by thy valiant fathers, whose long line 
In thee, degenerate monarch, soon must end. 
Shall dart its lustre round a stranger's brow." 

" Prophet of evils ! darest thou pour on me 
Thy threats ill-ominous, and judgments dark V 
Incensed the monarch cries: "Hence to thy tri!)e» 
Teach them obedience to their sovereign's will, 
Or I will break that wand, and rend in twain 
The mantle of thy God. — Or if these n)arks 
Thou wilt erase from that accursed wall, 
Take half my realm." He spake, and fix'd his eyes 
Wild staring on the mystic characters: 
His rage all sunk at once; his fear return'd 
Tenfold; when thus the man of God began. 

"Go to the shady vales of Palestine, 
Vain prince, or Syrian Lebanon, and tear 
The palms and cedars from their native mould 
Uprooted ; then return, and break this rod. 
Believe me, far more arduous were the task: 
For it was harden'd in the streams of heaven; 
And though not dedicate to sorcerers' arts 
By magic incantation, and strange spells; 
Yet such a potent virtue doth reside 
In every part, that not the united force 
Of all thy kingdom can one line, one grain. 
Of measure, or of solid weight impair. 
Wilt thou that I revoke thy destined fate? 
Devoted prince, I cannot. Hell beneath 
Is moved to meet thee. See the mighty dead, 
'J'he kings, that sat on golden thrones. a|)proach, 
The chief ones of the earth. ' O Lucifer, 
Son of the morning, thou that vaunting said'st. 
" I will ascend the heavens; I will exalt 
My throne above the stais of God; the clouds 



CCS 



WILLIAM HAYVVARD ROBERTS. 



Shall roll beneath my feet," art thou, too, weak 

As we 1 art thou become like unto us 1 

Where now is all thy pom[)? where thesweetsound 

Of viol, and of harp!' with curious eye 

Tracing thy mangled corse, the rescued sons 

Of Solyma shall say, ' Is this the man 

That shook the pillars of the trembling earth, 

That made the world a desert?' all the kings. 

Each in his house entoml>"d, in glory rest, 

While unlamented lie thy naked limbs, 

'J'he sport of dogs, and vultures. In that day 

Shall these imperial towers, this haughty queen. 

That in the midst of waters sits secure, 

Fall prostrate on the ground. Ill-ominous birds 

Shall o'er the unwholesome marshes scream^ for 

And hissing serpents by sulphureous pools [food; 

Conceal their filthy brood. The traveller 

In vain shall ask where stood Assyria's pride ■ 

JNo trace shall guide his dubious steps; nor sage, 

V^ersed in historic lore, shall mark the site 

Of desolated Babylon." Thus spake 

The seer, and with majestic step retired. 



FROM BOOK IV. 

The City of Babylon having been taken by the Army of 
Cyi'us, Bulsbazzar is found iii his Pleasure (iardeu, and 
slain. 
* * * Within the walls 

Of Babylon was raised a lofty mound, 
Where flowers and aromatic shrubs adorn'd 
The pensile garden. For Nebassar's queen, 
Fatigued with Babylonia's level plains, 
Sigh'd for her Median home, where nature's hand 
Had scoop'd the vale, and clothed the mountain's 

side 
With many a verdant wood ; nor long she pined 
Till that uxurious monarch call'd on art 
To rival nature's sweet variety. 
Forthwith two hundred thousand slaves uprear'd 
'i'his hill, egregious work; rich fruits o'erhang 
The sloping walks, and odorous shrubs entwine 
Their undulating branches. Thither flocks 
A multitude unseen, and, 'mid the groves 
And secret arbours all night long conceal'd. 
Silent, and sad, escape the victor's sword. 

Now the glad sound of loud triumphal notes, 
Mix'd with the yells of terror and dismay. 
Are wafted through the concave arch of night 
To that imperial mansion, where the king 
Lies revelling with his minions. Nitocris 
First heard, and started. In that spacious room, 
On whose rich sides was painted many a chase, 
With all the warlike acts of Ninus old. 
And great Semiramis, she sat, and wove 
Her variegated web. Her slaves around 
With sprightly converse cheer'd the niidnighthour; 
When sudden, chill'd with horror, in their arms 
She sinks, a breathless corse. And now the noise 
Invades Belshazzar's ear. A messenger. 
And still another messenger arrives, 
To tell him, all is lost. On the adverse wall 
Instant his eye is fix'd: the characters, 
Which yt't remain, grow blacker, and increase 
In magnitude tenfold: " Where, where," e.\claims 



The affrighted prince, "Oh where is Daniel? where 
Is that interpreter of Heaven's decrees. 
Whose curse prophetic on mine ear still sounds 
More horrible, than these alarming peals. 
Which, as I speak, nearer and nearer roll. 
The harbingers of slaughter. Haste, arise! 
Tell him, I spare the tribes; tell him, I bow 
To his Jehovah." Thus Belshazzar spake. 
When sudden, with impetuous uproar. 
Through the wide portals rush'd an armed band, 
Persians and Medes. Gobryas, and Gadatas, 
Breathing fierce vengeance, and inveterate hate, 
Conduct the bloody troop. Where, monarch, where 
Is now thy cruel wrath, thy pride, thy power? 
Sunk on his knees behold Belshazzar bows 
Before his rebel exiles! "Spare, oh spare 
My life," the coward tyrant, trembling, cries ; 
" Let Cyrus wear my crown. To barren sands. 
To regions never trod by human foot. 
Banish m^, where I ne'er again may know 
Sweet social intercourse, but think, oh think, 
How fearful 'tis to die." Thus while he spake, 
With sword uplifted, o'er the bending king 
The victors stood. And now perhaps his prayers, 
And eyes, which upward rolling, long'd for life 
Though miserable, had stopp'd the fatal blow, 
Had not his murder'd son tbrbade the rage 
Of Gobryas to subside. On his arch'd neck 
The ponderous falchion falls, and at one stroke 
Smites from its spouting trunk the sever'd head 
Of Babylonia's monarch. Ever thus 
Perish fell cruelty, and lawless power! 



FROM BOOK VI. 

Afler the Capture of Babylon, the Jews having been per- 
niitteJ by Cyrus to rebuild their Temple, they reach 
Jeru-alem — iieii«w the Feasts— Lay the Fouudatioii of 
the Xemp.e— The old Men weep. 

Now dawns the morn, and on mount Olivet 
The hoar-frost melts before the rising sun. 
Which summons to their daily toil the world 
Of beasts, of men ; and all that wing the air, 
And all that swims the level of the lake, 
Or creeps the ground, bid universal hail 
To day's bright regent. But the triiies were roused, 
Impatient even of rest, ere yet the stars 
Withdrew their feeble light. Through every street 
They bend their way: some Ananiah leads. 
Some Phanuel, or what elders else were driven 
In early youth from Sion. Not a spot 
Keinains unvisited ; eat h stone, each beam. 
Seems sacred. As in legendary tale, 
Led by magician's hand some hero treads 
Enchanted ground, and hears, or thinks he hears, 
Aerial voices, or with secret dread 
Sees unembodied shades, by fancy form'd. 
Flit through the gloom; so rescued Judah walk'd, 
Amid the majesty of Salem's dust. 
With reverential awe. Howbeit they soon 
Remove the moulde.ing ruins ; soon they clear 
The ob.strujted paths, and every mans on raise. 
By force, Oi- time, impair'd. 'I'htn Je-hua rose 
With all his priests; nor thou, Zorobabel, 
Soul of the tribes, wast absent. 'l"o the God 



SIR WILLIAM JONES. 



669 



Of Jacob, oft as morn and eve returns, 
\ new-built altar smokes. Nor do tbey not 
Observe the feast, memorial of that age 
When Israel dwelt in tents ; the Sabbath, too, 
New moons, and every ritual ordinance, 
First-fruits, and paschal lamb, and rams, and goats, 
Offerings of sin and peace. Nor yet was laid 
The temple's new foundation. Corn and wine, 
Sweet balm and oil, they mete with liberal hand 
To Tyrian and Sidonian. To the sea 
Of Joppa down they heave their stately trees 
From Syrian Lebanon. And now they square 
Huge blocks of marble, and with ancient rites 
Anoint the corner-stone. Around the priests, 
The Levites, and the sons of Asaph stand 
With trumpets, and with cymbals. Jeshua first, 
Adorn'd in robes pontifical, conducts 
The sacred ceremony. An ephod rich, 
Purple and blue, comes mantling o'er his arms, 
Glasp'd with smooth studs, round whose mean- 
dering hem 



A girdle twines its folds : to this by chains 
Of gold is link'd a breastplate: costly gems, 
Jasper and diamond, sapphire amethyst, ' 
Unite their hues; twelve stones, memorial apt 
Of Judah's ancient tribes. A mitre decks 
His head, and on the top a golden crown 
Graven, like a signet, by no vulgar hand. 
Proclaims him priest of God. Symphonious 

hymns 
Are mix'd with instrumental melody, 
And Judah's joyful shouts. But down thy 

cheeks, 
O Ananiah, from thine aged eye, 
O Phaneul, drops a tear ; for ye have seen 
The house of Solomon in all its pride, 
And ill can brook this change. Nor ye alone, 
But every ancient wept. Loud shrieks of grief, 
Mix'd with the voice of joy, are heard beyond 
The hills of Salem. Even from Gibeon's walls 
The astonish'd peasant turns a listening ear, 
And Jordan's shepherds catch the distant sound. 



SIR WILLIAM JONES. 



CEo 



, 1746. Died, 1794.] 



Sir William Jones is not a great poet ; but 
nis name recals such associations of worth, in- 
tellect, and accomplishments, that if these sketches 
were not necessarily and designedly only minia- 
tures of biography, I should feel it a sort of sa- 
crilege to consign to scanty and inadequate bounds 
the life of a scholar who, in feeding the lamp of 
knowledge, may be truly said to have prema- 
turely exhausted the lamp of life. 

He was born in London. His father, who it 
is said could trace his descent from the ancient 
princes of North Wales, and who, like his son, 
was no discredit to his lineage, was so eminent 
a mathematician as to be distinguished by the 
esteem of Newton and Halley. His first em- 
ployment had been that of a schoolmaster, on 
board a man-of-war; and in that situation he at- 
tracted the notice and friendship of Lord Anson. 
An anecdote is told of him, that at the siege of 
Vigo he was one of the party who had the liberty 
of pillaging the captured town. With no very 
rapacious views, he selected a bookseller's shop 
for his share ; but finding no book worth taking 
away, he carried off a pair of scissors, which he 
used to show his friends, as a trophy of his mili- 
tary success. On his return to England, he esta- 
blished himself as a teacher of mathematics, and 
published several scientific works, which were 
remarkable for their neatness of illustration and 
brevity of style. By his labours as a teacher he 
acquired a small fortune ; but lost it through the 
failure of a banker. His friend, Lord Maccles- 
field, however, in some degree indemnified him 
for the loss, by procuring for him a sinecure place 
under government. Sir William Jones lost this 
valuable parent when he was only three years 
old ; so that the care of his first education de- 



volved upon his mother. She, also, was a person 
of superior endowments, and cultivated his dawn- 
ing powers with a sagacious assiduity which un- 
doubtedly contributed to their quick and sur- 
prising growth. We may judge of what a pupil 
she had, when we are told that, at five years of 
age, one morning, in turning over the leaves of 
a Bible, he fixed his attention with the strongest 
admiration on a sublime passage in the Reve- 
lation. Human nature perhaps presents no 
authentic picture of its felicity more pure or 
satisfactory than that of such a pupil superin- 
tended by a mother capable of directing him. 

At the age of seven he went to Harrow school, 
where his progress was at first interrupted by an 
accident which he met with, in having his thigh- 
bone broken, and he was obliged to be taken 
home for about a twelvemonth. But after his 
return, his abilities were so distinguished, that 
before he left Harrow, he was shown to strangers 
as an ornament to the seminary. Before he had 
reached this eminence at school, it is a fact, dis- 
graceful to one of his teachers, that in conse- 
quence of the ground which he had lost by the 
accident already mentioned, he was frequently 
subjected to punishment, for exertions which he 
could not make; or, to use his own expression, 
for not being able to soar before he had been 
taught to fly. The system of severity must have 
been merciless, indeed, when it applied to Jones, 
of whom his master, Dr. Thackery, used to say, 
that he was a boy of so active a spirit, that if left 
friendless and naked on Salisbury Plain, he would 
make his way to fame and fortune. It is related 
of him, that while at Harrow, his fellow-scholars 
having determined to act the play of the Tem- 
pest, they were at a loss for a copy, and that 



C70 



SIR WILLIAAf JONES. 



young Jones wrote out the whole from memory. 
Such miracles of human recollection are cer- 
tniniy on record; hut it is not easy to conceive 
the boys at Harrow, when permitted by their 
ninstcrs to act a play, to have been at a loss for 
a ciijiy of Shakspeare ; and some mistake or ex- 
af^^oration may be suspected in the anecdote. 
He possibly abridged the play for the particular 
occasion. Before leaving Harrow school, he 
learned the Arabic characters, and studied the 
Hebrew language, so as to enable him to read 
some of the original Psalms. What would have 
hern labour to others was Jones's amusement. 
He used to rc/az his mind with Philidor's Lessons 
at Chess, and with studying botany and fossils. 

In his eighteenth year he was entered of Uni- 
versity college, Oxford, where his residence was 
rendered more agreeable by his mother taking 
up her abode in the town. He was also, for- 
tunately, permitted by his teachers to forsake the 
study of dialectic logic, which still haunted the 
college, for that of Oriental literature; and he 
was so zealous in this pursuit, that he brought 
from London to Oxford a native of Aleppo, 
whom he maintained at his own expense, for the 
benefit of his instruction in Arabic. He also be- 
gan the study of modern Persic, and found his 
exertions rewarded with rapid success. His va- 
cations were spent in London, where he attended 
schools for riding and fencing, and studied Italian, 
Spanish, and Portuguese. He pursued in theory, 
and even exceeded in practice, the plan of educa- 
tion projected by Milton ; and boasted, that with 
tlie fortune of a peasant, he could give himself the 
education of a prince. He obtained a fellowship 
at Oxford; but before he obtained it, whilst he 
was yet fearful of his success, and of burdening 
the slender finances of an afiectionate mother for 
his support, he accepted the situation of tutor to 
Lord Allhorp, the son of Earl iSpencer. In the 
summer of 1765, lie repaired to Wimbledon 
Park, to take upon himself the charge of his 
young pupil. He had not been long in Lord 
Speiucr's family, when he was flattered by an 
ofier from the Duke of Grafton, of the place of 
interpreter of Eastern languages. 'JMiis situation, 
though it might not have interfered with his 
other pursuits, he thought fit to decline; but 
earneslly requested that it might be given to his 
tSyrian teacher, Mirza, whose character he wrote. 
'J'he solicitation was, however, unnoticed; and 
the event only gave him an opportunity of re- 
gretting his own ignorance of the world, in not 
accepting the proffered office, that he might con- 
sign Us emoluments to Miiza. At Wimbledon 
he first formed his acquaintance with the daugh- 
ter ol Dr. Shipley, the Dean of Winchester, to 
which he owed the future happiness of his lifie. 
The ensuing winter, 1766, he removed with Lord 
Spencer's family to London, where he renewed 
Ills pursuit of external as well as intellectual ac- 
compi shments, and received lessons from Gallini 
as well as Angelo, It is amusing to find his 
Diographer add that he took lesions at the broad- 
sword fiojn an old Chelsea pensioner, seamed 



with scars, to whose military narrations he used 
to listen with delight. 

In 1767 he made a short trip with the family 
of his pupil to the Continent, where, at Spa, he 
pursued the study of German, and availed him- 
self of the opportunity of finding an incompara- 
ble teacher of dancing, whose name was J'anson. 
In the following year, he was requested by the 
secretary of the Duke of Grafton to undertake a 
task in which no other scholar in England was 
found willing to engage, namely, in furnishing a 
version of an Eastern MS. a Vife of Nadir Shaw, 
which the King of Denmark had brought with 
him to England, and which his Danish majesty 
was anxious to have translated into French. 
Mr. Jones undertook the translation from a lauda- 
ble reluctance to allow the MS. to be carried out 
of the country for want of a translator; although 
the subject was dry, and the style of the original 
difficult, and although it obliged him to submit 
his translation to a native of France, in order to 
give it the idioms of a French style. He was at 
this time only twenty-one years of age. The 
only reward which he obtained for his labour 
was a diploma from the Royal Society of Copen- 
hagen, and a recommendation from the court of 
Denmark to his own sovereign. To the "His- 
tory of Nadir Shaw" he ailded a treatise of his 
own on Oriental poetry, in the language of the 
translation. In the same year he began the 
study of music, and took some lessons on the 
Welsh harp. 

In 1770 he again visited the Continent with 
the Spencer family, and travelled into Italy. 
The genius which interests us at home redoubles 
its interest on foreign ground; but it would ap- 
pear, fVom Jones's letters, that, in this instance, 
he was too assiduous a scholar to be an amusing 
traveller. His mind, during this visit to the 
Continent, was less intent on men and manners 
than on objects which he might have studied 
with equal advantage at homo. We find him 
deciphering Chinese, and composing a tragedy. 
The tragedy has been irrecoverably lost. Its 
subject was the death of Muslapha, the son of 
Soliman; the same on which Fulke Greville, 
Lord Brooke, composed a drama.* 

On his return to England, he determined to 
embrace the law as a profession, the study of 
which he commenced in 1771, being then in his 
twenty-fourth year. His motives ft)r choosing 
this profession are best explained in his own 
wordj. In a letter to his friend Sihultens, he 
avows at once the public ambition and personal 
pride which had now grown up with the matu- 
rity of his character. "'J'he die" (he says) "is 
cast. All my books and MSS., with the excep- 
tion of those only which relate to law and ora 
lory, are locked up at Oxford; and I have de- 
termined, for the next twenty years at least, to 
renounce all studies but those which are con 
nected with my profession. It is needless to 
trouble you with my reasons at length for this 

[* Mallei has a Urauia on the same subject, bat it is «tUl 
a subject to let.J 



determination. I will only say, that if I had 
livoJ at Rome or Athens. I should have preferred 
the labours, studies, and dangers of tlieir ora- 
tors and illustrious citizens, connected as they 
were with lianishment and even lieath, to the 
groves of the poels, or the gardens of the philo- 
sophers. Here I adopt the same resolution. 
****** If the study of the law 
were really unpleasant and disgusting, which is 
far from the truth, the example of the wisest of 
the ancients and of Minerva would justify me in 
preferring the useful olive to the barren laurel. 
'J'o tell you my mind freely, I am not of a disposi- 
tion to hear the arrogance of men of rank, to 
which poets and men of letters are so often 
obliged to sui)niit." 

This letter was written some years after he 
had resigned his situation in Lord Spencer's 
fiunily, and entered himself of the Middle Tem- 
ple, in the mean time, though the motives which 
guided him to the choice of a profession un- 
doubtedly made him in earnest with his legal 
siudie.-i, he still found spare hours to devote to 
literature. He finished his tragedy of Mustapha, 
and sketched two very ambitious plans ; the one 
of an epic |)oem, tlie other of a Turkish history. 
That he could have written a ui-eful and amusing 
history of Turkey, is easy to suppose; but the 
outline, and the few specimens of his intended 
e|)ic, leave little room for regret that it was not 
finished. Its subject was the discovery of \h'i- 
tain; the characters Tyrian, anJ the machinery 
allegorical, in the manner of Spenser. More 
u^|)romi^ing symptoms of a poem could hardly 
be announced. 

hi 1772 he published his French letter to Du 
Perron the Fiench traveller, who, in bis account 
ot his travels in India, had treated the University 
of Oxford, and some of its members, with disre- 
spect. In this publication, he corrected the 
J'lcnch writer, ])erhaps, with more asperity than 
his maturer judgment would have approved. In 
the same year he published a small volume of 
poems with two dissertations; one on Oriental 
literature, and another on the arts commonly 
calleii imitatiVe. In his Essay on the Arts, he 
olijects, on very fair grounils, to the Aristotelian 
dot trine, of the universal object of poetry being 
imitation. Certainly, no species of poetry can 
strictly be said to be imitative of nature except 
that which is dramatic. Mr. Twining, the trans- 
lator of the " Poetics," has, however, explained 
this theory of Aristotle pretty satisfactorily, by 
showing, that when he spoke of poetry as imita- 
tive, he alluded to what he conceived to be the 
highest department of the art, namely, the drama; 
or to the dramatic part of epic poetry, the dia- 
logue, which, in recitation, afforded an actual 
imitaiion of the passions which were described. 

V\ hen Mr. Jones had been called to the bar, 
he found that no human industry could effectively 
unite the ]»ursuits of literature with the practice 
of the piofession. He therefore took the resolu- 
tion, already alluded to in one of his letters, of 
ab&taining Irotu ail study, but that of the science 



and eloquence of the bar. He thought, however, 
that consistently with this resolution, he might 
translate "The Greek Orations of Isaus, in cases 
relating to succession to doubtful property." This 
translation appeared in 1778. In the interval, 
his practice became considerable; and he was 
made, in 1776, a commissioner of bankrupts. 
He was at this time a member of the Royal So- 
ciety, and maintained an epistolary corresjjon- 
dence with several eminent foreign scholars. 
Among those correspondents, his fiivourite seems 
to have been Reviczki, an Oriental scholar, whom 
he met in England, and who was afterward the 
Imperial minister at Warsaw. 

From the commencement of the American 
war, and during its whole progress, Mr. Jones's 
political principles led him to a decided disappro- 
batiiin of the measures of government which 
were pursued in that contest. Hut though po- 
litically opposed to Lord North, he possessed so 
much of the personal favour of that minister, as 
to have some hopes of obtaining, by his influence, 
a seat on the bench of Fort William, in Bengal, 
which became vacant in the year 1780. While 
this matter was in suspense, he was advised to 
stand as a candidate for the representation of 
the University of Oxford; but finding there was 
no chance of success, he declined the contest be- 
fore the day of election ; his political principles, 
and an "Ode to Liberty,'' which he had pub- 
lished, having offended the majority of the acade- 
mic voters. During the riots of 1780, he pub- 
lished a plan for security against insurrection, 
and for delence against invasion, which has since 
been realized in the volunteer system. During 
the same year he paid a short visit to Paris; and, 
at one time, intended to have proceeded to Ame- 
rica, for a professional object, namely, to procure 
for a client and friend the rest.tution of an estate, 
which the government of the United Slates had 
confiscated. 'J'he indisposition of his friend, 
however, prevented him from crossing the At- 
lantic. On his return to England, be recurred 
to his favourite Oriental studies, a'nd completed a 
translation of the seven ancient Arabian poems, 
famous lor having been once suspended in the 
Temple of Mecca ; as well as another poem, in 
the same language, more curious than inviting 
in its subject, which was the iVlobammcdan law of 
succession to intestates. The lattei" work had 
but few charms to reward his labour; but it gave 
him an opportunity for displaying his literary 
and legal fitness for the station in India to winch 
he stdl aspired. 

besides retracing his favourite studies with the 
Eastern Muses, we find him at this period warm- 
ly engaged in political as well as prolessioual 
pursuits. An " Essay on the Law of 13ailinents," 
an "Address to the Inhabitants of Westminster' 
on Parl.ainentary reform;" these publications, 
together with occasional pieces of poetry, which 
he wrote within the la>t years of his residence in 
England, attest at once the vigour anil elegance 
of his mind, and ihe variety of its application. 

On the succession of the Shelburiie udminis^ 



672 



SIR WILLIAM JONES. 



tration, he obtained, through the particular inte- 
rest of Lord Ashburton, the judicial office in 
Bengal, for which he had been hitherto an un- 
successful competitor. In March, 1783, he re- 
ceived the honour of knighthood. In the April 
following he married Anna Maria Shipley, the 
daughter of the Bishop of St. Asaph, to whom he 
hud been so many years attached. He immedi- 
Qtely sailed for India, having secured, as his 
friend Lord Ashburton congratulated him, the 
two first objects of human pursuit, those of love 
and ambition. The joy with which he contem- 
plated his situation is strongly testified in the de- 
scriptions of his feelings which he gives in his 
letters, and in the gigantic plans of literature 
which he sketched out. Happily married — still 
in the prime of life — leaving at home a reputa- 
tion which had reached the hemisphere he was 
to visit, he bade adieu to the turbulence of party 
politics, which, though it had not dissolved any 
of his friendships, had made some of them irk- 
some. The scenes which he had delighted to 
contemplate at a distance were now inviting his 
closest researches ! He approached regions and 
manners which gave a living picture of anti- 
quity ; and, while his curiosity was heightened, 
lie drew nearer to the means of.its gratification. 

In December, 1783, he commenced the dis- 
charge of his duties as an Indian judge, with his 
characteristic ardour. He also began the study 
of Sanscrit. He had been but a few years in 
India, when his knowledge of that ancient hm- 
guage enabled him, under the auspices of the 
Governor, to commence a great plan for adminis- 
tering justice among the Indians, by compiling a 
digest of Hindu and Mohammedan laws, similar to 
that which Justinian gave his Greek and Roman 
subjei ts. His part in the project was only to 
survey and arrange its materials. To that super- 
intendence the Brahmins themselves submitted 
with perfect confidence. To detail his share in 
the labours of the Society of Calcutta, the earliest, 
or at least tlie most important, philoso[)hical so- 
ciety establishedf'in British India, would be al- 
most to abridge its Transactions duiing his life- 
time. He took the lead in founding it, and lived 
to see three volumes of its Transactions appear. 
In 1789 he translated the ancient Hindu drama, 
"Sacontaia, or the Fatal Ring," by Callidas, an 
author whom Sir William Jones calls the Shak- 
speare of Imlia, and who lived about the time of 
Terence, in the first century before the Christian 
era. This antique picture of Hindu manners is 
certainly the greatest curiosity which the study 
of Oriental literature by Europeans has brought 
to light. In 1794 he published, also from the 
Sanscrit, a translation of the Ordinances of Menu, 
who is esteemed, by the Hindoos, to he the ear- 
liest of created beings, and the holiest of legisla- 
tors; hut who appears, by the English translator's 
conlessioti, to have lived long after priests, states- 
men, and metaphysicians had learned to combine 
their crafts. 

While business required his daily attendance 
at Calcutta, his usual residence was on the banks 



of the Ganges, at the distance of five miles from 
the court. To this spot he returned every even- 
ing after sunset; and, in the morning, rose so 
early as to reach his apartments in time, by 
setting out on foot at the first appearance of 
dawn. He passed the months of vacation at 
Chrishnagur, a country residence, sixty miles 
from (.alcutta, remarkable for its beauty, and in- 
teresting, from having been the seat of an ancient 
Hindu college. Here he added botany to the 
other pursuits of his indefatigable curiosity. 

In the burning climate of Bengal, it is not 
surprising that the strongest constitution should 
have sunk under the weight of his professional 
duties, and of his extensive literary labours. The 
former alone occupied him seven hours during 
the session time. His health, indeed, seems to 
have been early afTected in India. In 1793, the 
indisposition of Lady Jones rendered it necessary 
that she should return to England. Sir William 
proposed to follow her in 179.5, delaying only till 
he should complete the system of Indian legisla- 
tion. But they parted to meet no more. In 
1794 he was attacked with an inflammation of 
the liver, which acted with uncommon rapidity; 
and, before a physician was called in, had ad- 
vanced too far to yield to the efTicacy of medicine. 
He expired in a composed attitude, without a 
groan, or the appearance of a pang ; and retained 
an expression of complacency on his features to 
the last. 

In the course of a short life. Sir William Jones 
acquired a degree of knowledge which the ordi- 
nary faculties of men, if they were blest with 
antediluvian longevity, could scarcely hope to 
surpass. His learning threw light on the laws 
of Greece and India, on the general literature of 
Asia, and on the history of the family of nations. 
He carried philosophy, eloquence, and philan- 
thropy into his character of a lawyer and a judge. 
Amid the driest tods of erudition, he retained a 
sensibility to the beauties of poetry, and a talent 
for transfusing them into his own language, 
which has seldom been united with the same 
degree of industry. Had he written nothing but 
the delightful ode from Hafiz, 

" Sweet maid, if thou woul Jst charm my sight," 
it would alone testify the harmony of his ear, and 
the elegance of his taste. When he went abroad, 
it was not to enrich himself with the spoils of 
avarice or ambition ; but to search, amid the 
ruins of Oriental literature, for treasures which 
he would not have exchanged 

" For all Eokhnra's vaiinted gold, 
Or all the gems of Samarcanil." 

It is, nevertheless, impossible to avoid supposing, 
that the activity of his mind spread itself in too 
many directions to be always employed to the 
best advantage. The impulse that carried him 
through so many pursuits, has a look of something 
restless, inordinate, and ostentatious. Useful as 
he was, he would in all probability have been 
still more so, bad his powers been concentrated 
to fewer objects. His poetry is sometimes eie- 



SIR WILLIAM JONES. 



673 



gant; but altORether, it has too much of the florid 
luxury of the East. His taste would appear, in 
his latter years, to have fallen into a state of 
Brahniinical idolatry, when he recommends to 
our particular admiration, and translates, in 
pompous lyrical diction, the Indian description 
of Cumara, the daughter of Ocean, riding upon a 
peacock; and enjoins us to admire, as an allegory 
equally new and beautiful, the unimaginable con- 
ceit of Camdeo, the Indian Cupid, having a bow 
that is made of flowers, and a bowstring which 



is a string of bees. Industrious as he was, his 
I history is full of abandoned and half-executed 
projects. While his name reflects credit on 
poetical biography, his secondary fame as a com- 
poser, shows that the palm of poetry is not likely 
to be won, even by great genius, without exclu- 
sive devotion to the pursuit.* 

'AXAa oiiVfor; (ifta iravra ivvfiTtai airds eXcadai ; 
"AAAm liiv yap eScoKC Oedi noXcufi'ia epya, 
"AXAto Si (JpxFjffrii;/, CTCpM KtSapiv xai dotSfiv. 

lUAB, xiv. 729. 



A PERSIAN SONG OF UAFIZ. 

Sweet maid, if thou wouldst charm my sight, 
And bid these arms thy neck infold ; 
That rosy cheek, that lily hand. 
Would give thy poet more delight 
Than all Bokhara's vaunted gold. 
Than all the gems of Samarcand. 

Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow, 
And bid thy pensive heart be glad, 
Whate'er the frowning zealots say: 
Tell them, their Eden cannot show 
A stream so clear as Rocnabad, 
A bower so sweet as Mosellay. 

Oh ! when these fair perfidious maids, 
Whose eyes our secret haunts infest, 
Their dear destructive charms display ; 
Kach glance my tender breast invades, 
And robs my wounded soul of rest, 
As Tartars seize their destined prey. 

In vain with love our bosoms glow : 
Can all our tears, can all our sighs, 
New lustre to those charms impart 1 
Can cheeks, where living roses blow, 
Where nature spreads her richest dyes, 
Require the borrow 'd gloss of art 1 

Speak not of fate : ah ! change the theme, 

And talk of odours, talk of wine. 

Talk of the flowers that round us bloom: 

'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream ; 

To love and joy thy thoughts confine, 

Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom. 

Beauty has such resistless power, 
That even the chaste Egyptian dame 
Sigh'd for the blooming Hebrew boy: 
For her how fatal was the hour. 
When to the banks of Nilus came 
A youth so lovely and so coy ! 

But, ah ! sweet maid, my counsel hear 
(Youth should attend when those advise 
Whom long experience renders sage;) 
While music charms the ravish'd car; 
While sparkling cups delight our eyes. 
Be gay ; and scorn the frowns of age. 

What cruel answer have I heard 1 
.\nd yet, by Heaven, I love thee still : 
Can aught be cruel from thy lipl 



Yet say, how fell that bitter word 

From lips which streams of sweetness fill, 

Whi6h nought but drops of honey sip? 

Go boldly forth, my simple lay, 
Whose accents flow with artless ease. 
Like orient pearls at random strung : 
Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say ; 
But, oh ! far sweeter, if they please 
The nymph for whom these notes are sung. 



IN IMITATION OP AlCiEUS. 

What constitutes a state? 
Not high-raised battlement or labour'd mound. 

Thick wall or moated gate; 
Not cities proud with spires and turrets crown'd ; 

Not bays and broad-arm'd ports. 
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride ; 

Not starr'd and spangled courts. 
Where low-brow'd baseness wafts perfume to pride. 

No: — men, high-minded men. 
With powers as far above dull brutes endued 

In forest, brake, or den. 
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude ; 

Men, who their duties know, 
Butknow their rights, and, knowing, daremaintain, 

Prevent the long-aim'd blow. 
And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain : 

These constitute a state. 
And sovereign Law, that state's collected will, 

O'er thrones and globes elate 
Sits Empress, crowning good, repressing ill; 

Smit by her sacred frown. 
The fiend Discretion like a vapour sinks. 

And e'en th' all-dazzling Crown 
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks. 

Such was this heaven-loved islo. 
Than Lesbos fiiirer than the Cretan shore ! 

No more shall Freedom smile? 
Shall Britons languish, and be men no morel 

Since all must life resign. 
Those sweet rewards, which decorate the brave, 

'Tis folly to decline. 
And steal inglorious to the silent grave. 

[* It Is not Sir Williiim Jones's poetry that can perpetu- 
ate his name. — Southev, Quarterly Review, vol. xi. p. 60:!.] 
3Q 



SAMUEL BISHOP. 



tBora, 1731. Died, 1795.) 



Samcel Bishop was a clergyman, and for 
many years the head master of Merchant Tailors' 
school. He wrote several essays and poems for 
the Public Ledger, and published a volume of 



Latin pieces, entitled "Ferise Poetics." A vo- 
lume of his sermons, and two volumes of his 
poetry, were published after his death. 



TO MRS. BISHOP. 

WITH A PRESENT OF A KNIFE. 

" A KNIFE," dear girl, " cuts love," they say ! 

Mere modish love, perhaps it may — 

— For any tool, of any kind. 

Can separate what was never join'd. 

The knife, that cuts our love in two, 
Will have much tougher work to do ; 
Must cut your softness, truth, and spirit, 
Down to the vulgar size of merit; 
To level yours, with modern taste. 
Must cut a world of sense to waste; 
And from your single beauty's store, 
Clip, what would dizen out a score. 

That self-same blade from me must sever 
Sensation, judgment, sight, for ever: 
All memory of endearments past. 
All hope of comforts long to last ; — 
All that makes fourteen years with you, 
A summer; — and a short one too; — 
All, that affection feels and fears. 
When hours without you seem like years. 

Till that be done, (and I'd as soon 
Believe this knife will chip the moon,) 
Accept my present, undeterr'd. 
And leave their proverbs to the herd. 

If in a kiss — delicious treat ! — 
Your lips acknowledge the receipt. 
Love, fond of such substantial fare. 
And proud to play the glutton there. 
All thoughts of cutting will disdain, 
Save only — " cut and come again." 



TO THE SAME 



" Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed" — 

So, fourteen years ago, I said. 

Behold another ring! — "for what?" 

" To wed thee o'er again 1" — Why notl 

With that first ring I married youth, 
Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth; 
Taste long admired, sense long revered, 
.\nd all my Molly then appear'd. 

If she, by merit since disclosed, 
Prove twice the woman I supposed, 
674 



I plead the double merit now. 
To justify a double vow. 

Here then to-day, (with faith as sure. 
With ardour as intense, as pure. 
As when, amidst the rites divine, 
I took thy troth, and plighted mine,) 
To thee, sweet girl, my second ring 
A token and a pledge I bring: 
With this I wed, till death us part, 
Thy riper virtues to my heart; 
Those virtues, which before untried, 
The wife has added to the bride : 
Those virtues, whose progressive claim, 
Endearing wedlock's very name. 
My soul enjoys, my song approves. 
For conscience' sake, as well as love's. 

And why 1 — They show me every hour. 
Honour's high thought. Affection's power. 
Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sentence,- 
And teach me all things — but repentance. 



EPIGRAM. 

QUOD PETIS, niC EST. 

No plate had John and Joan to hoard, 
Plain folk, in humble plight; 

One only tankard crown'd their board; 
And that was fill'd each night; — 

Along whose inner bottom sketch'd. 

In pride of chubby grace. 
Some rude engraver's hand had etch'd 

A baby angel's face. 

John swallow'd lirst a moderate sup; 

But Joan was not like John ; 
For when her lips once touch'd the cup. 

She swill'd, till all was gone. 

John often urged her to drink fair; 

But she ne'er changed a jot; 
She loved to see the angel there. 

And therefore drain'd the pot. 

When John found all remonstrance vain. 

Another card he play'd ; 
And where the Angel stood so plain, 

He got a Devil portray'd. 

Joan saw the horns, Joan saw the tail. 

Yet Joan as stoutly quaff d ; 
And ever, when she seized her ale, 

She clear'd it at a draught. — 




John stared, with wonder petrified ; 

His hair stood on his pate ; 
And " why dost guzzle now," he cried, 

«' At this enormous ratel" — • 

" Oh ! John," she said, " am I to blame t 

I can't in conscience stop: 
For sure 'twould be a burning shame, 

To leave the Devil a drop !" 



EPIGRAM. 

8PLENDEAT USC. 

See! stretch'd on nature's couch of grass, 

The foot-sore traveller lies ! 
Vast treasures let the great amass; 
A leathern pouch, and burning-glass, 

For all his wants suffice. 

For him the sun its power displays. 
In either hemisphere ; 



Pours on Virginia's coast its blaze. 
Tobacco for his pipe to raise ; 
And shines to light it — here! 



QUOCCNQUE MOCO REM. 

A VETERAN gambler, in a tempest caught. 
Once in his life a church's shelter sought; 
Where many an hint, pathetically grave, 
On life's precarious lot, the preacher gave. 
The sermon ended, and the storm all spent, 
Home trudged old Cog-die, reasoning as he 

went; 
" Strict truth," quoth he, " this reverend sage 

declared ; 
I feel conviction — and will be prepared — • 
Nor e'er henceforth, since life thus steals away, 
Give credit for a bet beyond a day !" 



JOHN BAMPFYLDE. 



[Born, 1754. Died, I796.J 



John Bampftlde was the younger brother of 
Sir Charles Bampfylde. He was educated at 
Cambridge, and published his Sonnets* in 1776, 
when very young. He soon after fell into mental 



derangement, and passed the last years of his 
life in a private madhouse. After twenty years' 
confinement he recovered his senses, but not till 
he was in the last gasp of consumption. 



SONNET. 

As when, to one, who long hath watch'd the morn 
Advancing, slow forewarns th' approach of day, 
(What time the young and flow'ry-kirtled May 
Decks the green hedge, and dewy grass unshorn 

With cowslips pale, and many a whitening thorn ;) 
And now the sun comes forth, with level ray 
Gilding the high wood-top, and mountain grny ; 
And, as he climbs, the meadows 'gins adorn ; 

The rivers glisten to the dancing beam, 

Th' awaken'd birds begin their amorous strain, 
And hill and vale with joy and fragrance teem ; 

Such is the sight of thee; thy wish'd return 
To eyes, like mine, that long have waked to 

mourn. 
That long have watch'd for light, and wept in 
vain ! 



SONNET. 

TO THE REDBREAST. 



When that the fields put on their gay attire. 
Thou silent sitt'st near brake or river's brim. 
Whilst the gay thrush sings loud from covert dim; 

But when pale Winter lights the social fire, 



* Censura Literaria. vol. iv. p. 301. [.See a very interestr 
ing account of Hauipfv Ide. in a letter from Mr. Southey 
to Sir Egerton IJry<l^'es,"print»I in liryilKes' .Autobiography, 
vol. ii. p. 257, and in Mr. l>y( e's Specimen Sonnets, p. 217.J 



And meads with slime are sprent and ways with 
mire. 

Thou charm'st us with thy soft and solemn 
hymn. 

From battlement or barn, or hay-stack trim ; 
And now not seldom tunest. as if for hire, 

'I'hy thrilling pipe to me, waiting to catch 
The pittance due to thy well-warbled song; 

Sweet bird, sing on ! for oft near lonely hatch. 
Like thee, myself have pleased the rustic throng, 

And oft for entrance 'nealh the peaceful thatch, 
Full many a tale have told and ditty long. 



SONNET. 

ON A WKT SUMMER. 

All ye, who far from town, in rural hall, 
Like me, were wont to dwell near pleasant field. 
Enjoying all the sunny day did yield. 

With me the change lament, in irksome thrall, 
By rains incessant held ; for now no call 

From early swain invites my hand to wield 

The scythe; in parlour dim I sit conceal'd. 
And mark the lessening sand from hour-glass fall. 

Or 'neath my window view the wistful train 
Of dripping poultry, whom the vine's broad leavts 

Shelter no more. — Mute is the mournful plain. 
Silent the swallow sits beneath the thatch. 
And vacant hind hangs pensive o'er his hatch, 
Counting the frequent drop from reeded eaves. 



ROBERT BURNS. 



SONNET. 
CviLD is the senseless heart that never strove, 
With the mild tumult of a real flame; 
RugjreJ the hreast that beauty cannot tame, 
Nor youth's enlivening graces teach tv love 

The pathless vale, the long forsaken grove, 
The rocky cave that bears the fair one's name, 
With ivy mantled o'er — For empty fame, 



Let him amiil the rabble toil, or rovo 
In search of plunrler far to western clime. 

Give me to waste the hours in amorous play 
With Delia, beauteous maid, and build the rhyme 
Praising her flowing hair, her snowy arms, 
And all that prodigality of charms 

Form'd to enslave my heart and grace my lay. 



ROBERT BURNS. 



[Bom, 1758. Died, 1790.] 



Robert Burns was born near the town of Ayr, 
within a few hundred yards of "Alloway's auld 
haunted kirk," in a clay cottage, which his father, 
who was a small farmer and gardener, had built 
with his own hands. A part of this humble 
edifice gave way when the poet was but a few 
days old ; and his mother and he were carried, 
at midnight, through the storm, to a neighbour's 
house, that gave them shelter. After having re- 
ceived some lessons in his childhood, from the 
schoolmaster of the village of Alloway, he was, 
at seven years of age, put under a teacher of the 
name of jMurdoch, who instructed him in reading 
and English grammar. This good man, who is 
still alive, and a teacher of languages in London, 
boasts, with a very natural triumph, of having 
accurately instructed Burns in the first principles 
of composition.* At such an age, Burns's study 
of principles could not be very profound ; yet it is 
due to his early instructor to observe that his prose 
style is more accurate than we should expect even 
from the vigour of an untutored min.d, and such 
as would lead us to suppose that he had been 
early initiated in the rules of grammar. His 
father's removal to another farm in Ayrshire, at 
Mount Oliphant, unfortunately deprived him of 
the benefit of Murdoch as an instructor, after he 
had been about two years under his care; and 
for a long time he received no other lessons than 
those which his father gave him in writing and 
arithmetic, when he instructed his family by the 
fireside of their cottage in winter evenings. About 
the age of thirteen he was sent, during a part of 
the summer, to the parish-school in Dalrymple, 
in order to improve his hand-writing. In the 
following year he had an opportunity of passing 
several weeks with his old friend Murdoch, with 
whose assistance he began to study French with 
intense ardour and assiduity. His proficiency in 
that language, though it was wonderful consider- 
ing his opportunities, was necessarily slight; yet 
it was in showing this accomplishment alone, 
that Burns's weakness ever took the shape of 
vanity. 

One of his friends, who carried him into the 
company of a French lady, remarked, with sur- 

I* Murdoch ilieJ about the year 1822, respected and 
poor.' 



I prise, that he attempted to converse with her in her 
own tongue. Their French, however, was soon 
found to be almost mutually unintelligible. As 
far as Burns could make himself understood, he 
unfortunately offended the foreign lady. He 
meant to tell her, that she was a charming 
person, and delightful in conversation; but ex- 
pressed himself so as to appear to her to mean, 
that she was fond of speaking; to which the 
Gallic dame indignantly replied, that it was quite 

i as common for poets to be impertinent, as for 

! women to be loquacious.f 

At the age of nineteen he received a few 
months' instruction in land surveying. Such is 
the scanty history of his education, which is in- 
teresting simply because its opportunities were 
so few and precarious, and such as only a gifted 
mind could have turned to any account. 

Of his early reading, he tells us, that a life of 
Hannibal, which Murdoch gave him when a boy, 

1 raised the first stirrings of his enthusiasm; and, 
he adds, with his own fervid expression, "that 
the life of Sir V/illiam Wallace poured a tide of 

[ Scottish prejudices into his veins, which would 
boil along there' till the floodgates of life were shut 

I in eternal rest. "J In his sixteenth year he had 

I read some of the plays of Shakspeare, the works 
of Pope and Addison, and of the Scottish poets 
Ramsay and Fergusson. From the volumes of 
Locke, Ray, Derham, and Stackhouse, he also 
imbibed a smattering of natural history and 
theology ; but his brother assures us, that until 
the time of his being known as an author, he 
continued to be but imperfectly acquainted with 
the most eminent of our English writers. Thanks 
to the songs and superstition of his native country, 
his genius had some fostering aliments, which 
perhaps the study of classical authors might have 
led him to neglect. His inspiration grew up like 
the flower, which owes to heaven, in a barren 
soil, a natural beauty and wildness of fragrance 
that would be spoiled by artificial culture. He 
learned an infinite number of old ballads, from 
hearing his mother sing them at her wheel ; and 
he was instructed in all the venerable heraldry 



[t This story is in no account of Burns's life that we have 
ever seen, before or since Mr. Campbell wrote.] 
t From his letter to l>r. Moore. 





J.B.IappiTLCott &_Co.Philacl^ 



ROBERT BURNS. 



of devils and witches by an ancient woman in 
the iieighhourhood, " the Si/billii(e nurse of his 
Jl/Mxe," who probably first imparted to him the 
Btory of 'J'am o' Shanter. " Song was his fa- 
vourite and first pursuit." "The Song-book," 
he says, " was my Vade Mecum : I pored over it 
constantly, driving my cart, or walking to labour." 
It would be pleasing to dwell on this era of his 
youthful sensibility, if his life had been happy ; 
but it was far otherwise. He was the eldest of 
a family, buffettcd by misfortunes, toiling beyond 
their strength, and living without the support of 
animal food. At thirteen years of age he used 
to thresh in his father's barn ; and, at fitleen, 
was the principal labourer on the fartn. After 
the toils of the day, he usually sunk in the even- 
ing into dejection of spirits, and was afflicted with 
dull headaches, the joint result of anxiety, low 
diet, and fatigue. "This kind of life," (he says) 
" the cheerless gloom of a hermit with the un- 
ceasing moil of a galley-slave, brought nie to my 
sixteenth year, when love made me a poet." 'J'he 
object of his first attachment was a Highland 
girl, named Mary Campbell, who was his fellow- 
reaper in the same harvest-field.* She died very 
young; and when Burns heard of her death, he 
was thrown into an ecstasy of suffering much 
beyond what even his keen temperament was ac- 
customed to feel. Nor does he seem ever to 
have forgotten her. His verses " To Mary in 
Heaven ;" his invocation to the star that rose on 
the anniversary of her death; his description of 
the landscape that was the scene of their day of 
love and parting vows, where "flowers sprang 
wanton to be press'd ;" the whole luxury and 
exquisite passion of that strain, evince that her 
image had survived many important changes in 
himself. 

P'rom his seventeenth to his twenty-fourth year 
he lived, as an assistant to his father, on another 
farm in Ayrshire, at I>ochlea, to which they had 
removed from Mount Oliphant. During that 
period his brother Gilbert and he, besides labour- 
ing for their father, took a part of the land on 
their own account, for the purpose of raising 
flax ; and this speculation induced Robert to 
attempt establishing himself in the business of 
flax-dressing, in the neighbouring town of Irvine. 
But the unhealthiness of the business, and the 
accidental misfortune of his shop taking fire, in- 
duced him, at the end of six months, to abandon 
it. W hilst his father's affairs were growing des- 
perate at Lochlea, the poet and his brother had 
taken a different farm on their own account, as 
an asylum for the family in case of the worst; 
but, from unfavourable seasons and a bad soil, 
this speculation proved also unfortunate, and was 
given up. By this time Burns had formed his 
connection with Jean Armour, who was after- 
ward his wife, a connection which could no 
longer be concealed, at the moment when the 
ruinous state of his affairs had determined him 

[* Mr. rampbcU is mistaken in this: Burn.s'8 first love 
was his handsome Nell; his Mary Campbell an after ac- 
luaintance.] 



to cross the Atlantic, and to seek his fort.u,ne in 
Jamaica. He had even engaged himself as as- 
sistant overseer to a plantation. He proposed, 
however, to legalise the private contract of mar- 
riage which he had made with Jean ; and, though 
he anticipated the necessity of leaving her behind 
him, he trusted to better days for their being re- 
united. But the parents of Jean were unwilling 
to dispose of her to a husband who was thus to 
j be separated from her, and persuaded her to 
1 renounce the informal marriage. Burns also 
agreed to dissolve the connection, though deeply 
wounded at the apparent willingness of his mis- 
tress to give him up, and overwhelmed with feel- 
ings of the most distracting nature. He now 
[17S6] prepared to embark for Jamaica, .where 
his first situation would, in all probability, have 
been that of a negro-driver, when, before bidding 
a last adieu to his native country, he happily 
thought of publishing a collection of his poems. 
By this publication he gained about £20, which 
seasonably saved him from indenting himself as a 
servant, for want of money to procure a passage. 
With nine guineas out of this sum he had taken 
a steerage passage in the Clyde for Jamaica ; and, 
to avoid the terrors of a jail, he had been for some 
time skulking from covert to covert. He had 
taken a last leave of his friends, and had com- 
posed the last song which he thought he should 
ever measure to Caiedonia.f when the contents 
of a letter, from Dr. Blacklock of Edinburgh, to 
one of his friends, describing the encouragement 
which an edition of his poems would be likely to 
receive in the Scottish capital, suddenly lighted 
up all his prospects, and detained him from em- 
barking. "I immediately posted," he says, "to 
Etlinburgh, without a single acquaintance or letter 
of introduction. The baneful star, which had so 
long shed its blasting influence on my zenith, for 
once made a revolution to the nadir." 

Though he speaks of having had no acquaint- 
ance in E<linburgh, he had been previously 
introduced in Ayrshire to Lord Daer, to Dugald 
Stewart, and to several respectable individuals, 
by the reputation which the first edition of bis 
poems had acquired. He arrived in Edinburgh 
in 178G, and his reception there was more like 
an agreeable change of fortune in a romance, 
than like an event in ordinary life. His com- 
pany was every where sought for; and it was 
soon found that the admiration which his poetry 
had excited, was but a part of what was due to 
the general eminence of his mental faculties. His 
natural eloquence, and his warm and social heart 
expanding under the influence of prosperity — 
which, with all the priile of genius, retained a 
quick and versatile sympathy with every variety 
of human character — made himeq,ually fascinating 
in the most refined and convivial societies. For 
a while he reigned the fashion and idol of his 
native capital. 

The profits of his new edition enabled him m 
the succeeding year, 1787, to make a tour through 



t " The gloomy night is gathering 



faKt. 



ROBERT BURNS. 



a consid* fable extent both to the soutli and north 
of Scotland. The friend who accompanied him 
in this excursion jrives a very interesting descrip- 
tion of the impressions which he saw produced in 
Burns's mind from some of the romantic scenery 
which they visited. " When we came" (he says) 
"to a rustic hut on theriver Till, where the stream 
descends in a noble waterfall, and is surrounded 
by a woody precipice, that commands a most 
beautiful view of its course, he threw himself on 
a heathy seat, and gave himself up to a tender, 
abstracted, and voluptuous indulgence of imagina- 
tion." It may be conceived with what enthu- 
siasm he visited the field of Bannockburn. 

After he had been caressed and distinguished 
so much in Edinburgh, it was natural to antici- 
pate that among the many individuals of pulilic 
influence and respectability, who had counte- 
nanced his genius, some means might have been 
devised to secure to him a competent livelihood 
in a proper station of society. It was probably 
with this hope in his mind that he returned to 
Edinburgh after his summer excursion; and. un- 
fortunately for his habits, spent the winter of 1788 
in accepting a round of convivial invitations. 
The hospitality of the north was not then what 
it now is. Retinemenl had not yet banished to 
the tavern the custom of bumper-toasts, and of 
pressing the bottle : and the master of the house 
was not thought very hospitable unless the ma- 
jority of his male guests, at a regular party, were 
at least half intoxicated. Burns was invited and 
importuned to those scenes of dissipation ; and 
beset, at least as much by the desire of others to 
enjoy his society when he was exhilarated, as by 
his own facility to lend it. He probably deluded 
his own reflections, by imagining, that in every 
fresh excess he was acquiring a new friend, or 
attaching one already acquired. But with all the 
admiration and declarations of personal friendship 
which were lavished on him, the only appointment 
that could be obtained for him was that of an 
officer of excise. In the mean time he had ac- 
quired a relish for a new and over-excited state 
of life. He had been expected to shine in every 
society; and, to use his own phrase, -had been 
too often obliged to give his company a slice of 
his constitution." At least, he was so infatuated 
as to think so. He had now to go back to the 
sphere of society from which he had emerged, 
with every preparatory circumstance to render 
him discontented with it, that the most ingenious 
cruelty could have devised. 

After his appointment to the office of a gauger, 
he took a farm at Ellisland, on the banks of the 
Nith, and settled in conjugal union with his 
Jean. But here his unhappy distraction between 
two em|)loyments, and his mode of life 'as an 
exciseman, which made the public-house his fre- 
quent alxxfe, and his fatigues a temptation to 
excesses, had so bad an influence on his afl'airs, 
that at the end of three years and a half he sold 
his stock and gave i:p his farm. By promotion 
in the excise, his income had risen to £70 a year, 
and with only this income in immediate prospect, 



he repaired to Dumfries, the new placcof duty that 
was assigned to him by the board of commissioners. 
Here his intemperate habits became confirmed, 
and his conduct and conversation grew daily 
more unguarded. Times of political rancour 
had also arrived, in which he was too ardent a 
spirit to preserve neutrality. He took the popu- 
lar side, and became exposed to charges of dis- 
loyalty. He spurned, indeed, at those charges, 
and wrote a very spirited explanation of his prin- 
ciples. But his political conversations had been 
reported to the Board of Excise, and it required 
the interest of a powerful friend to support him 
in the humble situation which he held. It was 
at Dumfries that he wrote the finest of his songs 
for Thompson's "Musical Collection," and dated 
many of the most eloquent of his letters. 

In the winter of 1796 his constitution, broken 
by cares, irregularities, and passions, fell into a 
rapid decline. The summer returned; but only 
to shine on his sickness and his grave. In July 
his mind wandered into delirium; and in the 
same month, a fever, on the fourth day of its 
continuance, closed his life and sufferings, in his 
thirty-eighth year. 

Whatever were the faults of Bums, he lived 
unstaineil by a mean or dishonest action. To 
have died without debt, after supporting a family 
on £70 a year, bespeaks, after all, but little of the 
spendthrift. That income, on account of his in- 
capacity to perfoim his duty, was even reduced 
to one-half of its amount, at the period of his 
dying sickness; and humiliating threats of pun- 
ishment, for opinions uttered in the confidence of 
private conversation, were among the last returns 
which the government of Scotland made to the 
man. whose genius attaches agreeable associa- 
tions to the name of his country. 

His death seemed to efl'ace the recollection of 
his faults, and of political differences, still harder 
to be forgotten. All the respectable inhabitants 
of Dumfries attended his funeral, while the 
volunteers of the city, and two regiments of na- 
tive fencibles, attended with solemn music, and 
paid military honours at the grave of their illus- 
trious countryman. 

Burns has given an elixir of life to his native 
dialect. The Scottish "Tam o' Shanter" will be 
read as long as any English production of the 
same century. The impression of his genius is 
deep and universal ; and, viewing him merely as 
a poet, there is scarcely any other regret con- 
nected with his name, than that his productions, 
with all their merit, fall short of the talents which 
he possessed. That he never attem})ted any 
great work of fiction or in.vention, may be partly 
traced to the cast of his genius, and partly to his 
circumstances and defective education. His 
poetical temperament was that of fitful trans- 
ports, rather than steady inspiration. Whatever 
he might have written, was likely to have been 
fraught with passion. There is always enough 
of till eresl in life to cherish the feelings of a man 
of genius; but it requires knowledge to enlarge 
and enrich his imagmaiion. . Of that knowledge 



ROBERT BURNS. 



679 



which unrolls the diversities of human manners, 
adventures, and characters to a poet's study, he 
could have no great share; although he stamped 
the little treasure which he possessed in the 
mintage of sovereign genius. It has been as- 
serted, that he received all the education which 
is requisite for a poet ; he had learned reading, 
writing and arithmetic; and he had dipped into 
French and geometry. To a poet, it must be 
owned, the three last of those acquisitions were 
quite superfluous. His education, it is also affirmed, 
was equal to Shakspeare's;* but, without in- 
tending to make any comparison between the 
genius of the two bards, it should be recollected 
that Shakspeare lived in an age within the verge of 
chivalry, an age overflowing with chivalrous and 
romantic reading ; that he was led by his voca- 
tion to have daily recourse to that kind of read- 
ing; that he dwelt on a spot which gave him 
constant access to it; and was in habitual inter- 
course with men of genius. Burns, after grow- 
ing up to manhood under toils which exhausted 
his physical frame, acquired a scanty knowledge 
of modern books, of books tending for the most 
part to regulate the judgment more than to ex- 
ercise the fancy. In the whole tract of his read- 
ing, there seems to be little that could cherish 
his inventive faculties. One material of poetry 
he certainly possessed, independent of books, in 
tne legendary superstitions of his native country. 
But with all that he tells us of his early love of 
those superstitions, they seem to have come home 
to his mind with so many ludicrous associations 
of vulgar tradition, that it may be doubted if he 
could have turned them to account in an ele- 
vated work of fiction. Strongly and admirably 
as he paints the supernatural in " Tarn o' Shan- 
ter," yet there, as every where else, he makes it 
subservient to comic eflect. The fortuitous wild- 
ness and sweetness of his strains may, after all, 
set aside every regret that he did not attempt 
more superb and regular structures of fancy. 
He descriiies, as he says, the sentiments which 
he saw and felt in himself and his rustic com- 
peers around him. His page is a lively image 
of the contemporary life and country from which 
he sprung. He brings back old Scotland to us 
with all her homefelt endearments, her simple 
customs, her festivities, her sturdy prejudices, and 
orthodox zeal, with a power that excites, alter- 
nately, the most tender and mirthful sensations. 
After the full account of his pieces which Dr. 
Currie has given, the English reader can have 
nothing new to learn respecting them-t On 
one powerfully comic piece Dr. Currie has not 
disserted, namely, "The Holy Fair." It is 



[* Even, if Shakspeare's education wa.s as bumble a.s 
wliat Jaimer suppo-ed it to have beeu, it waa be^voud 
Eurns's.] 

Lt Since tbis was written, much has been done to illus- 
trate the life, writings, and (lenius of Uurr.s ; edii ion after 
edition has lieen called f>r oif his works, and memoir after 
memoir. The lives by Mr. Lockhart and Mr. Allan Cun- 
ningliam are too wdl known for euIo<ty or quotation; the 
viij'oroufl vindicatory tone of the former, and the calm, 



enough, however, to mention the humour of this 
production, without recommending its subject 
Burns, indeed, only laughs at the abuses of a 
sacred institution; but the theme was of unsafe 
approach, and he ought to hove avoided it. 

He meets us, in his compositions, undis- 
guisedly as a peasant. At the same time, his 
observations go extensively into life, like those 
of a man who felt the proper dignity of human 
nature in the character of a peasant. The writer 
of some of the severest strictures that ever have 
been passed upon his poetry J conceives that his 
beauties are considerably defaced by a portion of 
false taste and vulgar sentiment, which adhere to 
him from his low education. That Burns's edu- 
cation, or rather the want of it, excluded him 
from much knowledge, which might have fos- 
tered his inventive ingenuity, seems to be clegr ; 
but his circumstances cannot be admitted to have 
communicated vulgarity to the tone of his senti- 
ments. They have not the sordid taste of low 
condition. It is objected to him, that he boasts 
too much of his own independence ; but, in 
reality, this boast is neither frequent nor obtru- 
sive; and it is in itself the expression of a manly 
and laudable feeling. So far from calling up 
disagreeable recollections of rusticity, his senti- 
ments triumph, by their natural energy, over 
those false and fastidious distinctions which the 
mind is but too apt to form in allotting its sym- 
pathies to the sensibilities of the rich and poor. 
He carries us into the humble scenes of life, not 
to make us dole out our tribute of charitable com- 
passion to paupers and cottagers, but to make us 
feel with them on equal terms, to make us enter 
into their pa.ssions and interests, and share our 
hearts with them as with brothers and sisters of 
the human species. 

He is taxed, in the same place, with perpetu- 
ally affecting to deride the virtues of prudence, 
regularity, and decency; and with being imbued 
with the sentimentality of German novels. Any 
thing more remote from German sentiment than 
Burns's poetry could not easily be mentioned. 
But is he depraved and licentious in a compre- 
hensive view of the moral character of his 
pieces 1 The over-genial freedom of a few as- 
suredly ought not to fix this character upon the 
whole of them. It is a charge which we should 
hardly expect to see preferred against the author 
of "The Cotter's Saturday Night." He is the 
enemy, indeed, of that selfish and niggardly 
spirit which shelters itself under the name of 
prudence; but that pharisaical disposition has 
seldom been a favourite with poets. Nor should 
his maxims, which inculcate charity and can- 



clear, and earnest languape of the latter, with the fullness 
of its information, leave little for Bucceeding writers to say 
by way of justification or illu.'.tration.] 

X Critique on the character of Burns, in the Edinburi^h 
j?eview. Article, Cromtk's Rdiques of Bums. [By Lnid 
Jeffrey. Mr. Campbell's reply to Lord Jeffrey is thought 
by the Edinburgh Iteviewer of tliese Specimens to ba 
suhsttanliaHy succes^ul. See Edinburgh Review, vol 
xxxi. p. 49:J.] 



680 



ROBERT BURNS. 



dour in judging of human frailties, be interpreted 
as a serious defence of them, as when he says, 

"Then gently scan your brother man, 
Still gentlier sister woman, 
Thoujih they may gan^ a kcnuin' wrang; 
To step aside is human. 

" Who made the heart, 'tis lie alone 
Decidedly can try us ; 
He knows each chord, its various tone, 
Each spring, its various bias." 

It is still more surprising, that a critic, capable 
of so eloquently developing the traits of Burns's 
genius, should have found fault with his amatory 
strains for want of polish, and "of that chivalrous 
tone of gallantry, which uniformly abases itself 
ill the presence of the object of its devotion." 
Every reader must recall abundance of thoughts 
in his love songs, to which any attempt to super- 
add a tone of gallantry would not be 

" To gild refined gold, to paint the rose, 
Or add fresh perfume to the violet ;'* 

but to debase the metal, and to take the odour 
and colour from the flower. It is exactly this 
superiority to " abasement" and polish which is 



the charm that distinguishes Burns from the 
herd of erotic songsters, from the days of the 
troubadours to the present time. He wrote from 
impulses more sincere than the spirit of chivalry ; 
and even Lord Surrey and Sir Philip Sidney are 
cold and uninteresting lovers in comparison with 
the rustic Burns. 

The praises of his best pieces I have abstained 
from re-echoing, as there is no epithet of admira- 
tion which they deserve which has not been be- 
stowed upon them. One point must be conceded 
to the strictures on his poetry, to which I have 
already alluded, — that his personal satire was 
fierce and acrimonious. I am not, however, dis- 
posed to consider his attacks on Rumble John, 
and Holy Willie, as destitute of wit; and his 
poem on the clerical settlements at Kilmarnock 
blends a good deal of ingenious metaphor with 
his accustomed humour. Even viewing him as 
a satirist, the last and humblest light in which 
he can be regarded as a poet, it may still be said 
of him. 



'His style was witty, though it had some gall; 
Something he might have mended — so may ail.' 



THE TWA DOGS. 

A TALE. 

'TwAS in that place o' Scotland's isle, 
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, 
Upon a honnie day in June, 
When wearing through the afternoon, 
Tvva dogs that were na thrang at hame, 
Forgatlier'd ance upon a time. 

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Csesar, 
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure : 
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; 
But whalpit some place far abroad, 
Where sailors gang to fish for cod. 

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar 
Show'd him the gentleman and scholar: 
But though he was o' high degree. 
The fient a pride na pride had he; 
But wad hae spent an hour caressin, 
Ev'n with a tinker-gipsy's messin. 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie. 
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him. 
And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. 

The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, 
Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, 
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, 
After some dog in Higiiland sang. 
Was made lang syne — Lord knows how lang. 



[* This version by no means improves the original, 
which is as follows : 

To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, 
To throw a perfume on the violet. 

King John, Ait. iv. Scene ii. 
A great poet quoting another should be correct. — Byron, 
)K«rA.s, vol. xvi.i.l24.] 



He was a gash an' faithful tyke, 
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. 
His honest, sonsie, bawsn't face, 
Ay gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his towzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black; 
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl. 
Hung o'er his hurdles wi' a swirl. 

JSae doubt but they were fain o' ither. 
An' unco pack an' thick thegither ; 
Wi' social nose whiles snuff'd and snowkit; 
W' hyles mice an' moudieworls they howkit; 
Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion. 
An' worry 'd ither in diversion ; 
Until wi' daftin weary grown, 
Upon a knowe they sat them down, 
And there began a lang digression. 
About the lords o' the creation. 



I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have; 
An' when the gentry's life I saw, 
What way poor bodies lived ava. 

Our Laird gets in his racked rents, 
His coals, his kain. and a' his stents: 
He rises when he likes himsel' ; 
His flunkies answer at the bell; 
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; 
He draws a bonnie silken purse 
As lang's my tail, whare, through the steeks, 
Thfc yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. 

Frae morn to e'en it's naught but toiling, 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; 
An' though the gentry first a-e stechin. 
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan 



ROBERT BURNS. 



681 



Wi'.sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, 
That's little short o' downright waslrie. 
Our Whipper-in, wee blastit wonner, 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner, 
Better than ony tenant man 
His Honour has in a' the Ian': 
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, 
I own it's past my comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth, Caesar, whyles they 're fash't enough; 
A cottar howkin in a sheugh, 
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke. 
Baring a quarry, and sic like. 
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, 
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans. 
An' naught but his han' darg, to keep 
Them right and tight in thack an' rape. 

An' when they meet wi' sair disasters. 
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters. 
Ye niaist wad think, a wee touch langer, 
An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger; 
But, how it comes, I never kenn'd it. 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented; 
An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 

CJESAR. 

But then to see how ye're negleckit. 
How hufl"'d, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit! 
L — d, man, our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle ; 
They gang as saucy by poor fo'k. 
As I wad by a stinking brotk. 

I've noticed, on our Laird's court-day, 
An' moiiy a time my heart's been wae, 
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, 
How they maun thole a factor's snash; 
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear 
He'll apprehend them, poind tlieir gear; 
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble, 
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble ! 

I see how folk live that hae riches ; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches! 

LUATH. 

They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think ; 
Though constantly on poortiih's brink: 
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight. 
The view o't gies them little fright. 

Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, 
They're aye in less or mair provided ; 
An' though fatigued with close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
Their grusliie weans an' faithfu' wives; 
The prattling things arc just their pride, 
That sweetens a' their fire-side. 

An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy 
Can mak the bodies unco happy; 
They lay aside their private cares. 
To mind the kirk and state affairs: 
They'll talk o' patronage and priests, 
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts. 
Or tell what new taxation's comin, 
All' ferlie at the folk in Lon'oa 
86 



As bleak-faced Hallowmass returns, 
They get the jovial, ranting kirns, 
When rural life, o' every station. 
Unite in common recreation; 
Love blinks. Wit slaps, an' social Mirth, 
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 

Iliat merry day the year begins. 
They bar the door on frosty winds ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
The luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill. 
Are handed round wi' right guid will; 
The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse, 
The young anes ranting through the house, — 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. 

Still it's owre true that ye hae said. 
Sic game is now owre aflen play'd. 
There's monie a creditable stock 
O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k, 
Are riven out haith root and branch. 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster 
In favour wi' some gentle master, 
Wha aiblins, thrang a parliamentin, 
For Britain's guid his saul indentin — 

CiESAR. 

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it: 
For Britain's guid.' — guid faith, I doubt it! 
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, 
An' saying ay or wo's they bid him: 
At operas an' plays parading. 
Mortgaging, gaml)ling, masquerading ; 
Or may be, in a frolic daft. 
To Hague or Calais takes a waft. 
To make a tour, and tak a whirl. 
To learn bon Ion an' see the worl'. 

There, at Vienna or Versailles, 
He rives his father's auld entails! 
Or by Madrid he takes the rout. 
To thrum guitars, and fecht wi' nowt; 
Or down Italian vista startles, 
* * hunting among groves o' myrtles: 
Then bouses ilrumly German water, 
To mak himsel look fair and fatter. 
An' clear the consequential sorrows, 
Love-gifts of Carnival signoras. 
For I riliiiii's guid! — for her destruction! 
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction. 

LDATH. 

Hech man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae niony a braw estate ! 
Are we sae foughten and harass'd 
For gear to gang that gate at last! 

Oh would they stay aback frae courts, 
An' please themselves wi' countra sports, 
It wad for every ane be better. 
The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter! 
For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, 
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows; 
Except for breaking o'er their timmer. 
Or speakin lightly o' their limmer. 
Or shooting o' a hare or moor-cock. 
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 



Ofi2 



ROBERT BURNS. 



But will ye tell me, Master Csesar, 
Sure great folk's life 's a life o' pleasure ! 
JNae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them, 
The vera thought o't need na fear them. 

C£SAR. 

L — d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am, 
The gentles ye wad ne'er env;^ 'em. 

It's true, they need na starve or sweat, 
Thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's heat; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their hanes, 
An' fill auld age with grips an' granes: 
But human bodies are sic fools, 
For a' their colleges and schools, 
That when nae real ills perplex them, 
They mak enow themsels to vex them; 
An' ay the less they hae to sturt them ; 
In like proportion less will hurt them ; 
A country fellow at the pleugh, 
His acres till'd, he's right enough ; 
A country girlie at her wheel, 
Her dizzens done, she's unco weel: 
But gentlemen, an' ladies warst, 
Wi' evendown want o' wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy ; 
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy ; 
Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless: 
Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless; 
An' even their sports, their balls, an' races, 
Their galloping through public places. 
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
The men cast out in party matches, 
Then sowther a' in deep debauches : 
Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' * * 
Neist day their life is past enduring. 
The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters. 
As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
But bear their absent thoughts o' ither, 
They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. 
"Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup an' platie. 
They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabhit leuks 
Pore owre the devil's pictured beuks ; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
An' cheat like onie unhanged blackguard. 

There's some exception, man an' woman ; 
But this is Gentry s life in common. 

By this, the sun was out o' sight. 
An' darker gloaming brought the night; 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone; 
The kye stood rowtin i' the loan ; 
When up they gat, and shook their lugs, 
Rejoiced they were na men but dogs; 
An' each took afl'his several way, 
Resolved to meet some ither day. 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 
O THOU ! w hatever title suit thee, 
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha m yon cavern grim an' sootie. 

Closed under hatches, 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie, 

To scaud pour wretches ! 



Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee. 
An' let poor damned bodies be; 
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, 

E'en to a deil, 
To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me. 

An' hear us squeel ! 

Great is thy power, an' great thy fame ; 
Far kend and noted is thy name ; 
An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame. 

Thou travels far; 
An' faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame, 

Nor blate nor scaur. 

Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion. 
For prey, a' holes an' corners try in ; 
Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin, 

Tirling the kirks ; 
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin. 

Unseen thou lurks. 

I've heard my reverend Graunie say, 
In lanely glens ye like to stray ; 
Or where auld-ruin'd castles, gray. 

Nod to the moon. 
Ye fright the nightly wanderer's way, 

Wi' eldritch croon. 

When twilight did my Graunie summon, 
To say her prayers, Uouce, honest woman ! 
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin, 

Wi' eerie drone; 
Or, rustlin' thro' the boortries comin, 

Wi' heavy groan. 

Ae dreary, windy, winter night, 

'J'he stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, 

Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright, 

Ayont the lough ; 
Ye, like a rash-bush stood in sight, 

Wi' waving sugh. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake. 

Each bristled hair stood like a stake, 

When wi' an eldritch stour, quaick — quaick- 

Amang the springs, 
Awa ye squatter'd like a drake. 

On whistling wings. 

Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags. 
Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags. 
They skim the muirs, an' dizzy crags, 

Wi' wicked speed ; 
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, 

Owre howkit dead. 

Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, 
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain; 
For, oh ! the yellow treasure's taen 

By witching skill; 
An dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen 

As yell's the Bill. 



Thence mystic knots mak great 

On young Guidman, fond, keen, an' crouse; 

When the best wark-lume i' the house, 

By cantrip wit. 
Is instant made no worth a louse. 

Just at the bit. 



ROBERT BURNS, 



r.?3 



VV'lien tliowes cligsolve the snawy hoord, 
All' float the jinglin icy-boord. 
Then Water-kelpies haunt the foord 

By your direction, 
An' nighted travellers are allured, 

To their destruction 

An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkies 
Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is: 
The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys 

Delude his eyes, 
Till in some miry slough he sunk is, 

JNe'er mair to rise. 

When Masons' mystic word an' grip, 
In storms an' tempests raise you up, 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, 

Or, strange to tell ! 
The youngest Brother ye wad whip 

Affstraught to hell ! 

Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, 
When youlhfu' lovers first were pair'd, 
An' all the soul of love they shared, 

The raptured hour. 
Sweet on the fragrant, flowery svvaird ; 

In shady bow'r: 

Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog ! 

Ye came to Paradise incog. 

An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, 

(Black be your fa !) 
An' gied the infant warid a shog, 

'Maist ruin'd a'. 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz, 
Ye did present your smouiie phiz 

'Mang better fo'k, 
An' sklented on the man of Uz 

Your spitefu' joke ] 

An' how ye gat him' i' your thrall. 
An' brak him out o' house an' hall. 
While scabs an' blotches did him gall, 

Wi' bitter claw. 
An' lows'd his ill tongued, wicked Scawl, 

Was warst ava 1 

But a' your doings to rehearse. 
Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce. 
Sin' that day Michael did you pierce, 

Down to this time. 
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, 

In prose or rhyme. 

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin, 
A certiiin Bardie's ranlin, drinkin. 
Some luckless hour will send him linkin, 

To your black pit ; 
But, faith! he'd turn a corner jinkin, 

An' cheat you yet. 

But, fire you weel. auld Nickie-ben ! 
Oh Wild ye tak a thought an' men' ! 
Ye aibiins might — I dmna ken — 

Stdl hae a stake — 
I'm wae to think ujio' yon den, 

Encu for your sake! 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 

OW TURMSQ ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUOH 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem ; 
To spare thee now is past my power, 

Thou bonnie gem. 

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet. 
The bonnie Lark, companion meet! 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet! 

Wi' spreckled breast, 
When upward-springing, blithe, to greet 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, 
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield; 
But thou beneath the random bield 

O' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble-field, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad. 
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise; 
But now the share uptears thy bed. 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
Sweet floweret of the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betray'd, 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple Bard, 

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd \ 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
The billows rage, and gales blow hard. 

And whelm him o'er ! 

Such fate to suffering worth is given, 

Who long with wants and woes has strivenj 

By human pride or cunning driven. 

To misery's brink, 
Till wrench'd of every stay but Heaven, 

He, ruin'd, sink ! 

Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, 
That fate is tliioe — no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate. 

Full on thy bloom. 
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight. 

m.all be thy doom ! 



08 i 



ROBERT BURNS. 



T.V.M 0' SHAXTER. 

A TALK. 

When chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, 
As market days are wearing late, 
An' folk begin to tak the gate ; 
While we sit bousing at the nappy, 
An' gettin fou and unco happy, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles. 
The mosses, waters, slaps and styles. 
That lie Itetween us and our haine, 
Where sits our sulky sullen dame, 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truih fand honest Tarn o' Shanter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses. 
For honest men and bonny lasses.) 

Tarn ! had'st thou but been sae wise, 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
She tauld thee weel thou was a skeilum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou was nae sober; 
That ilka melder, wi' the miller. 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; 
That every naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gat roaring ion on ; 
That at the L — d's house, even on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday. 
She prophesied, that late or soon, 
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon ; 
Or catchJd wi' warlocks in the mirk. 
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars nie greet, 
To think how mony counsels sweet. 
How mony lengthen'd sage a<!vices. 
The husbanil frae the wife des|)ises ! 

But to our tale: Ae market night, 
Tam had got planted unco right; 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; 
And at his elbow, souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; 
Tam lo'ed him like a'vera britlier; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter: 
And ay the ale was growing better: 
The landlady and 'i'am grew gracious; 
Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious: 
The souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy. 
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy; 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure. 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure: 
Kings may be bless'd, but Tam was glorious, 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious! 

But pleasures are like poppies spread, 
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed ! 
Or like the snow-falls in the river, 
A moment white — then melts for ever ; 



Or like the borealis race, 

'J'hat flit ere you can point their place; 

Or like the rainbow's lovely form 

Evanishing amid the storm. — 

Nae man can tether time or tide; 

The hour approaches Tam maun ride; 

That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, 

That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; 

And sic a night he taks the road in, 

As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; 

The ratllin showers rose on the blast: 

The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; 

Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder hellow'd ; 

That' night, a ciiiid might understand. 

The deil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, 

A better never lifted leg, 

Tam skelpit on through dub and mire. 

Despising, wind, and rain, and fire; 
Whiles holding fast his guid lilue bonnet; 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; 
Whiles glowering round wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares; 
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaist and houlets nightly cry — • 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whare in the snaw the chapman snioor'd; 
And past the hirks and meikle stane, 
Whare drunken Charlie brak 's neck-bane; 
And through the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Whare Mungo's milher hang'd hersel. — 
Before him Doon pours all his floods; 
'I'he doubling storm roars through ihe woods! 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole; 
Near and more near the thunders roll; 
When, glimmering through the groaning trees, 
Kirk-Alloway seein'd in a bleeze ; 
Through dka bore the beams were glancing; 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.— 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil; 
Wi' usquabae we'll face the devil ! — 
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, 
Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. 
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd. 
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 
She ventured forward on tiie light; 
And, vow ! Tam saw an unco sight; 
Warlocks and witches in a dance; 
Nae cotillion brent new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 
Put life and mettle in their heels. 
A winnock-bunker in the east, 
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; 
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 
I'o gie them music was his charge : 
He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, 
'i'ill roof and rafters a' did dirl. — 
Coffins stood round, like open presses. 
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 



ROBERT BURNS. 685 


And by some devilish cantrip slight, 


And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 


Each in its cauld hand held a light, — 


When out the hellish legion sallied. 


By which heroic Tarn was able 


As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke. 


To note upon the haly table. 


When plundering herds assail their byke; 


A murderer's banes in gibbet aims; 


As open pussie's mortal foes. 


Twa span-lang, wee unchristen'd bairns; 


When, pop! she starts before their nose; 


A thief new-cutted frae a rape, 


As eager runs the market-crowd. 


Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape: 


When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; 


Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted; 


So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 


Five scimitars wi' murder crusted ; 


Wi'mony an eldritch skreech and hollow. 


A garter, which a babe had strangled ; 


Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin! 


A knife, a father's thront had mangled, 


In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ! 


Whom his ain son o' life bereft, 


In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin ! 


The gray hairs yet stack to the heft ; 


Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 


Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu'. 


Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 


Which even to name wad be unlawfu'. 


And win the key-stane of the brig; 


As Tammie glowr'd, amazed and curious, 


There at them thou thy tail may toss, 


The mirth and fun grew fost and furious: 


A running stream they dare na cross. 


The piper loud and louder blew ; 


But ere the key-stane she could make, 


The dancers quick and quicker flew; 


The fient a tale she had to shake! 


They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, 


For Nannie, far before the rest, 


Till ilka carlin swat and reekit. 


Hard upon noble Maggie prest. 


And coost her duddies to the wark. 


And flew at Tam wi' furious ettlc: 


And linket at it in her sark ! 


But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 


Now Tam, Tam ! had they been queans 


Ae spring brought off' her master hale. 


A' plump and strapping, in their teens; 


But left behind her ain gray tail : 


Their sarks, instead o' creshie flannen. 


The carlin claught her by the rump. 


Been snaw-white seventeen bunder linen! 


And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 


Thir breeks o mine, my only pair. 




That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, 


Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 


I wad hae gi'en them oft' my hurdies! 


Ilk man and mother's son, take heed: 


For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies! 


Whene'er to drink you are inclined, 


But wither'd beldams, auld and droll. 


Or cutty-sarks run in your mind. 


Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal. 


Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear, 


Lowping and flinging on a cruinmock. 


Remember Tam o' Shanler's mare. 


I wonder didtia turn thy stomach. 




But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie, 


— ♦ 


There was ae winsome wench and walie, 


SONG. 


That night inlisted in the core. 


(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ! 


POORTITH cauld, and restless love, 


For mony a beast to dead she shot, 


Ye wreck my peace between ye ; 


And perish'd mony a bonnie boat. 


Yet poortith a' I could forgive. 


And shook baith meikle corn and bear, 


An' 'twere na for my Jeanie. 


And kept the country-side in fear) 


why should fate sic pleasure have, 


Her cutty sark, o' Paisley barn. 


Life's dearest bands untwining'? 


That while a lassie she had worn, 


Or why sae sweet a flower as love, 


[n longitude tho' sorely scanty. 


Depend on Fortune's shining"? 


It was her best, and she was vauntie. — • 
Ah! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie. 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 


This warld's wealth when I think on, 
Its pride, and a' the lave o't ; 

Fie, fie, on silly coward man, 
That he should be the slave o't. 
why, &c. 


Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), 
Wad ever graced a dance of witches ! 

But here my muse her wing maun cower; 


Sic flights are far beyond her power: 


Her een sae bonnie blue betray. 


To sing how Nannie lap and flang. 


How she repays my passion ; 


(A souple jade she was and Strang,) 


But prudence is her o'erword ay. 


And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd, 


She talks of rank and fashion. 


And thought his very een enrich'd; 


why, &c. 


Even Satan glowr'd, and fidged fu' fain, 


And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main : 


wha can prudence think upon, 


Till first ae caper, syne anither, 


And sic a lassie by him ] 


Tam tint his reason a' thegither, 


wha can prudence think upon. 


And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark!" 


And sae in love as I am I 


And in an instant all was dark : 


why, &c. 




3U 



BS6 



ROBERT BURNS, 



How blest the humble cotter's fate! 

He woos his simple dearie; 
The stllie bogles, wealth and state, 

Can never make them eerie. 
why should fate sic pleasure have, 

Life's dearest ban<is untwining] 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love, 

Depend on Fortune's shining? 



TO MARY IN UEAVEN. 
Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, 

That lovest to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usher'st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest! 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ! 

That sacred hour can I forget, 

Can I forget the hallow'd grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met. 

To live one day of parting love ! 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past; 
Thy image at our last emltrace ; 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 

Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning, green; 
'I'he fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 

Twined amorous round the raptured scene. 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 

The birds sang love on every spray, 
'Till too, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaim'd the speed, of winged day. 
Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, 

And fondly broods with miser care; 
Time hut the impression stronger makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful resti 
Seest ibou thy lover lowly laid i 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? 



SOXG. • 

CHORUS. 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, 
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, 

And soft as their parting tear — Jessy ! 

Although thou maun never be mine. 

Although even hope is denied; 
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing 

Than aught in the world beside — Jessy ! 

I mourn through the gay, gaudy day, 

As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms; 
But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber. 

For then I am lock'd in thy arms — Jessy ! 
I guess by the dear angel smile, 

I guess by the love-rolling ee ; 
But why urge the tender confession 

'Gainst Fortune's fell cruel decree 1 — Jessy ! 



Here's a health ane I lo'e dear. 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear. 
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, 

And soft as their parting tear — Jessy ! 



BRUCE TO mS MEN AT BANNOCKBURN. 
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed. 
Or to victorie ! 

Now's the day, and now's the hour, 
See the front o' battle lour: 
See approach proud Edward's power- 
Chains and slaverie ! 

Wha will he a traitor-knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave 1 
Wha sae base as be a slave ! 

Let him turn and flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand or freeman fa' ? 
Let him follow me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By our sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe! 
Liberty's in every blow ! — 
Let us do or die ! 



SONG. 

Maey, at thy window be. 

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! 
Those smiles and glances let me see. 

That make the mitser's treasure poor: 
How blithely wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun; 
Could I the rich reward secure. 

The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen, when to the trembling string, 
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha'. 

To thee my fancy took its wing, 
I sat, but neither heard nor saw; 

Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, 
And yon the toast of a' the town, 

1 sigh'd, and said aniang them a', 

" Ye are na Mary Morison." 

Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? 
Or canst thou break that heart of h», 

Whose only faut is loving thee '.' 
If love for love thou wilt nae gie, 

At least be pity to me shown ! 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 



WILLIAM MASON. 



687 



SONG. 
Oh, were I on Parnassus' hill ! 
Or had of Helicon my fill; 
That I might catch poetic skill, 

To sing how dear I love thee. 
But Nith maun be my Muse's well, 
My Muse maun be thy bonnie sel' ; 
On Corsincon I'll glower and spell, 

And write how dear I love thee. 
Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay ! 
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day 
I coudna sing, I coudna say. 

How much, how dear, I love thee. 
I see thee ilancing o'er the green, 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, 
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een — 

By heaven and earth I love thee ! 
By night, by day, a-field, at hame, 
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; 
And aye I muse and sing thy name — 

I only live to love thee. 



Tho' I were doom'd to wander on 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, 
Till my last weary sand was run ; 

Till then — and then I'll love thee- 



Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, 

Where the winds howl to the waves' dashingroar, 
There would I weep my woes, 
There seek my lost repose. 
Till grief my eyes should close, 
Ne'er to wake more. 

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare. 
All thy fond plighted vows — fleeting as air! 
To thy new lover hie, 
Laugh o'er thy perjury, 
Then in thy bosom try 

What peace is there! 



WILLIAM MASON. 



CBorn, 1725. Died, 1797.] 



William Mason was the son of the vicar of 
St. Trinity, in the East Riding of Yorkshire. 
He was entered of St. John's College, Cambridge, 
in his eighteenth year, having already, as he in- 
forms us, blended some attention to painting and 
poetry with his youthful studies— 

" soon my hand the mimic colours spread, 

And vainly strove to snatch a double wreath 
From Ji'ame'g unfading laurels." 

Eiiglisfi Garden, B. 1. 

At the university he distinguished himself by 
his JVIonody on the death of Pope, which was 
published in 1747.* Two years afterward he 
obtained his degree of master of arts, and a fel- 
lowship of Pembroke-hall. For his fellowship 
he was indebted to the interest of Gray, whose 
acquaintance with him was intimate and lasting; 
and who describes him, at Cambridge, as a young 
man of much fancy, little judgment, and a good 
deal of modesty ; in simplicity a child, a little 
vain, but sincere, inoftensive, and indolent. At 
a later period of his life, Thomas Warton gave 
him the very opposite character of a " buckram 
man." 

He was early attached to Whig principles, and 
wrote his poem of " Isis," as an attack on the 
Jacobitism of O.xford. When Thomas Warton 
produced his "Triumph of Isis," in reply, the 
two poets had the liberality to compliment the 

[* In one of his first poems Mason had, in a puerile 
fiction, ranked Chaucer and Spenser and Milton below 
Pope, which is like comparing a garden shrub with the 
oaks of the forest. But he would have maintt\ined no 
Bu. h ab.^urUity in his riper years, for Mason lived to per- 
ceivf and correct both his errors of opinion and his faults 
of style. — S'ouTiii Y, Qiwper, vol. ii. p. 177.J 

[t 'the ancients were perpetually confined and ham- 
ered by the necessity of ufing the chorus : and if they 



productions of each other; nor were their rival 
strains much worthy of mutual envy. But Ma- 
son, though he was above envy, could not detach 
his vanity from the subject. One evening, on 
entering Oxford with a friend, he expressed his 
happiness that it was dark. His friend not per- 
ceiving any advantage in the circumstance, 
"What!" said Mason, "don't you remember 
my Isisi" 

In 1753 he published his " Elfrida." in which 
the chorus is introduced after the model of the 
Greek drama. The general unsuilableness of 
that venerable appendage of the ancient theatre 
for the modern stage seems to be little dis- 
puted.! The two predotniiiant features of the 
Greek chorus were, its music and its abstract 
morality. Its musical character could not be 
revived, unless the science of music were by 
some miracle to be made a thousand years 
younger, and unless modern ears were restored 
to a taste for its youthful simplicity. If music 
were as freely mixed with our tragedy as with 
that of Greece, the eflect would speedily be, to 
make harmony predominate over words, sound 
over sense, as in modern operas, and the result 
would be not a resemblance to the drama of 
Greece, but a thing as opposite to it as possible. 
The moral use of the ancient chorus is also super- 
seded by the nature of modern dramatic imitation, 

have done wonders notwith.«tanding this clog, sure I 
am they would have performed still greater wonders 
without it. — (iKAT. Kemurks on Et/riUa, Wi>r/.s by Mit- 
font, vol. iv. p. 2. 

It is impos^ible to conceive that Phadra trusted hei 
incestuous passion, or Medea her murderous revenge, to 
a whole troop of attendants. — lloR. Walpoli!. Jtoi/cU and 
Xoble Autliori.\ 



088 



WILLIAM MASON. 



which incorporates sentiment and reflection so 
freely with the speeches of the represented cha- 
racters, as to need no suspension of the dialogue 
for the sake of lyrical bursts of morality or reli- 
gious invocation. 

The chorus was the oldest part of Greek tra- 
gedy ; and though Mr. Schlegel has rejected the 
idea of its having owed its preservation on the 
Greek stage to its antiquity, I cannot help think- 
ing that that circumstance was partly the cause 
of its preservation.* Certainly the Greek drama, 
having sprung from a clioral origin, would always 
retain a character congenial with the chorus. 
The Greek drama preserved a religious and 
highly rythmical character. It took its rise from 
a popular solemnity, and continued to exhibit the 
public, as it were, personified in a distinct charac- 
ter upon the stage. In this circumstance we may 
perhaps recognise a trait of the democratic spirit 
of Athenian manners, which delighted to give 
the impartial spectators a sort of image and repre- 
sentative voice upon the stage. .Music was then 
simple ; the dramatic representation of character 
and action, though bold, was simple ; and this 
simplicity left in the ancient stage a space for the 
chorus, which it could not obtain (permanently) 
on that of the moderns. Our music is so compli- 
cated, that when it is allied with words it over- 
whelms our attention to words. Again, the 
Greek drama gave strong and decisive outlines 
of character and passion, but not their minute 
shadings; our drama gives all the play of moral 
physiognomy. The great and awful characters 
of a Greek tragedy spoke in pithy texts, without 
commentaries of sentiment ; while the flexible 
eloquence of the moderns supplies both text and 
commentary. Every moral feeling, calm or tumul- 
tuous, is expressed in our soliloquies or dialogues. 
The Greeks made up for the want of soliloquy, 
and for the short simplicity of their dialogue, 
which often consisted in interchanj;es of single 
lines, by choral speeches, which commented on 
the passing action, explained occurring motives, 
and soothed or deepened the moral impressions 
arising out of the piece. With us every thing is 
diflerent. The dramatic character is brought, 
both physically and morally, so much nearer to 
our perception, with all its fluctuating motives 
and, feelings, as to render it as unnecessary to 
have interpreters of sentiment or motives, such 
as the chorus, to magnify, or soothe, or prolong 
our moral impressions, as to have buskins to in- 
crease the size, or brazen faces to reverberate the 
voice of the speaker. Nor has the mind any 
preparation for such juries of reflectors, and pro- 
cessions and confidential advisers. 

There is, however, no rule without a possible 
exception. To make the chorus an habitual 



* Mr. Schlegel alludei to the tradition of Pophorlcs hav- 
ing wri ten a fiiose d. fenceofthechoius aj;' lust the objec- 
tions of conlenipor^ries, who blamed this coutiuuancc of it. 
Admiltine; this tiaJition, what does it prove? Sophocles 
fouiid the I horns in his native drama, and no doubt found 
the giT.ius ( f tliat drama congenial with the chorus ftom 
which it had .-pruu;;. In the opinion of the great German 



part of the modern drama would he a chimerical 
attempt. There are few subjects in which every 
part of a plot may not be fulfilled by individuals. 
Yet it is easy to conceive a subject, in which it 
may be required, or at least desirable to incor- 
• porate a group of individuals under one common 
part. And where this grouping shall arise not 
capriciously, but necessarily out of the nature of 
the subject, our minds will not be offended by 
the circumstance, but will thank the dramatist 
for an agreeable novelty. In order to reconcile 
us, however, to this plural personage, or chorus, 
it is necessary that the individuals composing it 
should be knit not only by a natural but dignified 
coalition. The group, in fact, will scarcely please 
or interest the imagination unless it has a solemn 
or interesting community of character. Such are 
the Druids in " Caractacus ;" and, perhaps, the 
chorus of Israelites in Racine's '• Esther." In 
such a case even a modern audience would be 
likely to suspend their love of artificial harmony, 
and to listen with delight to sin)ple music and 
choral poetry, where the words were not drowned 
in the music. At all events, there would exist a 
fair apology for introducing a chorus, from the 
natural and imposing bond of unity belonging to 
the group. But this apology will by no means 
apply to the tragedy of Elfrida. The chorus is 
there composed of persons who have no other 
community of character than their being the 
waiting women of a baroness. They are too un- 
important personages to be a chorus. 'JMiey have 
no right to form so important a ring around El- 
frida, in the dramatic hemisphere ; and the ima- 
gination is puzzled to discover any propriety in 
those young ladies, who, according to history, 
ought to have been good Christians, striking up a 
hymn, in Harewood Forest, to the rising sun: 
" Uail to the living light," &c. 
In other respects the tragedy of Elfrida is 
objectionable. It violates the traditional truth 
of history, without exhibiting a story sulficiently 
I powerful to triumph over our historical belief. 
I The whole concludes with Elfrida's self-devotion 
I to widowhood ; but no circumstance is contrived 
j to assure us, that, like many other afliicted widows, 
she may not marry again. An irreverend and 
ludicrous, but involuntary, recollection is apt to 
cross the mind respecting the fragility of widows' 
vows — 

"Vows made in pain, as violent and void." 
Elfrida was acted at Covent Garden in 1772 
under the direction of Colman, who got it up 
with splendid scenery, and characteristic music, 
composed by Dr. Arne; but he made some altera- 
tions in the text, which violently oflfended its 
author. Mason threatened the manager with an 



critic, he used the chorus, not from resranl to habit, but 
principle. But liave not many fer.sons of the hii;hu,-t 
genius defended customs on the score of priudple, to 
which they were secretly, perhaps uncons: iously. alt.iched 
from the power of habit ? CuHtum is, in fact, stronger than 
principle. 



WILLIAM MASON. 



689 



appeal to the public; and the manager, in turn, 
threatened the poet with introducing a chorus of 
Grecian washerwomen on the stage. At the dis- 
tance of several years it was revived at the same 
theatre, with the author's own alterations, but 
with no better success. The play, in spite of its 
theatrical failure, was still acknowledged to pos- 
se^s poetical beauties.* 

In 1754 Mason went into orders ; and, through 
the p.itronage of Lord Holdernesse, was appointed 
one of the chaplains to the king. He was also 
domestic chaplain to the nobleman now men- 
tioned, and accompanied him to permany, where 
he s|)eaks of having met with his friend White- 
head, the future laureate, at Hanover, in the 
year 1755. About the same time he received 
the living of Aston. He again cf)urted the atten- 
tion of the public in 1756, with four Odes, the 
themes of which were Independence. Memory, 
Melancholy, and the Fall of Tyranny. Smollett 
and Slienstone, in their strains to Independence 
and Memory have certainly outshone our poet, as 
well as anticipated him in those subjects. The 
glittering and alliterative style of those four odes 
of Mason was severely parodied by Lloyd and 
Colman ; and the public, it is said, were more 
entertained with the parodies than with the origi- 
nals. On tiie death of Gibber, he was proposed to 
succeed to the laurel; but he receiveti an apology 
for its not being offered to him because he was a 
clergyman. The apology was certainly both an 
absurd and fal.^^e one ; for Warton, the succeeding 
laureate, was in orders.f There seems, however, 
to be no room for doubting the sincerity of Ma- 
son's declaration, that he was indifferent about 
the office. 

His reputation was considerably raised by the 
appearance of " Caractacus," in 1759. Many 
years after its publication it was performed at 
Covent Garden with applause ; though the im- 
pression it produced was not sufficient to make 
it permanent on the stage. This chef-d'auvre of 
Mason may not exhibit strong or minute delinea- 
tion of human character; but it has enough of 
dramatic interest to support our admiration of 
virtue and our suspense and emotion in behalf 
of its cause: and it leads the imagination into 
scenes, delightfully cast amidst the awfulness of 
superstition, the venerable antiquity of history, 
and the untamed grandeur of external nature. 
In this last respect it may be preferred to the 
tragedy of Beaumont and Fletcher on the same 
subject; that it brings forward the persons and 
abodes of the Druids with more magnificent effect. 
There is so much of the poet's eye displayed in 

[* It wa-s something iu that sickly age of tragedy to 
pro^Uico two Sm-li draiiiiis as Elfrida and Caractacu.x; tlie 
6ucce.-s of which, when Culman (much to his honour) made 
thrt bo'.d ex: evimoiiti.f biin,i;ing them on the stage, jpiovcd 
that, aithougli the public had long been dieted upon tra.'h, 
they could reli-li srmetl.ing of a worthier kind than Ta- 
rn ilanc. 'i he Kcveugc. and Tlie Grecian Daufihtcr. Mason 
C(,mpu>cd hU phiys upon an artificial model, and in a gor- 
geous iliriirn, le ausi' he tliought Shakspeare h:id pre- 
cluded all hope of excellence in any other form of drama. 
SouTHi'.Y. C'W/K'r. Tol. ii. p. 177.] 

[t Xhi3 is far from correi t. Whitehead succeeded Gibber, 



the choice of his ground, and in the outline of 
his structure, that Mason seems to challentre 
something like a generous prepossession on the 
mind in judging of his drama. It is the work of 
a man of genius, that calls for regret on its imper- 
fections. Even in the lyrical passages, which are 
most of all loaded with superfluous ornament and 
alliteration, we meet with an enthusiasm that 
breaks out from amidst encumbering faults. The 
invocation of the Druids to Snowdon, for which 
the mind is so well prepared by the preceding 
scene, begins with peculiar harmony: 



" Mona on Snowdon calls : 
Hear, ifyon king of mountains, hear!" 

and the ode on which Gray bestowed so much 
approbation, opens with a noble personification, 
and an impetuous spirit — 

" Hark ! heard ye not yon footstep dread. 
That shook the earth with thundering tread? 
'Twas Death. In haste the warrior past, 
High tower'd his helmed head." 

In 1764 he published a collection of his works 
in one volume, containing four elegies, which had 
been written since the appearance of Caractacus. 
The language of those elegies is certainly less 
stiffly embroidered than that of his odes ; and 
they contain some agreeable passages, such as 
Dryden's character in the first; the description 
of a friend's happiness in country retirement in 
the second ; and of Lady Coventry's beauty in 
the fourth ; but they are not/ altogether free from 
the " buckram,'" and are studies of the head more 
than the heart. ' 

In 1762 he was appointed by his friend Mr. 
Montagu to the canonry and prebend of Driffield, 
in the cathedral of York, and by Lord Holder- 
nesse to the precentorship of the church ; but 
his principal residence continued still to be at 
Aston, where he indulged his taste in adorning 
the grounds near his parsonage, and was still 
more honourably distinguished by an exemplary 
fulfilment of his clerical duties. In 1765 he 
mayied a Miss Sherman, the daughter of 
William Sherman, Esq. of Kingston-upon-Hull. 
From the time of his marriage with this amiable 
woman, he had unhappily little intermission from 
anxiety in watching the progress of a consump- 
tion which carried her off at the end of two 
years, at the early age of twenty-eight. He has 
commemorated her virtues in a well-known and 
elegant sepulchral inscription. 

By the death of his beloved friend Gray, he 
was left a legacy of £500, together with the 
books and MSS. of the poet. His " Memoirs 
and Letters of Gray" were published in 1775, 

who was ^succeeded by W.irton. Whitehead was not in 
orders; but Eusden, a parson, and a drunken one, had 
worn the laurel. Mason being in orders was thought by 
the then Lord Chamberlain less eligible than a layman. 

Dryden was the last laureate appointed by (he king; 
the su(Ces.'Ors of Charles II.. with a noble reirard for 
poetry, left the election to the Lord Chamberlain. To 
Oray and Sir Walter Scott the situation was ntlered as a 
sinecure, but refused, and by -Mr. Southey was accepted 
conditionally — not to sing annually, but upon oc(ra«ion, 
that is, when the subject was fit for song and 'he muse 
consenting.! 

3h2 



690 



WILLIAM MASON. 



upon a new plan of biography, which has since 
been followed in several instances.* The first 
hook of his "English Garden" made its ap- 
pearance in 1772; the three subsequent parts 
came out in 1777, 1779, and 1782. The first 
book contains a few lines beautifully descriptive 
of woodland scenery. 

" Many a glade is found, 
The haunt of wood-gods only; where, if Art 
E'er dared to tread, 'twas with unsandaird foot, 
I'rintless, as if the place were holy ground." 

There may be other fine passages in this poem ; 
but if tljere be, I confess that the somniferous 
effect of the whole has occasioned to me the 
fault or misfortune of overlooking thetn. What 
value it may possess, as an "Art of Ornamental 
Gardening," I do not presume to judge ; but 
if this be the perfection of didactic poetry, as 
Warton pronounced it, it would seem to be as 
difficult to teach art by poetry, as to teach poetry 
by art. He begins the poem by invoking 
Simplicity ; but she never comes. Had her 
power condescended to visit him, I think she 
would have thrown a less " dileUante" air upon 
his principal episode, in which the tragic event 
of a woman expiring suddenly of a broken 
heart, is introduced by a conversation between 
her rival lovers about " Palladian bridges. Panini's 
pencil, and Piranesi's hand." At all events. 
Simplicity would not have allowed the hero of 
the story to construct his barns in imitation of a 
Norman fortress ; and to give his dairy the re- 
semblance of an acient abbey ; nor the poet 
himself to address a flock of sheep with as 
much solemnity as if he had been haranguing a 
senate. 

During the whole progress of the American 
war, Mason continued unchanged in his Whig 
principles; and took an active share in the as- 
sociation for parliamentary reform, which began 
to be formed in the year 1779. Finding that 
his principles gave offence at court, he resigned 
his officeof chaplainship to the king. His Muse 
was indebted to those politics for a new and 
lively change in her character. In the pieces 
which he wrote under the name of Malcolm 
Mac Gregor, there is a pleasantry that we should 



little expect from the solemn hand which had 
touched the harp of the Druids. Thomas War- 
ton was the first to discover, or at least to an- 
nounce, him as the author of the " Heroic 
Epistle to Sir William Chambers;" and Ma.son's 
explanation left the suspicion uncontradicted.! 

Among his accon)plishments. his critical know- 
ledge of painting must have been considerable, 
for his translation of Du Fresnoy's poem on that 
art, which appeared in 1783, was finished at the 
particular suggestion of Sir Joshua Reynolds, 
who furnished it with illustrative notes. One of 
his last publications was, "An Ode on the Com- 
memoration of the British Revolution." It was 
his very last song in praise of liberty. Had 
Soame Jenyns, whom our poet rallies so face- 
tiously for his Toryism, lived to read his palinode 
after the French Revolution, he might have re- 
torted on him the lines which Mason put in the 
mouth of Dean Tucker, in his " Dialogue of the 
Dean and the Squire." 

" Squire Jenyna, since with like intent 
Vie both have writ on governmeut." 

But he showed that his philanthropy had suffered 
no abatement from the change of his politics, by 
delivering and publishing an eloquent sermon 
against the slave trade. In the same year that 
gave occasion to his Secular Ode, he conde- 
scended to be the biographer of his friend White- 
head, aad the editor of his works. 

Mason's learning in the arts was of no ordi- 
nary kind. He composed several devotional 
pieces of music for the choir of York cathedral ; 
and Dr. Burney speaks of an " IJistorical and 
Critical Essay on English Church Music," which 
he published in 1795, in very respectful terms. 
It is singular, however, that the fault ascribed by 
the same authority to his musical theory, should 
be that of Calvinistical plainness. In verse he 
was my Lord Peter; in his taste for sacred 
music. Dr. Burney compares him to Jack, in the 
" Tale of a Tub." 

His death was occasioned, in his seventy- 
second year, by an accidental hurt on his leg, 
which he received in stepping out of a carriage, 
and which produced an incurable mortification. 



OPENING SCENE OF " CARACTACUS." 

Am-us DiDius, 7vilh Romans; Vellincs and Eliduuus, sont 
of Ike British Queen Cartismandua. 

^ul. Did. This is the secret centre of the isle: 
Here, Romans, pause, and let the eye of wonder 
Gaze on the solemn scene; behold yon oak, 
How stern he frowns, and with his broad brown 

arms 
Chills the pale plain beneath him: mark yon altar, 

r* Instead of melting down my materials into one mass, 
and constantly speaking in my own person, by which I 
might Lave appeared to have more merit in the execution 
of the work, 1 have resolved to adopt and enlarge upon 
the excellent plan of Mr. Mason in his Memoirs of Uray. — 

BOSWELL. 



The dark stream brawling round its rugged base; 
These cliffs, these yawning caverns, this wide 

circus. 
Skirted with unhewn stone: they awe my soul, 
As if the very genius of the place 
Himself appear'd, and with terrific tread [friends, 
Stalk'd through his drear domain. And yet, my 
(If shapes like his be but the fancy's coinage) 
Surely there is a hidden power, that reigns 

Mason's plan has been further honoured by Ilayley's 
imitation of it in his life of Cowper, by Mr. Moore in his 
life of Lord Byron, and by Mr. Lockhart iu his life of Sir 
Walter Scott.] 

[t Mason's right to the poem is now put beyond all ques- 
tion by the collected edition of Walpole's Letters.] 



'Mill the lone majesty of untamed nature, 
Controlling sol)er reason; tell me else, 
Why do these haunts of barb'rous superstition 
O'ercomc me thus ! I scorn them, yet they awe me. 
Call forth the British princes: in this gloom 
I mean to school them to our enterprise. 

Enter Veluxus and Elidurus. 
Ye pledges dear of Cartismandua's faith, 
Approach ! and to mine uninstructed ear 
Explain this scene of horror. 

Elirl. Daring Roman, 

Know that thou stand'st on consecrated ground : 
These mighty piles of magic-planted rock. 
Thus ranged in mystic order, mark the place 
"Where hut at times of holiest festival 
The Druid leads his train. 

Jlul. Did. Where dwells the seer] 

Vel. In yonder shaggy cave; on which the moon 
Now sheds a sidelong gleam. His brotherhood 
Possess the neighb'ring cliffs. 

Jul Did. Yet up the hill 

Mine eye descries a distant range of caves, 
Delved in the ridges of the craggy steep ; 
And this way still another. 

Elid. On the left 

Reside the sages skill'd in nature's lore : 
The changeful universe, its numbers, powers, 
Studious they measure, save when meditation 
Gives place to holy rites : then in the grove 
Each hath his rank and function. Yonder grots 
Are tenanted by Bards, who nightly thence. 
Robed in their (lowing vests of innocent white, 
Descend with harps that glitter to the moon, 
Hymning immortal strains. The spirits of air, 
Of earth, of water, nay of Heaven itself, 
Do listen to their lay ; and oft, tis said, 
In visible shapes dance they a magic round 
To the high minstrelsy.— Now, if thine eye 
Be sated with the view, haste to thy ships, 
And ply thine oars; for, if the Druids learn 
'J'his bold intrusion, thou wilt find it hard 
To foil their fury. 

Jul. Did. Prince, I did not moor 

My light-arm'd shallops on this dangerous strand 
To soothe a fruitless curiosity ; 
I come in quest of proud Caractacus ; 
Who, when our veterans put his troops to flight. 
Found refuge here. 

Ehd. If here the monarch rests, 

Presumptuous chief! thou might'st as well assay 
To pluck him from yon stars: Earth's ample range 
Contains no surer refuge: underneath 
The soil we tread, a hundred secret paths, 
Scoop'tl through the living rock in wmdingmaze. 
Lead to as many caverns, dark, and deep: 
In which the boary sages act their rites 
Mysterious, rites of such strange potency. 
As, done in open day, would dim the sun, [dens 
Though throned in noontide brightness. In such 
He may fijr life lie hid. 

Jul. Did. We know the task 

Most difficult, yet has thy royal mother 
Furnish'd the means. 

Elid. My mother, say'st thou, Roman ? 



Jul. Did. In proof of that firm faith she lends 
to Rome, 
She gave you up, her honour's hostages. 

Elid. She did: and we submit. 

Jul. Did. To Rome we bear you ; 

From your dear country bear you ; from your joys, 

Your loves, your friendships, all your souls hold 

precious. [fate ? 

Elid. And dost thou taunt us. Roman, with our 

Jul. Did. No, youth, by Heaven, I would 
avert that fate. 
Wish ye for liberty ? 

Vel. and Elid. More than for life. 

Jul. Did. And would do much to gain iti 

Vel. Name the task. 

Jul. Did. The task is easy. Haste ye to these 
Druids: 
Tell them ye come, commission'd by your queen. 
To seek the great Caractacus; and call 
His valour to her aid, against the legions. 
Which, led by our Ostorius, now assail 
Her frontiers. The late treaty she has seal'd 
Is yet unknown : and this her royal signet. 
Which more to mask our purpose was obtain'd. 
Shall be your pledge of faith. The eager king 
Will gladly take the charge ; and, Ke consenting, 
W^hat else remains, but to the Menai's shore 
Ye lead his credulous step 1 there will we seize hiin. 
Bear him to Rome, the substitute for you, 
And give you back to freedom. 

Vel. If the Druids— 

Jul. Did. If they, or he, prevent this artifice, 
Then force must take its way : then flaming brands. 
And biting axes, wielded by our soldiers. 
Must level these thick shades, and so unlodge 
The lurking savage. 

Elid. Gods, shall Mona perish 1 ' 

Jul. Did. Princes, her every trunk . shall on 
the ground 
Stretch its gigantic length ; unless, ere dawn. 
Ye lure this untamed lion to our toils. 
Go then, and prosper ; I shall to the ships, 
And there expect his coining. Youths, remember. 
He must to Rome to grace great Casar's triumph : 
Cffisar and fate demand him at your hand. 

[^Exeunt AuLUS DiDius and Romans. 



FROM THE SAME. 



Caractacus ; Eveuna, daughter of Caractacus ; and 
Chorus. 

Car. This holy place, methinks, doth this 
night wear 
More than its wonted gloom : Druid, these groves 
Have caught the dismal colouring of my soul. 
Changing their dark dun garbs to very sable. 
In pity to their guest. Had hallow'd oaks! 
Hail, British born ! who; last of British race, 
Hold your primeval rights by Nature's charter; 
Not at the nod of Caesar. Happy foresters. 
Ye wave your bold heads in the liberal air; 
Nor ask, for privilege, a pretor's edict. 
Ye, with your tough and intertwisted roots. 



Q[y2 



WILLIAM MASON. 



Grasp the firm rocks ye sprung from ; and, erect, 
In knotty hardihood, still proudly spread 
Your leafy banners 'gainst the tyrannous north, 
Who, Roman like, assails you. Tell me, Druid, 
Is it not better to be such as these, 
Than be the thing I am 7 

Chor. To be the thing 

Eternal Wisdom wills, is ever best. 

Car. But I am lost to that predestined use 
Eternal Wisdom will'd, and fitly therefore 
May wish a change of being. I was born 
A king ; and Heaven, who bade these warrior oaks 
Lift their green shields against the fiery sun, 
To fence their subject plain, did mean that I 
Should, with as firm an arm, protect my people 
Against the pestilent glare of Rome's ambition. 
I fail'd; and how I fail'd, thou know'sttoo well : 
So does the babbling world : and therefore, Druid, 
I would be any thing save what I am. 

Chor. See, to thy wish, the holy rites prepared, 
Which, if Heaven frowns not, consecrate thee 

Druid : 
See to the altar's base the victim led, 
From whose free gushing blood ourself shall read 
Its high behests; which if assenting found, 
These hands around thy chosen limbs shall wrap 
The vest of sanctity ; while at the act. 
Yon white-robed Bards, sweeping their solemn 

harps, 
Shall lift their choral warblings to the skies, 
And call the gods to witness. Meanwhile, prince, 
Bethink thee well, if aught on this vain earth 
Still holds too firm a union with thy soul, 
Estranging it from peace. 

Car. I had a queen : 

Bear with my weakness, Druid ! this tough breast 
"Must heave a sigh, for she is unrevenged. 
And can I taste true peace, she unrevenged 7 
So chaste, so loved a queen 1 Ah, Evelina ! 
Hang not thus weeping on the feeble arm 
That could not save thy mother. 

Evel. To hang thus 

Softens the pang of grief; and the sweet thought. 
That a fond father still supports his child, 
Sheds, on my pensive mind, such soothing balm, 
As doth the blessing of these pious seers. 
When most they wish our welfare. Would to 

Heaven 
A daughter's presence could as much avail. 
To ease her father's woes, as his doth mine ! 

Car. Ever most gentle ! come unto my bosom : 
Dear pattern of the precious prize I lost. 
Lost, so inglorious lost : — my friends, these eyes 
Did see her torn from my defenceless camp; 
"Whilst I, hemm'd round by squadrons, could 

not save her : 
My boy, still nearer to the darling pledge. 
Beheld her shrieking in the ruffian's arm ; 
Beheld, and fled. 

Eifel. Ah! sir, forbear to wound 

My brother's fame ; he fled, but to recall 
His scatter'd forces to pursue and save her. 
Car. Daughter, he fled. Now, by yon gra- 
cious moon. 
That rising saw the deed, and instant hid 



Her blushing face in twilight's dusky vail, 
The flight was parricide. 

Evel. Indeed, indeed, 

I know him valiant; and not doubt he fell 
'Mid slaughter'd thousands of the haughty foe. 
Victim to filial love. Arviragus! 
Thou hadst no sister near the bloody field, 
Whose sorrowing search, led by yon orb of night, 
Might find thy body, wash with tears thy wounds, 
And wipe them with her hair. 

Chor. Peace, virgin, peace : 

Nor thou, sad prince, reply ; whate'er he is, 
Be he a captive, fugitive, or corse. 
He is what Heaven ordain'd : these holy groves 
Permit no exclamation 'gainst Heaven's will 
To violate their echoes : Patience here. 
Her meek hands folded on her modest breast. 
In mute submission lifts the adoring eye, 
Even to the storm that wrecks her. 

Evel. Holy Druid, 

If aught my erring tongue has said pollutes 
This sacred place, I from my soul abjure it, 
And will these lips bar with eternal silence. 
Rather than speak a word, or act a deed 
Unmeet for thy sage daughters; blessing first 
This hallow'd hour, that takes me from the world 
And joins me to their sober sisterhood. [maid, 
Chor. 'Tis wisely said. See, prince, this prudent 
Now, while the ruddy flame of sparkling youth 
Glows on her beauteous cheek, can quit the world 

Without a sigh, whilst thou 

Car. Would save my queen 

From a base ravisher; would wish to plunge 
This falchion in his breast, and so avenge 
Insulted royalty. Oh, holy men! 
Ye are the sons of piety and peace ; 
Ye never felt the sharp vindictive spur. 
That goads the injured warrior ; the hot tide 
That flushes crimson on the conscious cheek 
Of him who burns for glory ; else indeed 
Ye much would pity me ; would curse the fate 
That coops me here inactive in your groves, 
Robs me of hope, tells me this trusty steel 
Must never cleave one Roman helm again ; 
Never avenge my queen, nor free my country. 

Chor. 'Tis Heaven's high will 

Car. I know it, reverend fathers ! 

'Tis Heaven's high will, that these poor aged eyes 
Shall never more behold that virtuous woman, 
'l"o whom my youth was constant; 'twas Hea- 
ven's will 
To take her from me at that very hour, [hour. 
When best her love might soothe me ; that black 
(May memory ever rase it from her records,) 
W' hen all my squadrons fled, and left their king 
Old and defenceless: him, who nine whole years 
Had taught them how to conquer: yes, my friends, 
For nine whole years against the sons of rapine 
I led my veterans, oft to victory, 
Never till then to shame. Bear with me, Druid ; 
I've done: begin the rites. 

Chor. Oh, would to Heaven 

A frame of mind more fitted to these rites 
Possess'd thee, prince ! that Resignation meek, 
That dove-eyed Peace, handmaid of Sanctity 



WILLIAM MASON. 



693 



Hark, he sweeps the master-strings; 
Listen all 

Chor. Break off; a sullen smoke involves the 
altar; 
The central oak doth shake; I hear the sound 
Of steps profane; Caractacus, retire; 
Bear hence the victims ; Mona is polluted. 

Semirh. Father, as we did watch the eastern side, 
We spied and instant seized two stranger youths, 
Who, in the bottom of a shadowy dell, 
Held earnest cenverse : Britons do they seem. 
And of Brigantian race. 

Choi: Haste, drag them hither. 



Approach'd this altar with thee: 'stead of these. 
See I not gaunt Revenge, ensanguined Slaughter, 
And mad Ambition, clinging to thy soul, 
Eager to snatch thee back to their domain, 
Back to a vain and miserable world ; 
Whose U)iscry, and vanity, though tried. 
Thou still hold'st dearer than the.se soletnn shades, 
Where Quiet reigns with V^irtue ! try we yet 
What holiness can do ! for much it can : 
Much is the potency of pious prayer : 
And much the sacred intiuence convey'd 
By sage mysterious otfice : when the soul, 
Snatch'd by the power of music from her cell 
Of fleshly thraldom, feels herself upborne 
On plumes of ecstasy, and boldly springs, 
'Mid swelling harmonies and pealing hymns. 
Up to the porch of Heaven. Strike, then, ye Bards! 
Strike all your strings sy m|)honious ; wake a strain 
May penetrate, may purge, may purify. 
His yet unhallow'd bosom; call ye hither 
The airy tribe, that on yon mountain dwell. 
Even on majestic Snowdon: they, who never 
Deign visit mortal men, save on souie cause 
Of higiiest import, but, sublimely shrined 
On its hoar top in domes of crystalline ice, 
Hold converse with those spirits that possess 
The skies' pure sapphire, nearest Heaven itself. 



Mona on Snowdon calls: 
Hear, thou king of mountains, hear! 

Hark, she speaks from all her strings ; 

Hark, her loudest echo rings ; 
King of mountains, bend thine ear: 

Send thy spirits, send them soon. 

Now, when midnight anil the moon 
Meet upon thy front of snow : 

See their gold and el)on rod. 

Where the sober sisters nod. 
And greet in whispers sage and slow. 
Snowdon, mark! 'tis magic's hour; 
Wow, the mutter'd spell hath power; 
Power to rend thy ribs of rock. 
And burst thy base with thunder's shock; 
But to thee no ruder spell 
Shall Mona use, than those that dwell 
In music's secret cells, and lie 
Steep'd in the stream of harmony. 

Snowdon has heard the strain : 
Hark, amid the wondering grove 

Other harpings answer clear, 

Other voices meet our ear. 
Pinions flutter, shadows move. 

Busy murmurs hum around, 

Rustling vestments brush the ground ; 
Round, and round, and round they go. 

Through the twilight, through the shade, 

Mount the oak's majestic head, 
And gild the tufted mistletoe. 
Cease, ye glittering race of light. 
Close your wings, ami check your flight: 
Here, arranged in order due. 
Spread your robes of saffron hue; 
For lo, with more than mortal fire, 
Mighty Mador smites the lyre ; 



FROM THE SA.ME. 

Vellinus, the treacherous brother of Klidurus, having fled 
to the llomana, Elidurus is sentenced to die — Kvelina 
pleads for his life. 

Chorus, Evelina, Elidurus, and Bard. 

Chor. What may his flight portend 1 Say, 
Evelina, 
How came this youth to 'scape 1 

' Evel And that to tell 

Will fix much blame on my impatient folly: 
For, ere your hallow'd lips had given permission, 
I flew with eager haste to bear my father 
News of his son's return. Inflamed with that. 
Think how a sister's zealous breast must glow! 
Your looks give mild assent. I glow'd indeed 
With the dear tale, and sped me in his ear 
To pour the precious tidings: but my tongue 
Scarce nameil Arviragus, ere the false stranger 
(As'I bethink me since) with stealthy pace 
Fled to the cavern's mouth. 

Chor. The king pursued 1 

Evel. Alas! he mark'd him not, for 'twas the 
moment. 
When he had .ill to ask and all to fear. 
Touching my brother's valour. Hitherto 
His safety only, which but little moved him. 
Had reach'd his ears: butwhen my tongue unfolded 
The story of his bravery and his peril, [cheeks! 
Oh how the tears coursed plenteous down his 
How did he lift unto the Heavens his hands 
In speechless transport ! Yet he soon bethought him 
Of Rome's invasion, and with fiery glance 
Survey'd the cavern round; then snatch'd his 
And menaced to pursue the flying traitor : [spear, 
But [ with prayers (oh pardon, if they err'd) 
Withheld his step, for to the left the youth 
Had wing'd his way, where the thick underwood 
Afforded sure retreat. Besides, if found, 
Was age a match for youth ] 

Chor. Maiden, enough: 

Better perchance for us, if he were captive ; 
But in the justice of their cause, and Heaven, 
Do Mona's sons confide. 

Bard. Druid, the rites 

Are finish'd, all save that which crowns the rest, 
And which pertains to thy bless'd hand alone : 
For that he kneels before thee. 

Chor. Take him hence. 

We may not trust him forth to fight our cause 



694 



WILLIAM MASON. 



Elul. Now by Andraste's throne 

Chor. Nay, swear not, youth. 

The tie is broke that held thy fealty : 
Thv brother's fled. 

kUih Fled ! 

Chor. To the Romans fled ; 

Yes, thou hast cause to tremble. 

Elid. Ah, Vellinus ! 

Does thus our love, does thus our friendship end ! 
Was I thy brother, youth, and hast thou left me ! 
Yes ; and how left me, cruel as thou art, 
The victim of thy crimes ! 

Chor. True, thou must die. 

Eliih I pray ye then on your best mercy, fathers, 
It may be speedy. I would fain be dead. 
It this be life. Yet I must doubt even that: 
For falsehood of this strange stupendous sort 
Sets firm-eyed reason on a gaze, mistrusting. 
That what she sees in palpable plain form, 
The stars in yon blue arch, these woods, these 

caverns. 
Are all mere tricks of cozenage, nothing real, 
The vision of a vision. If he's fled, 
I ought to hate this brother. 

Chor. Yet thou dost not. 

EVid. But when astonishment will give me leave, 
Perchance I shall. — And yet he is my brother, 
And he was virtuous once. Yes, ye vile Romans, 
Yes, I must die, before my thirsty sword 
Drinksonerichdropof vengeance. Yet, ye robbers. 
Yet will I curse you with my dying lips: 
'Twas you that stole away my brother's virtue. 

Chor. Now then prepare to die. 

EM. I am prepared. 

Yet, since I cannot now (what most I wish'd) 
By maidy prowess guard this lovely maid; 
Permit that on your holiest earth I kneel. 
And pour one fervent prayer for her protection. 
Allow me this, for though you think me false. 
The gods will hear me. 

Evel. I can hold no longer! 

Oh Druid, Druid, at thy feet I fall : 
Yes, I must plead, (away with virgin blushes,) 
For such a youth must plead. I'll die to save him ; 
Oh take my life, and let him fight for Mona. 

Chor. Virgin, arise. His virtue hath redeem'd 
, him. 

And he shall fight for thee, and for his country. 
Youth, thank us with thy deeds. The time is short, 
And now with reverence take our high lustration ; 
Thrice do we sprinkle thee with day-break dew 
Shook from the may-thorn blossom ; twice and 

thrice 
Touch we thy forehead with our holy wand : 
Now thou art fully purged. Now rise restored 
To virtue and to us. Hence then, my son. 
Hie thee, to yonder altar, where our Bards 
Shall arm thee duly both with helm and sword 
For warlike enterprise. 



FROM THE SAME. 

THE CAPTURE OF CAHACTACUS. 



Jlul. Did. Ye bloody priests, 

Behold we burst on your infernal rites, 
And bid you pause. Instant restore our soldiers. 



Nor hope that superstition's ruthless step 
Shall wade in Roman gore. Ye savage men, 
Did not our laws give license to all faiths, 
We would o'erturn your altars, headlong heave 
These shapeless symbols of your barbarous gods, 
And let the golden sun into your caves. 

Chor. Servant of Caesar, has thine impious 
tongue 
Spent the black venom of its blasphemy 1 
It has. Then take our curses on thine head. 
Even his fell curses, who doth reign in Mona, 
Vicegerent of those gods thy pride insults. 

^ul. Did. Bold priest, I scorn thy curses, and 
thyself. 
Soldiers, go search the caves, and free the prisoners. 
Take heed, ye seize Caractacus alive. 
Arrest yon youth; load him with heaviest irons. 
He shall to Caesar answer for his crime. 

Eliil. I stand prepared to triumph in my crime. 

Aul. Did. 'Tis well, proud boy — Look to the 

beauteous maid, [To the Sulditrs. 

That tranced in grief, bends o'er yon bleeding 

Respect her sorrows. [corse : 

Evel. Hence, ye barbarous men ! 

Ye shall not take him welt'ring thus in blood, 
To show at Rome what British virtue was. 
Avaunt ! the breathless body that ye touch 
Was once Arviragus ! 

.Aid. Did. Fear us not, princess ; 

We reverence the dead. 

Chor. Would too to Heaven, 

Ye reverenced the gods but even enough 
Not to debase with slavery's cruel chain 
What they created free. 

Jul. Did. The Romans fight 

Not to enslave, but humanize the world. 

Chor. Go to ! we will not parley with thee, 
Roman : 
Instant pronounce our doom. 

Aid. Did. Hear it, and thank us. 

This once our clemency shall spare your groves. 
If at our call you yield the British king : 
Yet learn, when next ye aid the foes of Caesar, 
That each old oak, whose solemn gloom ye boast, 
Shall bow beneath our axes. 

Chor. Be they blasted. 

Whene'er their shade forgets to shelter virtue ! 
Enler Bard. 

Bard. Mourn, Mona, mourn. Caractacus is 
captive ! 
And dost thou smile, false Roman ? Do not think 
He fell an easy prey. Know, ere he yielded, 
'J'hy bravest veterans bled. He too, thy spy. 
The base Brigantian prince, hath seal'd his fraud 
With death. Bursting through arni'd ranks, that 

hemm'd 
The caitiff round, the brave Caractacus 
Seized his false throat; and as he gave him death 
Indignant thunder'd, "Thus is my last stroke 
The stroke of justice." Numbers then oppress'd 
I saw the slave, that cowardly behind [him : 

Pinion 'd his arms; I saw the sacred sword 
Writhed from his grasp : I saw, what now ye see. 
Inglorious sight ! those barbarous bonds upon 
him. 



WILLIAM MASON. 



695 



Enter Caractacus. 

Car. Romans, methinks the malice of your tyrant 
Might furnish heavier chains. Old as I am, 
And wither'd as you see these war-worn hmbs, 
Trust me they shall support the weightiest load 

Injustice dares impose 

Proud-crested soldier, 
[To DiDius. 
Who seem'st the master-mover in this business. 
Say, dost thou read less terror on my brow, 
Than when thou met'st me in the fields of war 
Heading my nations ? No ! my free-liorn soul 
Has scorn still left to sparkle through these eyes. 

And frown defiance on thee. Is it thus] 

[Seting Ids ion's hody. 
Then I'm indeed a captive. Mighty gods ! 
My soul, my soul submits : patient it bears 
The ponderous load of grief ye heap upon it. 
Yes, it will grovel in this shatter'd breast, 
And be the sad tame thing, it ought to be, 
Coop'd in a servile body. 

Jluh Did. Droop not, king. 

When Claudius, the great master of the world, 
Shall hear the noble story of thy valour, - 
His pity 

Cur. Can a Roman pity, soldier? 
And if he can, gods! must a Briton bear itl 
Arviragus, my bold, my breathless boy. 
Thou hast escaped such pity ; thou art free. 
Here in high Mona shall thy noble limbs 
Rest in a noble grave; posterity 
Sliall to thy tomb with annual reverence bring 
Sepulchral stones, and pile them to the clouds; 
Whil.-t mine 

Jul. Did. The,morn doth hasten our departure. 
Prepare thee, king, to go : a fav'ring gale 
Now swells our sails. 

Car. Inhuman, that thou art! 

Dost thou deny a moment for a father 
To shed a few warm tears o'er his dead son 1 
I tell thee, chief, this act might claim a life, 
To do it duly ; even a longer life 
Than sorrow ever sufi'er'd. Cruel man ! 
And thou deniest me moments. Be it so. 
I know you Romans weep not for your children ; 
Ye triumph o'er your tears, and think it valour; 
I triumph in my tears. Yes, best-loved boy, 
Yes, I can weep, can fall upon thy corse. 
And I can tear my hairs, these few gray hairs. 
The only honours war and age hath left me. 
Ah son ! thou mightst have ruled o'er many nations, 
As did thy royal ancestry: but I, 
Rash that I was, ne'er knew the golden curb 
Discretion hangs on bravery: else perchance 
These men, thait fasten fetters on thy father. 
Had sued to him for peace, and claim'd his friend- 
ship. 

Jul. Did. But thou wast still implacable to Rome, 
And scorn'd her friendship. 

Car. {starting vp from the body.) Soldier, I had 
Had neighing steeds to whirl my iron cars, ["arms. 
Had wealth, dominion. Dost thou wonder, Roman, 
I fought to save them 1 What if Caesar aims. 
To lord it universal o'er the world. 
Shall the world tamely crouch at Ctesar's footstool ] 



Aul. Did. Read in thy fate our answer. Yet 
if sooner 

Thy pride had yielded 

Car. Thank thy gods, I did not. 

Had it been so, the glory of thy master. 
Like my misfortunes, had been short and trivial, 
Oblivion's ready prey: now, after struggling 
Nine years, and that right bravely 'gainst a 

tyrant, 
I am his slave to treat as seems him good ; 
If cruelly, 'twill be an easy tasft 
To bow a wretch, alas! how bow'd already! 
Down to the dust : if well, his clemency. 
When trick'd and varnish'd by your glossing pen- 
men. 
Will shine in honour's annals, and adorn 
Himself; it boots not me. Look there, look there ! 
'J'he slave that shot that dart kill'd every hope 
Of lost Caractacus ! Arise, my daughter; 
Alas ! poor prince, art thou too in vile fetters \ 

[To Elidubds. 
Come hither, youth : be thou to me a son. 
To her a brother. Thus with trembling arms 
I lead you forth ; children, we go to Rome. 
Weep'st thou, my girl? I prithee hoard thy 

tears 
For the sad meeting of thy captive mother : 
For we have much to tell her, much to say 
Of these good men, who nurtured us in Mona ; 
Much of the fraud and malice that pursued us ; 
Much of her son, who pour'd his precious blood 
To save his sire and sister: think'st thou, maid, 
Her gentleness can hear the tale, and live 1 
And yet she must. Oh gods, I grow a talker! 
Grief and old age are ever full of words: 
But I'll be mute. Adieu, ye holy men ; 
Yet one look more — Now lead us hence for ever. 



EPITAPH ON MRS. MASON, 

IN THE CATHEDRAL OF BEISTOL. 

Take, holy earth ! all that my soul holds dear : 
Take that best gift which Heaven so lately 
gave: 
To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care 

Her faded form ; she bow'd to taste the wave. 
And died. Does youth, does beauty, read the 
line ? 
Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm 1 
Speak, dead Maria ! breathe a strain divine : 
Even from the grave thou shalt have power to 
charm. 

Bid Ihem be chaste, be innocent, like thee: 

Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move . 
And if so fair, from vanity as free; 

As firm in friendship, and as fond in love. 
Tell them, though 'tis an awful thing to die, 

('Twas even to thee) yet the dread path ont e 
trod. 
Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high, 

And bids " the pure in heart behold their 
God." 



696 



WILLIAM MASON. 



AN HEROIC EPISTLE* 
TO SIR WILLIAM CHAMBERS, KNIGHT, 

COMPTROLLER-GENERAL OF HIS MAJESTY'S WORKS, AND AUTHOR 
OF A LATB " DLSSERTATION ON OKIENTAL GARDENING." — EN'- 
RICHED VriTH EXPL.ANATORT NOTES, CUltFLV EXTRACTED FRO.M 
THAT ELABORATE PERFORMANCE. 

1773. 
Knight of the Polar star! by fortune placed 
To shine the Cynosure of British taste ;f 
Whose orb collects in one refulgent view 
The scatter'd glories of Chinese virtii ; 
And spread their lustre in so broad a blaze, 
That kings them.selves are dazzled while they gaze. 
Oh let the muse attend thy march sublime. 
And, with thy prose, caparison her rhyme; 
'J'each her, like thee, to gild her splendid song. 
With scenes of Yven-Ming, and sayings of Li- 

Tsong ;f 
Like thee to scorn dame Nature's simple fence ; 
Leap each ha-ha of truth and common sense ; 
And proudly rising in her bold career. 
Demand attention from the gracious ear 
Of him, whom we and all the world admit, 
Patron supreme of science, taste, and wit. 
Does envy doubt 1 Witness ye chosen train, 
Who breathe the sweets of his Saturnian reign ; 
Witness ye Hills, ye Johnsons, Scots, Sheabeares, 
Hark to my call, for some of you have ears. 
Let David Hume, from the remotest north, 
In see-saw sceptic scruples hint his worth; 
David, who there. supinely deigns to lie 
The fittest hog of Epicurus' sty ; 
Though drunk with Gallic wine, and Gallic praise, 
David shall bless Old England's halcyon days; 
The mighty home, bemiied in prose so long. 
Again shall stalk upon the stilts of song: 
While bold MacOssian, wont in ghosts to deal, 
Bids candid Smollett from his cofKn steal! 
Bids Mallock quit his sweet Elysian rest. 
Sunk in St. John's philosophic breast, 



[* Of this Epistle, wliicli came so opportunely to the suc- 
cour of native t.aste ag.iiust the Chinese invasion, personal 
spleen was undoubtedly the main inspiration. Chambers 
had offended Mason by publishing the Dissertation so soon 
after his "Jinglish Gai-den;" and his crime, in the eyes of 
Walpole, was no less than using his elaborate work as a 
weapon to detey the king from introducing classic improve- 
ments into the gardens of lichmond.— Allan Cunningham, 
Lires of British ArtisU, vol. iv. p. 347.] 

t Cynosure, an affected phrase. " Cynosura is the con- 
stellation of €rsa Minor, or the Lesser Hear, the next star 
to the pole." — Dr. Newton, on the word in MUton. 

J" Many trees, shrubs and flowers," sayeth Li-Tsong, a 
Chinese author of great antiquity, " thrive best in low, 
moi'^t .-iituatious ; many on hills and mountains; some re- 
quire a riih soil: but others wUl grow on clay, in sand, or 
even upon rocks, and in the water: to some a sunny ex- 
position is necessary ; but for others the shade is prefer- 
able. There are plapts which thrive best in exposed situa- 
tions, but, in general, shelter is requisite. The skilful 
gardener, to whom study and experience have taught 
the.ofe qualities, carefully attends to them in his operations; 
knowing that thereon depend the health and growth of 
liis plants, and consequently the beauty of his plantations." 
Vide Di.ss. p. 77. The reader, 1 prosume. wUl readily allow, 
that he never met with so much recondite truth as this 
ancient (hinese here exhibits. 

(iVide lif it be extant) a poem tinder this title, for 
which (or for the publication of Lord Bolingbroke's philo- 
sophical writings) the person here mentioned received a 
con.' iderable pension in the time of Lord Bute's ailminis- 
triition. 

Ii This is the great and fundamental axiom, on which 
oriental ta^-tc is founded. It is therefore expressed here 



And, like old Orpheus, make some strong effort 
'I'o come from Hell, and warble Truth at Court.§ 
There was a time, "in Esher's peaceful grove, 
W'hen Kent and Nature vied for Pelham's love," 
That Pope beheld them with auspicious smile, 
And ovvn'd that beauty blest their mutual tod. 
Mistaken bard ! could such a pair design 
Scenes fit to live in thy immortal line] 
Hadst thou been born in this enlighten'd day, 
Felt, as we feel, taste's oriental ray, 
Thy satire sure had given them both a stab, 
Call'd Kent a driveller, and the nymph a drab. 
J^or what is Nature ? Ring her changes round. 
Her three flat notes are water, plants, and ground ;|| 
Prolong the peal, yet spite of all your clatter. 
The tedious chime is still ground, plants and water. 
So, when some John his dull invention racks, 
To rival Boodle's dinners, or Almack's; 
Three uncouth legs of mutton shock our eyes. 
Three roasted geese, three butter'd apple-pies. 
Come then, prolific Art, and with thee bring 
The charms that rise from thy exhaustless spring; 
'J'o Richmond come, for see, untutor'd Browne 
Destroys those wonders which were once thy own. 
1^0, from his melon-ground the peasant slave 
Has rudely rush'd, and levelld Merlin's cave ; 
Knock'd down the wa.xen wizard, seized his wand, 
Transform'd to lawn what late was fairy land ; 
And marr'd, with impious hand, each sweet design 
Of Stephen Duck, and good Queen Caroline. 
Haste, bid yon livelong terrace re-ascend. 
Replace each vista, straighten every bend ; 
Shut out the Thames; shall that ignoble thing 
Approach the presence of great Ocean's kingi 
No ! let barbaric glories feast his eyes,ir 
August pagodas round his palace rise. 
And finish d Richmond open to his view, 
" A work to wonder at, perhaps a Kevv." 
Nor rest we here, but at our magic call. 
Monkeys shall climb our trees, and lizards cfawl;** 

with the gi-eatest precision, and in the identical phrase of 
the great original. The figurative terms, and even the 
explanatory simile, are entirely borrowed from Itir W il- 
liams Dissertation. "Nature" (says the Chinese, or Sir 
A\ illiam for themi '-affords us but few materials to work 
with. Plants, gi-ounds and water, are her only produc- 
tions; and though both the forms and arrangements of 
these may be varied to an incredible degree, yet they have 
but few striking varieties, the rest being of the nature of 
changes rung upon bells, which, though in reality diffe- 
rent, still produce the same uniform kind of jingling; the 
variation being too minute to be easily perceived." " Art 
must therefore supply the scantiness of Nature," Ac, ic. 
page 14. And again, " Our larger works are only a repeti- 
tion of the small ones, like the honest bachelor's feast, 
which consisted in nothing but a multiplication of his 
own dinner; three legs of mutton and turnips, three 
roasted geese, and three buttered apple-pies." Pretace, 
page 7. 

\ So Milton. 

" ^^■he^e the gorgeous East with richest hand 
Showers on her kings l>arbaric pearl and gold." 

** '• In their lofty woods, serpents and lizards, of many 
beautiful sorts, crawl upon the grcund. Innumerable 
monkeys, cats, and parrots clamber ufon the trees." Page 
40. "In their l;ikes are many i^lamls, some .»mall, some 
large, among which are often seen stalking along, the 
elephant, the rhinoceros, the dromedary, ostrich, and the 
giant baboon." I'age C(i. '• 'Jhey keep in their enchanted 
scenes a' surprising variety of monstrous birds, reptiles, 
and animals, which are tamed by art. and guarded by 
em rmous dogs of Tibet, ar.d African giants, in the habits 
of magicians." I'age 4i. '-Sometimes, in this tomanuo 



WILLIAM MASON. 



697 



Huge dogs of Tibet bark in yonder grove, 
Here parrots prate, there cats make cruel love ; 
Ip some fair island will we turn to grass 
(With the queen's leave) her elephant and ass. 
Giants from Africa shall guard the glades, 
Where hiss our snakes, where sport our Tartar 

maids ; 
Or, wanting these, from Charlotte Hayes we bring 
Damsels alike adroit to sport and sting. 
Now to our lawns of dalliance and delight, 
Join we the groves of horror and ati'right; 
This to achieve no foreign aids we try, — 
Thy gii)liets, Bagshot ! shall our wants supply ;* 
Houuslow, whose heath sublimer terror fills, 
Shall with her gibbets lend her powder-mills. 
Here loo, O king of vengeance, in thy fane,t 
Tremendous Wilkes shall rattle his gold' chain ;J 
And round that fane, on many a Tyburn tree, 
Hang fragments dire of Newgate history ; 
On this shall Holland's dying speech be read, 
Here Bute's confession, and his wooden head ; 
While all the minor plunderers of the age, 
(Too numerous far for this contracted page,)' 
The Rigbys, Calcrafts, Dysons, Bradshaws there, 
In straw-stuff d elfigy, shall kick the air. 
But say, ye powers, who come when fancy calls. 
Where shall our mimic London rear herwalls]§ 
That Eastern feature, art must next produce, 
Though not for present yet for future use. 
Our sons some slave of greatness may behold. 
Cast in the genuine Asiatic mould: 
Who of three realms shall condescend to know 
No more than he can spy from Windsor's brow; 
For him that blessing of a better time. 
The Muse shall deal awhile in brick and lime; 
Surpass the bold AAEa*1 in design, 
And o'er the Thames fling one stupendous line 
Of marble arches, in a bridge that cuts|| 
From Richmond Ferry slant to Brentford Butts. 

excursion, the passenger finds himself in extensive re- 
cesses, surrounded with arbours of jessamine, vine, and 
roses ; where beauteous Tartarean damsels, in loose trans- 
parent robes that flutter in the air, present him with 
rich wines, &c., and invite him to taste the sweets of 
retirement, on l^ersian carpets, and beds of Camusakin 
down." Page 40. 

* "Their scenes of terror are composed of gloomy woods, 
Ac; gibbets, rrosse.s, wheels, and the whole apparatus of 
torture are seen from the roads. Mere too they conceal 
in cavities, on the summits of the highest mountains, 
founderies. lime-kilns, and glass-works, which send forth 
large volumes of flame, and continued columns of thick 
smolie, that give to these mountains the appearance of 
volcanoe-'." Page 37. " Here the passenger from time to 
time is surprised with repeated shocks of electrical im- 
pulse; the earth trembles under him by the power of 
confined air." &e. Page 39. Now to produce both these 
effects, viz. the appearance of volcanoes and earthquakes, 
we have here substituted the occasional explosion of a 
powder-mill which lif there be not too much simplicity 
in the contrivance) it is apprehended will at once answer 
all the purposes of lime-kilns and electri^-al machines, and 
imitate thunder and the explosion of cannon into the 
bargain. Vide page 40. 

t"In the most dismal recesses of the woods, are tem- 
ples dedif-at^d to the king of vengeance, near which are 
placed pillars of stone, with pathetic descriptions of tragical 
events ; and many acts of cruelty perpetrated there by 
outlaws and r:)bbers." Page 37. 

i This was written while iMr. AVilkes was sheriff cf 
London, and when it was to be feared he would rattle his 
chain r year longer as lord mayor. 

J "There is likewise in the same garden, viz. Yven-Ming- 



Brentford with London's charms will we adorn , 
Brentford, the bishopric of parson Home. 
There, at one glance, the royal eye shall meet 
Each varied beauty of St. James's street; 
Stout Talbot there shall ply with hackney chair,1I 
And patriot Betty fix her fruit-shop there.** 
Like distant thunder, now the coach of state 
Rolls o'er the bridge, that groans beneath its weight, 
'i'he court hath crost the stream ; the sports begin ;. 
Now Noel preaches of rebellion's sin : 
And as the powers of his strong pathos rise, 
Lo. brazen tears fall from Sir Fletcher's eyes.^f 
While skulking round the pews, that babe of 

grace. 
Who ne'er before at sermon show'd his face. 
See Jemmy Twitcher shambles; stop! stop 

thief IJt 
He's stolen the Earl of Denbigh's handkerchief. 
Let Barrington arrest him in mock fury,§§ 
And Mansfield hang the knave without a jury. |||| 
But hark, the voice of battle shouts from far.Hir 
The Jews and maccaronis are at war: 
The Jews prevail, and, thundering from the stocks, 
They seize, they bind, they circumcise Charles 

Fox.*** 
Fair Schwellenbergen smiles the sport to see. 
And all the maids of honour cry Te ! He IHf 
Be these the rural pastimes that attend 
Great Brunswick's leisure: these shall best unbend 
His royal mind, whene'er from state withdrawn, 
He treads the velvet of his Richmond lawn; 
These shall prolong his Asiatic dream. 
Though Europe's balance trembles on its beam. 
And thou. Sir William ! while thy plastic hand 
Creates each wonder, which thy bard has plann'd, 
W'hile, as thy art commands, obsequious rise 
W^hate'er can please, or frighten, or surprise. 
Oh ! let that bard his knight's protection claim. 
And share, like faithful Sancho, Quixote's fame.flif 

Vven, near Pekin, a fortified town, with its ports, streets, 
public squares, temi)les, markets, shops, and tribunals of 
justice; in short, with every thing that is at Pekin, only 
on a smaller scale." 

"In this town the Emperors of China, who are too much 
the slaves ot their greatness to appear in public, and their 
women, who are excluded from it by custom, are frequently 
diverted with the hurry and bustle of the oaiiital. which is 
there represented, several times in the year, by the eunuchs 
of the palace." Page 32. 

P Sir VVilliarn's enormous account of Chinese bridges, too 
long to be here inserted. Vide page 53. 

^ " Some of these eunuchs personate porters." Page 32. 

** "Kruits and all sorts of refreshments are cried about 
the streets in this mock city." — The name of a woman whc 
kept a fruit-shop in St. James's street. 

ft "Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek." Jlilton. 

J.t " Neither are thieves, pickpockets, and sharpers forgot 
in these festivals; that noble profession is usually alldttcd 
to a good number of the most dexterous eunuchs." Vide 
ibid. 

■a "The watch seizes on the culprit." Vide ibid. 

|||l "He is conveyed before the judge, and sometimes se- 
verely bastinadoed." Ibid. 

n "Quarrels happen— battles ensue." Tbid. 

*** " Kvery liberty is permitted, there is no distinction 
of persons." Ibid. 

ttt '■ 'fhis is done to divert his imperial majesty, and the 
ladies of his train." Vide ibid. 

ijl" I 'I he laugh raised by these satiric rhymes in due sea- 
son died quietly away; and Chamber.s. abandoning ( hinese 
pagodas and Eastern bowers, confined himself to I'oninn 
architecture. — All.\n Clnningham, Lives of Brit. Art. vol, 
iv. p. 350.] 

31 



JOSEPH WARTON. 



[Born, 1722. Diod, 1800.] 



Doctor Joseph Warton, son to the vicar of 
Ba.'singstoke, anil elder brother to the historian 
of English poetry, was born in the house of his 
maternal grandfather, the Rev. Joseph Richardson, 
rector of Dunsfold, in Surrey. He was chiefly 
educated at home by his father. Dr. Warton, till 
his fourteenth year, when be was admitted on the 
foundation of Winchester College. He was there 
the schoolfellow and intimate of Collins, the 
poet; and, in conjunction with him and another 
youth, whose name was Tomkyns, he sent to the 
Gentleman's Magazine three pipces of poetry, 
which were highly commended in that miscel- 
lany.* In 1740, being superannuated, he left 
Winchester school, and having missed a presenta- 
tion to New College, Oxford, was entered a com- 
moner at that of Oriel. At the university he 
composed his two poems, "The Enthusiast," and 
" The Dying Indian," and a satirical prose sketch, 
in imitation of Le Sage, entitled "Ranelagh," 
whidi his editor, Mr. Wooll, has inserted in the 
volume that contains his life, letters, and poems. 
Having taken the degree of bachelor of arts at 
Oxford, in 1744, he was ordained on his falher's 
curacy at Basingstoke. At the end of two years 
he removed from thence to do duty at Chelsea, 
where he caught the small-pox. Having left 
that place for change of air, he did not relurn to 
it, on account of some disagreement with the 
parishioners, but officiated for a few months at 
Chawton and Droxford, and then resumed his 
residence at Basingstoke. In the same year, 
174G, he published a volume of his odes, in the 
preface to which he expressed a hope that they 
would be regarded as a fair attempt to bring 
poetry back fiom the moralizing and didactic 
taste of the age, to the truer channels of fancy 
and description. Collins, our author's immortal 
contemporary, also published his odes in the same 
month of the same year. He reabzed, with the 
hand of genius, that idea of highly personified 
and picturesque composition, which Warton con- 
templated with the eye of taste. But CoUins's 
works were ushered in with no manifesto of a 
design to regenerate the taste of the age, with 
no pretensions of erecting a new or recovered 
standard of excellence. 

In 1748 our author was presented by the Duke 
of Bolton to the rectory of Winslade, when he 



* Tlie piece which Collins contributed was entitled A 
Sonnei : — 

" When Phnebe form'd a wanton smile, 
My soul ! it reach'd not here : 
Stranfce that thy peace, thou trembler, flies 

Before a rising tear. 
From 'midst the drojis. my love is born, 

That o'er those eyelids rove: 

Thus Issued from a teeming wave 

Ihe fabled Queen of Love." 

(Signed) Delicatulus. 



immediately married a lady of that neighbour- 
hood. Miss Daman, to whom he had been for 
some time attached. He had not been long 
settled in his living, when he was invited by his 
patron to accompany him to the south of France. 
The Duchess of Bolton was then in a confirmed 
drop.sy, and his Grace, anticipating her death, 
wished to have a protestant clergyman with him 
on the Continent, who might marry him, on the 
fir.^t intelligence of his consort's death, to the lady 
with whom he lived, and who was universally 
known by the name of Polly Peachum. Dr. 
Warton complied with this proposal, to which 
(as his circumstances were narrow) it must be 
hoped that his poverty consented rather than his 
will. " To those" (says Mr. Wooll) " who have 
enjoyed the rich and varied treasures of Dr. War- 
ton's conversation, who have been <lazzled by 
the brilliancy of his wit, and instructed by the 
acuteness of his understanding, I need not sug- 
gest how truly enviable was the journey which 
his fellow-travellers accomplished through the 
French provinces to Montauban." It may be 
doubted, however, if the French provinces were 
exactly the scene, where his fellow-travellers were 
most likely to be instructed by the acuteness of 
Dr. Warton's observations ; as he was unable to 
sj)eak the language of the country, and could 
have no information from foreigners, except what 
he could now and then extort from the barba- 
rous Latin of some Irish friar. He was himself 
so far from being dflighled or edified by his 
pilgrimage, that for private reasons, (as his bio- 
grajiher states,) and from impatience of being re- 
stored to his family, he returned home, without 
having accomplished the object for which the 
Duke had taken him abroad. He set out for 
Bordeaux in a courier's cart; but being dread- 
fully jolted in that vehicle, he quitted it, and, 
having joined some carriers in Brittany, came 
home by way of St. Maloes. A month after his 
return to England, the Duchess of Bolton died ; 
and our author, imagining that his [)atron would, 
possibly, have the decency to remain a widower 
for a few weeks, wrote to his Grace, ofl'ering to 
join him immediately. But the Duke had no 
mind to delay his nuptials; he was joined to 
Polly by a protestant clergyman, who was found 
upon the spot; and our author thus missed the 



[Collins's other signature was Amasivs;. Tut only one 
of the joems with that name in the Gentleman's Magazine 
of that time was by Collins. Of the other verses, Mr. hyre 
says, -'their mediocrity convinces me that they did not 
proceed from the pen of Collins," (p. 207.) there was no 
necessity to decide this by their mediocrity; for fave, in a 
note at the end of the poetry for that month, .'ays. "the 
poems signed Amasius in this Magazine are from difTerent 
correspondents;" and Pr. Johnson says, in one cf his littld 
notes to > ichols. omitted by Boswell, that the other Ama- 
sius was Dr. bwan, the translator of Sydenhaci.] 



JOSEPH WARTON. 



699 



reward of the only action of his life which can 
be said to throw a blemish on his respectable 
memory. 

In the year 1748-9 he had begun, and in 1753 
he finished and published, an edition of Virgil in 
English and Latin. 'Jo this work Warburton 
contributed a dissertation on the sixth book of 
the JSneid ; Attcibury furnished a commentary 
on the character of lapis; and the laureate 
Whitehead, another on the shield of ^neas. 
Many of the notes were taken from the best 
commentators on Virgil, particularly Catrou and 
St'grais : some were supplied by Mr. Spence ; and 
others, relating to the soil, climate, and customs 
of Italy, by Mr. Holdswortli, who had resided for 
many years in that country. For the English 
of the .^neid, he adopted the translation by Pitt. 
The life of Virg.l, with three essays on pastoral,* 
didactic, and epic poetry, and a poetical version 
of the Eclogues and Georgics, constituted his 
own part of the work. This translation may, 
in many instances, be found more faithful and 
concise than Dryden's ; but it wants that elastic 
and idiomatic freedom, by which Dryden re- 
conciles us to his faults; and exhibits rather 
Ihc diligence of a scholar than the spirit of a 
[)oet. Dr. Harewood, in his view of the classics, 
accuses the Latin text of incorreclness.f Shortly 
after the appearance of his Virgil, he took a share 
in- the periodical paper. The Adventurer, and 
contributed twenty-four numbers, which have 
been generally esteemed the most valuable in the 
work. 

In 1754, he was instituted to the living of Tun- 
worth, on the presentation of the Jervoise family ; 
and in 1755 was elected second master of Win- 
chester School, with the management and advan- 
tage of a boarding-house. In the following year 
Loril Lyttelloii, who had submitted a part of his 
"History of Henry II." to his revisal, bestowed a 
scarf upon him. He found leisure, at this pe- 
riod, to commence his " Essay on the Writ ngs 
and genius of Pope," which he dedicated to 
Young, witbout subscribing his name. But he 
was soon, and it would appear with his own tacit 
permission, generally pronounced to be its author. 
Twenty-six years, however, elapsed before he 
ventured to complete it. Dr. Johnson said, that 
this was owing to his not having been able to 
bring the public to be of his oj)inion as to Pope. 
Another reason has been assigned for his inac- 
tivity.J Warburton, the guardian of Pope's 
fame, was still alive; and he was the zealous 
and useful, friend of our author's brother. 'J'he 
prelate died in 1779, and in 1782 Dr. Warton 
published his extended and finished Essay. If 
the supposition that he abstained from embroiling 
himself by the question about Pope with War- 



* His reflections on pastoral poetry are limited to a few 
sentences ; but he subjoins an essay on the subject, by Dr. 
Johnson, from the liambler. 

t V\it,h what justice I will not pretend to say; but after 
comparing a few pages of his edition with IMaittaire, he 
Seems to me to be less attentive to punctuation than the 
editor of the Corpus I'oetarum. and sometimes to omit the 
marks by which it is customary to distinguish adverbs 



burton be true, it will at least impress iw with 
an idea of his patience ; for it was no secrvt that 
Ruffhead was supplied by Warburton with ma- 
terials for a life of Pope, in which he atlicked 
Dr. Warton with abundant severity; but in 
which he entangled himself more than his ad- 
versary, in the coarse-spun ropes of his special 
pleading. The Essay, for a time, raised up to 
him another enemy, to whom his conduct has 
even an air of submissiveness. In commenting 
on a line of Pope, he hazarded a remark on Ho- 
garth's propensity to intermix the ludicrous with 
attempts at the sublime. Hogarth revengefully 
introduced Dr. Warton's works into one of his 
satirical pieces, and vowed to bear him eternal 
enmity. Their mutual friends, however, inter- 
fered, and the artist was pacified. Dr. Warton, 
in the next edition, altered his just animadver- 
sion on Hogarth into an ill-merited compliment. 
By delaying to re-publish his Essay on Pope, 
he ultimately obtained a more dispassionate bear, 
ing from the public for the work in its finished 
state. In the mean time, he enriched it with ad- 
ditions, digested from the reading of half a life- 
time. The author of " The Pursuits of Litera- 
ture" has pronounced it a common-place book; 
and Richardson, the novelist, used to call it a 
literary gossip: but a testimony in its favour of 
more authority than any individual opinion, will 
be found in the popularity with which it con- 
tinues to be read. It is very entertaining, and 
abounds with criticism of more research than 
Addison's, of more amenity than Hurd's or War- 
burton's, and of more insinuating attack than 
Johnson's. At the same time, while much inge- 
nuity and many truths are scattered over the 
Essay, it is impossible to admire it as an entire 
theory, solid and consistent in all its parts. It is 
certainly setting out from unfortunate premises 
to begin his Remarks on Pope with grouping 
Dryden and Addison in the same class of poets; 
and to form a scale for estimating poetical genius, 
which would set Elijah Fenton in a higher sphere 
than Butler. He places Pope, in the scale of 
our poets, next to Milton, and above Dryden ; yet 
he applies to him the exact character which Vol- 
taire gives to the heartless Boileau — that of a 
writer, " perhaps, incapable of the sublime which 
elevates, or of the feeling which affects the soul." 
With all this, he tells us, that our poetry and 
our language are everlastingly indebted to Pope : 
he attributes genuine tenderness to the "Elegy 
on an Unfortunate Lady ;" a strong degree of 
passion to the " Epistle of Eloise ;" invention and 
fancy to " The Rape of the Lock ;" and a pic- 
turesque conception to some parts of " Windsor 
Forest," which he pronounces worthy of the 
pencil of Rubens or Julio Romano. There is 



from pronouns. I diplike his interpretation of one line in 
the first i-.clogue of Virgil, which seems to me peculiar.y 
tasteless; namely, where he translates "Pod aliquot aris- 
tas'' ■' after a few years." The picture of Melibceus's cottage 
"behind a few ears of corn," so simply and exquisitely 
touched, is thus exchanged for a forced phrase with T9i;aiJ 
to time. 
X Chalmers's Life of J. Warton, British Poets. 



■00 



JOSEPH WARTON. 



somfthing like April weather in these transi- 
tious. 

In May, 1766, he was advanced to the head- 
niHstership of Winchester Sihooi. In conse- 
quence of this promotion, he once more visited 
Oxford, and proceeded to the degree of hachelor 
and doctor in divinity. After a union of twenty 
years, he lost his first wife, by whom he had six 
children; but his family and his professional 
situation requiring a domestic partner, he had 
been only a year a widower, when he married a 
Miss Nicholas, of Winchester. 

He now visited London more frequently than 
before. The circle of his friends, in the metro- 
[lolifi, comprehended all the members of Burke's 
and Johnson's Literary Club. With Johnson 
himself he was for a long time on intimate terms; 
but their friendship suftered a breach which was 
never closed, in consequence of an argument 
which took place between them, during an even- 
ing spent at the house of Sir Joshua Reynolds. 
'I"he concluding words of their conversation are 
reported, by one who was present, to have been 
these: Johnson said, "Sir, I am not accustomed 
to be contradicted." Warton replied, " Better, 
sir, for yourself and your friends if you were; 
our respect could not be increased, but our love 
might." 

In 1782 he was indebted to his friend. Dr. 
I.owth, Bishop of London, for a |)rebend of 8t. 
Paul's, and the living of Thorley in Hertford- 
shire, which, after some arrangements, he ex- 
changed for that of VV'ickham. His ecclesiastical 
preferments came too late in life to place him in 
that state of leisure and indej)endi'nce which 
might have enabled him to devote his best years 
to literature, instead of the drudgery of a school. 
One great [)roject, which he announced, but never 
lullilled, namely, "A General History of Learn- 
ing,"* was. in all probability,' prevented by the 
pressure of his daily occupations. In 1788, 
through the interest of Lord Shannon, he ob- 
tained a prebend of Winchester; and. through 
the interest of Lord Malinsbury, was appointed 
to the rectory of Euston, which he was afterward 
allowed to exchange for that of Upluim. In 1793 
he resigned the fatigues of his mastership of Win- 
chester; and having received, from the superin- 
tendents of the institution, a vote of well-earned 



[* Did Warton ever announce his intention of writing 
" A General History of Learning?" We think not. though 
Hume, in a letter to llobertson. speali.i of .such a work as 
coming from Warton's pen. Collins had such an inten- 
tion, and Warton mentions' it in his Kssay. in a pa.«sage 
wliich has been overlooked by every writer on the subject. 
(i?.>;i((//, c'd. 17C2, p. 186.) l-'o copy of CoUins's published 
proi-osals is known to exist, and it is now perhaps hope- 
lass to obtain the exact title of his projected work. John- 
BOn calls it, A HUtnry nj the Rf.viral "/ Lmrning ; a cor- 
respondent in the Gentleman's Magazine, and an acquain- 
tance of CoUins's, A UisUiry nf the Durl.er Agn ; Thomas 
W arton. A Hisliiry nf tli". lieslortdion nf Lmrnhig ; and 
Joseph Warton. The 'History nf the, Ai/e nf Leo JC. Wal- 
pola mentions it in a letter to .'^ir David Dalryniple.] 

LfOur Knglish poets may, I think, be disposed in 
four different classes and degrees. Ju the first class I 
would place, our only three sublime and pathetic poets, 
Spenser, .-hakspeare, Milton. In tlie sf^oond class should 
be ranked, uucll as possessed the true poetical genius, in a 



thanks, for his long and meritorious services, he 
went to live at his rectory of Wickham. 

During his retirement at that place, he was 
induced, by a liberal ofler of the booksellers, to 
superintend an edition of Pope, vshich he pub- 
lished in 1797. It was objected to this edition, 
that it contained only his Essay on Pope, cut 
down into notes ; his biographer, however, repels 
the objection, by alleging that it contains a con- 
siderable portion of new matter. In his zeal to 
present every thing that could be traced to the 
pen of Pope he introiluced two pieces of indeli- 
cate humour, "The Double Mistress," and the 
second satire of Horace. For the insertion of 
those pieces, he received a censure in the "Pur- 
suits of Literature," which, considering his gray 
hairs and services in the literary world, was un- 
becoming, and which my individual partiality for 
Mr. Matthias makes me wish that I had not to 
record. 

As a critic, Dr. Warton is distinguished by 
his love of the fanciful and romantic. He ex- 
amined our poetry at a period when it appeared 
to him that versified observations on familiar life 
and manners had usurped the honours which 
were exclusively due to the bold and inventive 
powers of imagination. He conceived, also, that 
the charm of description in poetry was not sulH- 
cienlly appreciated in his own day : not that the 
age could be said to be without descriptive writers; 
but because, as he apprehended, the tyranny of 
Pope's reputation had placed moral and didactic 
verse in too pre-eminent a light. He, therefore, 
strongly urged, the principle, " that the most 
solid observations on life, expressed with the 
utmost brevity and elegance, are morality, and 
not poetry. "t Without examinhig how far this 
principle applies exactly to the character of Pope, 
whom he himself owns not to have been without 
pathos and imagination, I think his proposition is 
so worded, as to be liable to lead to a most un- 
sound distinction between morality and poetry. 
If by " the most solid ob.servations on life" are 
meant only those which relate to its prudential 
management and plain concerns, it is certainly 
true, that these cannot be made poetical, by the 
utmost brevity or elegance of expression. It is 
also true, that even the nobler tenets of morality 
are coiaparatively less interesting, in an insulated 



more moderate degree, but who had noble talents for 
moral, ethical, and panegyrical poesy. At the head of 
these are, Dryden. I'rior. .-Vddison, Cowley, Waller, Garth, 
Fenton, Gay, Denham, Pavnell. In the third class m.iy 
be placed men of wit. of elegant taste, and liTjly fancy in 
describing familiar life, Ihouglj not the higher scenes ol 
poetry. Here may be numbered. Hutler, tNwift, liochester 
Donne. Dorset. Uldham. In the f)urth class, tlie mert 
veri-itiers. however smooth and mellitluous some of then, 
nay be thought, should be di.-iposed. i^uch as Pitt, t^andys 
Fairfax, IJroome, Huckiugham, Lansdowne. This enu 
meration Is not intended as a complete catalogue of writers 
but only to mark out briefly the different species of our 
celebrated authors. In which of these classes Pope de- 
serves to be placed, the following work is intended to 
determine. — Joskpii Warton, Dedicatum In Dr. Vnnng. 

'the position of Pope among our poets, and the question 
generally of cla-ssification. Mr. Campbeii na.s argued at 
some length in the Introductory Essay to this volume.] 



JOSEPH WARTON. 



701 



and didactic shape, than when they are blended 
with strong imitations of life, where passion, cha- 
racter, and situation bring them deeply home to 
our attention. Fiction is on this account so far 
the soul of poetry, that, without its aid as a ve- 
hicle, poetry can only give us morality in an ab- 
stract and (comparatively) uninteresting shape. 
But why does Fiction please us? surely not be- 
cause it is false, but because it seems to be true ; 
because it spreads a wider field, and a more bril- 
liant crowd of objects to our moral perceptions, 
than reality affords. Morality (in a high sense 
of the term, and not speaking of it as a dry sci- 
ence) is the essence of poe'ry. We fly from the 
injustice of this world to the poetical justice of 
Fiction, where our sense of right and wrong is 
either satisfied, or where our sympathy, at least, 
reposes with less disappointment and distraction, 
than on the characters of life itself. Fiction, we 
may indeed be told, carries us into " a world of 
gayer tincl and gnice" the laws of which are not 
to be judged by solid observations on the real 
world. 

But this is not the case, for moral truth is still 
the light of poetry, and fiction is only the refract- 
ing atmosphere which diffuses it; and the laws 
of moral truth are as essential to poetry, as those 
of physical truth (Anatomy and Optics, for in- 
stance) are to painting. Allegory, narration, and 



the drama make their last appeal to the ethics of 
the human heart. It is therefore unsafe to draw 
a marked distinction between morality and poetry ; 
or to speak of " solid observdfioxs on life" as of 
things in their natvire unpoetical ; for we do meet 
in poetry with observations on life, which, for the 
charm of their solid truth, we should exchange 
with reluctance for the most ingenious touches 
of fancy. 

The school of the Wartons, considering them 
as poets, was rather too studiously prone to de 
scription. The doctor, like his brother, certainly 
so far realized his own ideas of inspiration, as to 
burden his verse with few observations on life 
which oppress the mind by their solidity. To his 
brother he is obviously inferior in the graphic and 
romantic style of composition, at which he aimed ; 
but in which, it must nevertheless be owned, that 
in some parts of his "Ode to Fancy" he has been 
pleasingly successful. From the subjoined speci- 
mens, the reader will probably be enabled to judge 
as favourably of his genius, as from the whole of 
his poems ; for most of them are short and occa- 
sional, and (if I may venture to differ from, the 
opinion of his amiable editor, Mr. Wooll,) are by 
no means marked with originality. The only 
poem of any length, entitled " The Enthusiast," 
was written at too early a period of his life, to be 
a fair object of criticism. 



ODE TO FANCY, 

O PARENT of each lovely Muse, 
Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse. 
O'er all my artless songs preside, 
My footsteps to thy temple guide. 
To offer at thy turf-built shrine, 
In golden cups no costly wine, 
No murder'd fatling of the flock, 
But flowers and honey from the rock. 
O nymph with loosely-flowing hair. 
With buskin'd leg. and bosom bare, 
Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound, 
Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd, 
Wavini:; in thy snowy hand ' 

An all-commanding magic wand, 
Of power to bid fresh gardens blow, 
'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow. 
Whose rapid wings thy 'flight convey 
Through air. and over earth and sea, 
While the vast various landscape lies 
Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes, 
lover of the desert, hail ! 
Say, in what deep and pathless vale, 
Or on what hoary mountain's side, 
'Mid fall of waters, you reside, 
'Mid broken rocks, a rugged scene, 
With green and grassy dales between, 
'Mid forests dark of aged oak, 
Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke, 
Where never human art appear'd. 
Nor even one straw-roof'd cot was rear'd. 



Where Nature seems to sit alone, 
Majestic on a craggy throne ; 
Tell me the path, ^weet wanderer, tell, 
To thy unknown sequester'd cell. 
Where woodbines cluster round the door. 
Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor, 
And on whose top an hawthorn blows, 
Amid whose thickly-woven boughs 
Some nightingale still builds her nest, 
Each evening warbling thee to rest: 
Then lay me by the haunted stream, 
Rapt in some wild, poetic dream, 
In converse while methinks I rove 
With Spenser through a fairy grove; 
Till, suddenly awaked, I hear 
Strange whisper'd music in my ear. 
And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd 
By the sweetly-soothing sound ! . 
Me, goddess, by the right hand lead 
Sometimes through the yellow mead, 
Where Joy and white-robed Peace resort, 
And Venus keeps her festive court; 
Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet, 
And lightly trip with nimble feet, 
Nodding tlieir lily-crowned heads. 
Where Laughter rose-lipp'd Hebe leads; 
Where Echo walks steep hills among, 
List'ning to the shepherd's song : 
Yet not these flowery fields of joy 
Can long my pensive mind employ; 
Haste, Fancy, from the scenes of folly, 
To meet the matron Melancholy, 
3i2 



702 JOSEPH 


WARTON. 


Goddess of the tearful eye, 


On which thcu Invest to sit at eve. 


Tliat loves to fold her arms, and sigh ; 


Musing o'er thy darling's grave; 


Let us with silent footsteps go 


queen of numbers, once again 


To charnels and the house of woe. 


Aniniate some chosen swain. 


To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs. 


Who, fill'd with unexhausted fire, 


Where each sad night some virgin comes, 


May boldly strike the sounding lyre. 


With throbbing breast and faded cheek, 


Who with some new unequali'd song 


Her promised bridegroom's urn to seek; 


May rise above the rhyming throng. 


Or to some abbey's niould'ring towers. 


O'er all our list'ning passions reign. 


Where, to avoid cold wintry showers, 


O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain, 


The naked beggar shivering lies. 


With terror shake, and pity move. 


While whistling tempests round her rise. 


Rouse with revenge, or melt with love ; 


And trembles lest the tottering wall 


Oh deign t' attend his evening walk. 


Should on her sleeping infants fall. 


With him in groves and grottoes talk; 


Now let us louder strike the lyre. 


Teach him to scorn with frigid art 


For my heart glows with martial fire, — 


Feebly to touch th' unraptured heart; 


I feel, I feel, with sudden heat. 


Like lightning, let his mighty verse 


My big tumultuous bosom beat; 


The bosom's inmost foldings pierce; 


The trumpet's clangors pierce my ear, 


With native beauties win applause 


A thousand widows' shiieks I hear. 


Beyond cold critics' studied laws; 


Give me another horse, I cry, 


Oh let each Muse's fame increase, 


Lo ! the base Gallic squadrons fly ; 


Oh bid Britannia rival Greece. 


Whence is this rage 1 — 'what spirit, say, 
To battle hurries me away 1 




* 


'Tis Fancy, in her fiery car, 


THE DYING INDIAN. 


Transports me to the thickest war. 


The dart of Izdabel prevails ! 'twas dipp'd 


'J'here whirls me o'er ihe hills of slain. 


In double poison — I shall soon arrive 


Where Tumult and Destruction reign ; 


At the bless'd island, where no tigers spring 


Where, mad with pain, the wounded steed 


On heedless hunters; where ananas bloom 


Tramples the dying and the dead ; 


Thrice in each moon ; where rivers smoothly glide. 


Where giant Terror stalks around, 


Nor thundering torrents whirl the light canoe 


With sullen joy surveys the ground, 


Down to the sea ; where my forefiithers feast 


And, pointing to the ensanguined field. 


Daily on hearts of Spaniards! — Oh, my son. 


Shakes his dreadful gorgon shield! 


1 feel the venom busy in my breast ! 


Oh guide me from this horrid scene, 


Approach, and bri ng mycrown,deck'd with the teeth 


To high-arch'd walks and alleys green, 


Of that bold Christian who first dared deflower 


Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun 


The virgins of the Sun ; and, dire to tell ! 


The fervours of the mid-day sun; 


Robb'd Pachacamac's altar of its gems! 


The pangs of absence, oh remove ! 


I maik'd the spot where they interr'd this traitor. 


For thou canst place me near my love, 
Canst fold in visionary bliss, 


And once at midnight stole I to his tomb. 


And tore his carcass from the earth, and left it 


And let me think I steal a kiss. 


A prey to poisonous flies. Preserve this crown 


While her ruby lips dispense 


With sacred secrecy : if e'er returns 


JiUscious nectar s qumtessence ! 


Thy much-loved mother from the desert woods, 


When young-eyed Spring profusely throws 


Where, as I hunted late, I hapless lost her. 


From her green lap the pink and rose, 


Cherish her age. Tell her, I ne'er have worshipp'd 


When the soft turtle of the dale 


With those that eat their God. And when disease 


To Summer tells her tender tale ; 


Preys on her languid limbs, then kindly stab her 


, When Autumn cooling caverns seeks, 


With thine own hands, nor suffer her to linger. 


And stains with wine his jolly cheeks; 


Like Christian cowards, in a life of pain. 


When Wjnter, like poor pilf;rim old, 


I go !' great Copac beckons me ! Farewell ! 


Shakes his silver beard with cold; 


♦ 


At every season let my ear 


TO MUSIC. 


Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear. 


Queen of every moving measure, 


warm, enthusiastic maid, 


Sweetest source of purest pleasure, 


Without thy powerful, vital aid. 


Music! why thy power employ 


That breathes an energy divine. 


Only for the sons of joy? 


That gives a soul to every line. 


Only for the smiling guests 


N'e'er may I strive with lips profane 


At natal or at nuptial feasts? 


To utter an unhallow'd strain. 


Rather thy lenient numbers pour 


Nor dare to touch the sacred string, 


On those whom secret griefs dei-our; 


Save when with smiles thou bidd'st me 


Bid be still the throbbing hearts 


sing. 


Of those whom Death or Absence parts* 


Oh hear our prayer, oh hither come 


And, with some softly-whisper'd air. 


From thy lamented Shakspeare's tomb, 


Smooth the brow of dumb Oespair. 


— . — — — — — . 1 



WILLIAM COWPER. 



CEorn, 1731. Died, 1800.] 



William Cowper was born at Berkhamstead, 
in Heitloidshire. His grandfather was Spencer 
Co\vper, a judge of the Court of Common Pleas, 
and a younger brother of the Lord Chancellor 
Cowper. His father was the rector of Great 
Berkhamstead, and chaplain to George II. At 
si.K years of age, he was taken from the care of 
an indulgent mother, and placed at a school in 
Bedfordshire.* He there endured such hard- 
ships as imliittered his opinion of public educa- 
tion for all his life. His chief affliction was, to 
be singled out, as a victim of secret cruelty, by a 
young monster, about fifteen years of age ; whose 
barbarities were, however, at last detected, and 
punished by his expulsion. Cowper was also 
taken from the school. From the age of eight 
to nine, he was boarded with a famous oculist,t 
on account of a complaint in his eyes, which, 
during his whole life, were subject to inflamma- 
ticin. He was sent from thence to Westminster, 
and continued there till the age of eighteen, when 
he went into the office of a London solicitor. His 
account of himself in this situation candidly ac- 
knowledges his extreme idleness. " I did actually 
live," he says, in a letter to Lady Hesketh, 
" three years with Mr. Chapman, a solicitor ; that 
is to say, I slept three years in his house. I spent 
my d;iys in Southampton-row, as you very well 
remember. There was I, and the future Lord 
Chancellor Thurlow, constantly employed from 
morning to night in giggling and making giggle." 
From the solicitor's house he went into chambers 
in the 'remple ; but seems to have made no ap- 
plication to the study of law, "Here -he 
raml)led," says Mr. Hayley, "to use his own 
colloquial expression, from the tliorny road of 
jurisprudence to the primrose paths of litera- 
ture," a most uncolloquial expression indeeil,and 
savouring much more of Mr. Hayley 's genius 
than his own. At this period he wrote some 
verse translations from Horace, which he gave to 
the Buncombes; and assisted Lloyd and ('olman 
with some prose papers for their periodical 
works.;}: It was only at this time that Cowper 
could ever be said to have lived as a man of the 
world. Though shy to strangers, he was highly 
valued for his wit and pleasantry, amid an in- 
timate and gay circle of men of talents. But 

* In Ilayley's Life hi-s first school is said to have heen in 
Hertfordshire. The Memoir of his early life, puhli.-^hed in 
ISUi, says in Bedfordshire. [In Cowper's account of his 
own early life, this school is said to have been in Bedford- 
shire; but Hayley says Hertfordshire, mentioning also the 
place and name of the master ; and as Cowper was only at 
one priv.'ite school, subsequent biographers have properly 
followed Hayley. The mistake probai)ly originated in the 
pri'ss, Cowper's own Memoirs having apparently been 
printed from an ill-written manuscript. Of this there is a 
whims ical proof, (p. 35,) where the I'ersian Letters of Mon- 
tesquieu are spoiieD of, and the compositor, unable to de- 



though he was then in the focus of convivial so- 
ciety, he never partook of its intemperance. 

His patrimony being well nigh spent, a power- 
ful friend and relation (Major Cowper) obtained 
for him the situation of Clerk to the Committees 
of the House of Lords ; but, on account of his 
dislike to the publicity of the situation, the ap- 
pointment was changed to that of Clerk of the 
Journals of the same House. § The path to an 
easy maintenance now seemed to lie open before 
him ; but a calamitous disappointment was im- 
pending, the approaches of which are best ex- 
plained in his own words. "In the beginning," 
(he says) " a strong opposition to my friend's 
right of nomination began to show itself. A 
powerful party was formed among the Lords to 
thwart it. * * * Every advantage, I was 
told, would be sought for, and eagerly seized, to 
disconcert us. I was bid to expect an examina-^ 
tion at the bar of the house, touching my sutfi" 
ciency for the ])ost I had taken. Being necessa- 
rily ignorant of the nature of that business, it 
became expedient that I should visit the office 
daily, in oriler to qualify myself for the strictest 
scrutiny. All the horror of my fears and per- 
plexities now returned. A thunderbolt would 
have been as welcome to me as this intelligence. 
I knew to demonstration, that upon these terms 
the Clerkship of the Journals was no place for 
me. 'i'o require my attendance at the bar of the 
house, that I might there publicly entitle myself 
to the office, was, in elVect, to exclude me from 
it. In the mean time, the interest of my friend, 
the honour of his choice, my own reputation and 
circumstances, all urged nic forward, all pressed 
me to undertake that which I saw to be imprac- 
ticable. They whose spirits are formed like 
mine, to whom a public exhibition of themselves, 
on any occasion, is mortal poison, may iiave some 
idea of the horrors of my situation — others can 
have none. My continual misery at length 
brought on a nervous fever; quiet forsook me by 
day, and peace by night; a finger raised against 
me was more than I could stand against. In 
this posture of n)ind I attended regularly at the 
office, where, instead of a soul upon the rack, the 
most active spirits were essentially necessary for 
my purpose. I expected no assistance from any- 

cipher that author's name, has converted It into Mulct 
Quince. — Southi.v, Life of Oiwptr, vol. i. p. 7.) 

t lie does not inform us where, but calls the oculist Mr. 
D.— Hayley, by mistake, 1 suppose, says that he was 
boarded with a female oculist. [He was placed in the 
house of an eminent oculist, whose wife also had outained 
great ceUbrity iu the same branch of medical science. — 

SOUTHEY.J 

[JThe Connoisseur, and St. James's Chronicle.] 
[I I Us kinsman Major Cowper was the patentee of thes« 
appointments.] 



704 



WILLIAM COWPER. 



body there, all the inferior derks being under the 
influence of my opponent, and accordingly I re- 
ceived none. The Journal books were indeed 
thrown open to nie ; a thing which could not be 
refused, and from which perhaps a man in health, 
and with a head turned to business, might have 
gained all the information he wanted; but it was 
not so with me. I read without perception ; and 
was so distressed, that had every clerk in the 
office been my friend, it could have availed me 
but little; for I was not in a condition to receive 
instruction, much less to elicit it out of MSS. 
without direction. Many months went over me 
thus employed; constant in the use of means, 
despairing as to the issue. The feelings of a 
man when he arrives at the place of execution 
are probably much like mine every time I set my 
foot in the office, which was every day for more 
than half a year together." These agonies at 
length unsettled his brain. When his benevo-- 
lent friend came to him, on the day appointed 
for his examination at Westminster, he found 
him in a dreadful condition. He had, in fact, 
the same morning, made an attempt at self- 
destruction ; and showed a garter, which had 
been broken, and an iron rod across his bed, 
which had been bent in the effort to accomplish 
his purpose by strangulation. From the state of 
his mind, it became necessary to remove him to 
the house of Dr. Cotton, of St. Albans,* with 
whom he continued for about nineteen months. 
Within less than the half of that time, his fa- 
cullies began to return ; and the religious despair, 
which constituted the most tremendous circum- 
stance of his malady, had given way to more 
consoling views of faith and picty.| On his re- 
covery, he determined to renounce London for 
ever; and, that he might have no temptation to re- 
turn thither, gave up the office of commissioner of 
bankrupts, worth about 60/. a year, which' he had 
held for some years. He then, in June 176.5. 
repaired to Huntingdon, where he settled in 
lodgings, attended by a man-servant, who fol- 
lowed him from Dr. Cotton's out of pure attach- 
ment. His brother, who had accompanied him 
thither, had no sooner left him, than being alone 
among strangers, his spirits began again to sink; 
and he found himself, he says, "like a traveller 
in the midst of an inhospitable desert, without a 
friend to comfort or a guide to direct him." For 
four months he continued in his lodging. Some 
few neighbours came to see him; but their visits 
were not very frequent, and he rather declined 
than sought society. At length, however, young 
Mr. Unwin, the son of the clergyman of the 



[♦Author of Visions in Verse— Tlie Fireside, ic. See 
ante, p. 002.1 

[t The crisis of his recovery seems to have heen accele- 
rated by the conversation of his hrotlier, who visited him 
at Ur. t'ottoa's. " As soon as we were left alone," he says, 
" my brother asked me how I found myself. 1 answered, 
' Af: much better a-s despair can make me.' We weut to- 
gether into the garden. Here, on expressing a settled as- 
surance of sudden judgment, he protested to me that it 
was all a delusion, and protested so strongly that I could 
not help giving some attention to him. I burst into tears, 
and cried out, • If it be a delusion, then 1 am one of the 



place, having been struck by his interesting ap- 
pearance at church, introduced himself to his 
acquaintance, and brought him to visit at his 
father's house. A mutual friendship was very 
soon formed between Cowper and this amiable 
family, whose religious sentiments peculiarly cor- 
responded with the predominant impressions of 
his mind. The Unwins, much to his satisfaction, 
agreed to receive him as a boarder in their house. 
His routine of life in this devout circle is best de- 
scribed by himself. " We breakfast," he says, in 
one of his letters, " commonly between eight and 
nine; till eleven we read either the Scriptures or 
the sermons of some faithful preacher of those 
holy mysteries. At eleven we attend divine ser- 
vice, which is performed here twice every day; 
and from twelve to three we separate and amuse 
ourselves as we please. During that interval, I 
cither read in my own apartment, or walk, or 
ride, or work in the garden. We seldom sit an 
hour after dinner, but, if the weather permits, 
adjourn to the garden, where, with Mrs. Unwin 
and her son, I have generally the pleasure of re- 
ligious conversation. If it rains, or is too windy 
for walking, we either converse within doors, or 
sing some hymns of Martin's:]: collection, and, by 
the help of Mrs. Unwin's harpsichord, make up 
a tolerable concert, in which our hearts, I hope, 
are the most musical performers. After tea, we 
sally forth to walk in good earnest, and we gene- 
rally travel four miles before we see home again. 
At night, we read and converse as before till 
supper, and commonly finish the evening with 
hymns or a sermon." 

After the death of Mr. Unwin, senior, in 1767, 
he accompanied Mrs. Unwin and her daughter to 
a new residence which they chose at Olney, in 
Buckinghamshire. Here he formed an intimate 
friendship with Mr. Newton, then curate of 
Olney, with whom he voluntarily associated him- 
self in the duty of visiting the cottages of the poor, 
and comforting their distresses. Mr. Newton and 
he were joint almoners in the secret donations 
of the wealthy and charitable Mr. Thornton, who 
transmitted 200/. a year for the poor of Olney. At 
Mr. Newton's request he wrote some hymns,' 
which were published in a collection, long before 
he was known as a poet. 

His tremendous malady unhappily returned in 
1773, attended with severe paroxysms of religious 
despondency, and his faculties were again ecl;i)sed 
for about five years. During that period Mrs. 
Unwin watched over him with a patience and 
tenderness truly maternal. After his second re- 
covery, some of his amusements, such as taming 

happiest of beings I' Something like a ray of hope was 
shot into my heart, but still I was afraid to indulge it. ^Ve 
dined together, and spent the afternoon in a more cheer- 
ful manner *«**». i went to bed, and slept well. In 
the morning I dreamt that the sweetest boy 1 ever saw 
came dancing up to my bed-side; he seemed just out of 
leading-strings ; yet I took particular notice of the lirm- 
ness and steadiness of his tread. The sight affected nie 
with pleasure, and served at least to harmonize my si)irits. 
.*<o that 1 awoke for the first time with a sensation of de- 
light on my mind." — Memoir published in 1816. 
J Martin Jladan, a cousin of the poet. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 



ro5 



hares, and making bird-cages, would seem to in- 
dicate no great confidence in the capacity of his 
mind for mental employment. But he stil! con- 
tinued to be a cursory reader; he betooi< himself 
also to drawing landscapes; and, what might 
have been still less expected at fifty years of age, 
began in earnest to cultivate his poetical talents. 
These had lain, if not dormant, at least so slightly 
employed, as to make his poetical progress, in 
the former part of his life, scarcely ■ capable of 
being traced.* He spent', however, the winter 
of 1780-1 in preparing his first volume of Poems 
for the press, consisting of "'liable Talk," "Hope,'" 
"The Progress of Error," " Charity," &c., and 
it was publisiied in 1782. Its reception was not 
equal to its merit, though his modest expectations 
were not upon the whole disappointed; and he 
had the satisfaction of ranking Dr. Johnson and 
Benjamin Franklin among his zealous admirers. 
'I'he volume was certainly good fruit under a rough 
rind, conveying manly thoughts, but in a tone of 
enthusiasm which is often harsh and forbidding. 
In the same year that he published his first 
volume, an elegant and accomplished visitant 
came to Olney, with whom Cowper formed an 
acquaintance that was for some time very delight- 
ful to him. This was the widow of Sir Robert 
Austen. She had wit, gaycty. agreeable manners, 
and elegant taste. While she enlivened Cowper's 
unequal spirits by her conversation, she was also 
the task-mistress of his Muse. He began his 
great original poem at her suggestion, and was 
exhorted by her to undertake the translation of 
Homer. So much cheerfulness seems to have 
beamed upon his sequestered life from the in- 
fluence of her society, that he gave her the en- 
dearing appellation of Sister Anne, and ascribed 
the arrival of so pleasing a friend to the direct 
interposition of Heaven. But his devout old 
friend, Mrs. Unwin, saw nothing very providen- 
tial in the ascendency of a female so much more 
fascinating than herself over Cowper's mind ; 
and, appealing to his gratitude for her past ser- 
vices, she gave him his choice of either renouncing 
Lady Austen's acquaintance or her own. Cowper 
decided upon adhering to the friend who had 
watched over him in his deepest afflictions, and 
sent Lady Austen a valedictory letter, couched in 
terms of regret and regard, but which necessarily 
put an end to their acquaintance. Whether in 
making this decision he sacrificed a passion, or 
only a friendship for Lady Austen, it must be im- 
possible to tell; but it has been said, though not 
by Mr. Hayley, that the remembrance of a deep 
and devoted attachment of his youth was never 
effaced by any succeeding impression of the same 
nature, and that his fondness for Lady Austen 
was as platonic as for Mary Unwin. The sacrifice, 
however, cost him much pain, and is, perhaps, as 
much to be admired as regretted.^ 



* At the age of eighteen, he wrote some tolerable verses 
on finding the heel of a shoe; a subject which is not un- 
characteristic of his disposition to moralise on whimsical 
lubjocts. (These verses have an imitative resemblance to 
the style of " The feplendid Shilling." VUilips was a great 



Fortunately, the jealousy of Mrs. Unwin did 
not extend to his cousin. Lady Hesketh. His 
letters to that lady give the most pleasing view 
of Cowper's mind, exhibiting all the warmth of 
his heart as a kinsman, and his simple and un- 
studied elegance as a correspondent. His inter- 
course with this relation, after a separation of 
nearly thirty years, was revived by her writing 
to congratulate him on the appearance of his 
" Task," in 1784. Two years after, Lady Hesketh 
paid him a visit at Olney; and settling at Weston, 
in the immediate neighbourhood, provided a house 
for him and Mrs. Unwin there, which was more 
commodious than their former habitation. She 
also brought her carriage and horses with her, 
and thus induced him to survey the country in a 
wider range than he had been hitherto accustomed 
to take, as well as to mix a little more with its 
inhabitants. As. soon as "The Task" had been 
sent to the press, he began the "Tirocinium," a 
poem on the subject of education, the purport of 
which was (in his own words) to censure the 
want of discipline and the inattention to morals 
which prevail in public schools, and to recom- 
mend private education as preferable on all ac- 
counts. In the same year, 1784, he commenced 
his translation of Homer, which was brought to a 
conclusion and published by subscription in 1791. 
The first edition of Homer was scarcely out of 
his hands, when he embraced a proposal from a 
bookseller to be the editor of Milton's poetry, and 
to furnish aversion of his Italian and Latin poems, 
together with a critical commentary on his whole 
works. Capable as he was of guiding the reader's 
attention to the higher beauties of Milton, his 
habits and recluse situation made him peculiarly 
unfit for the more minute functions of an editor. 
In the progress of the work, he seems to have 
been constantly drawn away, by the anxious cor- 
rection of his great translation ; insomuch, that 
his second edition of Homer was rather a new 
work than a revisal of the old. The subsequent 
history of his life may make us thankful that the 
powers of his mind were spared to accomplish so 
great an undertaking. Their decline was fast 
approaching. In 1792, Mr. Hayley paid him a 
visit at Olney, and was present to console liitii 
under his affliction, at seeing Mrs. Unwin attacked 
by the palsy. The shock subsided, and a journey, 
which he undertook in company with Mrs. Unwin, 
to Mr. Hayley's at Eartham, contributed, with the 
genial air of the south, and the beautiful scenery 
of the country, to revive his spirits; but they 
drooped and became habitua!lly dejected, on his 
return to Olney. In a moment of recovered cheer- 
fulness, he projected a poem on the four ages of 
man — infiincy, youth, manhood, and old age ; but 
he only finished a short fragment of it. Mr. Hay- 
ley paid him a second visit in the November of 
1793 ; he found him still possessed of all his ex- 



favourite with Cowper, as with Thomson. It is remarkable 
that " Uhf 2Iis/. " should open in I'hilips's style.] 

[t " Both Lady Austen and Mrs. Unwin," says Soulhey, 
" appear to me to have been wronged by the causes assigned 
for the diHerence between them."] 



706 



WILLIAM COWPER. 



quisite feelk gs; but there was something unde- 
scribable in liis appearance, which foreboded his 
relapsing into hopeless despondency. Lady Hes- 
kcth repaired once more to Oiney, and with a 
noble friendship undertook the care of two inva- 
lids, who were now incapable of managing them- 
selves, Mrs. Unwin being, at this time, entirely 
helpless and paralytic. Upon a third visit, Mr. 
Hay ley found him plunged into a melancholy 
torpor, which extinguished even his social feelings. 
He met Mr. Hay ley with apparent indifference; 
and when it was announced to him that his Ma- 
jesty hfad bestowed on him a pension of 300/. a 
year, the intelligence arrived too late to give him 
pleasure. He continued under the care of Lady 
Hesketh until the end of July, 1795, when he 
was removed, together with Mrs. Unwin, to the 
house of his kinsman, Mr. Johnson, at North 
Tuddenham, in Norfolk. Stopping on the journey 
at the village of Eaton, near St. Neots. Cowper 
walked with Mr. Johnson in the churchyard of 
that village by moordight, and talked with more 
composure than he had shown for many months. 
The subject of their conversation was the poet 
Thomson. Some time after, he went to see his 
cousin, Mrs. Bodham, at a village near the resi- 
dence of Mr. Johnson. When he saw, in Mrs. 
Bodham's parlour, a portrait of himself which 
had been done by Abbot, he clasped his hands in 
a paroxysm of distress, wishing that he could now 
be what he was when that likeness was taken. 

In December, 1796, Mrs. Unwin died, in a 
house to which Mr. Johnson had removed, at 
Dunham, in the same county. Cowper, who had 
seen her half an hour before she expired, attended 
Mr. Johnson to survey her remains in the dusk 
of the evening ; but, after looking on her for a 
few moments, he started away with a vehement, 
unfinished exclamation of anguish ; and, either 
forgetting her in the suspension of his faculties, 
or not daring to trust his lips with the subject, he 
never afterward uttered her name. 

In 1799 he resumed some power of exertion ; 
he finished the revision of his Homer, translated 
some of Gay's fal)les into Latin, and wrote his last 
original poem, " The Cast-away."* But it seems, 
from the utterly desolate tone of this production, 
that the finishing blaze of his fancy and intellects 
had communicated no warmth of joy to his heart. 
The dropsy, which had become visible in his per- 
son, assumed an incurable aspect in the following 
year ; and, after a rapid decline, he expired on 
the 5th of April, 1800. 

The nature of Cowper's works makes us pecu- 
liarly identify the poet and the man in perusing 
them. As an individual, he was retired and 
weaned from the vanities of the world ; and as an 
original writer, he left the ambitious and luxu- 
riant subjects of fiction and passion, for those of 



[* Founded upon an incident related in An-^on's Voyage.'. 
It is the \SLgt original piece he composed, and. all rircum- 
gtance.o ronf idered, one of the most affecting that ever was 
composed — Solthev.] 

+ Vide hia story of Misngntlius, ['The Task," B. vi.,] 
which is meant to record the miraculous punishment of a 



real life and simple nature, and for the develop- 
ment of his own earnest feelings, in behalf of 
moral and religious truth. His language has 
such a masculine idiomatic strength, and his 
manner, whether he rises into grace or falls into 
negligence, has so much plain and familiar free- 
dom, that we read no poetry with a deeper con- 
viction of its sentiments having come from the 
author's heart, and of the enthusiasm, in what- 
ever he describes, having been unfeijined and un- 
exaggerated. He impresses us with the idea of 
a being whose fine spirit has been long enough 
in the mixed society of the world to be polished 
by its intercourse, and yet withdrawn so soon 
as to retain an unworldly degree of purity and 
simplicity. He was advanced in years before he 
became an author; but his compositions display a 
tenderness of feeling so youthfully preserved, and 
even a vein of humour so far from being extin- 
guished by his ascetic habits, that we can scarcely 
regret his not having written them at an earlier 
period of life. For he blends the determination 
of age with an exquisite and ingenuous sensi- 
bility ; and though he sports very much with his 
subjects, yet when he is ni earnest, there is a 
gravity of long-felt conviction in his sentiments, 
which gives an uncommon ripeness of character 
to his poetry. 

It is due to Cowper to fix our regard on this 
unaflectedness and authenticity of his works, con- 
sidered as representations of himself because he 
forms a striking instance of genius writing the 
history of its own secluded feelings, reflections, 
and enjoyments, in a shape so interesting as to 
engage the imagination like the work of fiction. 
He has invented no character in fable, nor in the 
dramas but he has left a record of his own cha- 
racter, which forms not only an object of deep 
sympathy, but a subject for the study of human 
nature. His verse, it is true, considered as such 
a record, abounds with opposite traits of severity 
and gentleness, of playfulness and superstition,* 
of solemnity and mirth, which appear almost 
anomalous ; and there is, undoubtedly, sometimes 
an air of moody versatility in the extreme con- 
trasts of his feelings. But looking to his poetry 
as an entire structure, it has a massive air of 
sincerity. It is founded in steadfijst principles of 
belief; and if we may prolong the architectural 
metaphor, though its arches may be sometimes 
gloomy, its tracery sportive, and its lights and 
shadows grotesquely crossed, yet altogether it still 
forms a vast, various, and interesting monument 
of the builder's mind. Young's works are as de- 
vout, as satirical, sometimes as merry, as those of 
Cowper, and undoubtedly more witty. But the 
melancholy and wit of Young do not make up to 
us the idea of a conceivable or natural being. He 
has sketched in his pages the ingenious but incon- 



einner by his own hor?e. Mi-agathus, a wicked fnUow. a3 
his name donotos, is riding abro: d. and ovcrtjikes a sober- 
minded traveller on the road, whose e-Am he assiiils with 
the most improper language: ti 1 his horse, nut of all par 
tience at liis owner's impioty, approaches the brink of a 
precipice, and fairly tosses his reprobate rider into the seiL 



WILLIAM COWPER. 



707 



gruous form of a fictitious mind — Cowpei's soul 
speaks from his volumes. 

At the same time, while there is in Cowper a 
power of simple e.\[>ression — of solid thought — 
and sincere feeling, which may be said, in a gene- 
ral view, to make the harsher and softer traits of 
his genius harmonize, I cannot but recur to the 
observation, that there are occasions when his 
contrarieties and asperities are positively unpleas- 
ing. Mr. Haylej' commends him lor possessing, 
above any ancient or modern auiher, the nice 
art of passing, by tlife most delicate transition, 
from sultjects to subjects, which might otherwise 
eeem to be but little, or not at all, allied to each 
other : 

" From grave to gay, from lively to severe." 

With regard to Cowper's art of transition, I am 
disposed to agree with Mr. Hayley, that it was 
very nice. In his own mind, trivial and solemn 
sulijects were easily associated, and he appears 
to make no effort in bringing them together. The 
transition sprang from the peculiar habits of his 
imagination, and was marked by the delicacy and 
subtlety of his powers. But the general taste 
and frame of ihc human mind is not calculated to 
receive pleasure from such transitions, however 
dexterously they may be made. 'J'he reader's 
imagination is never so passively in the hands of 
an author, as not to compare the different im- 
pressions arising from suc< essive passages; and 
there is no versatility in the writer's own thoughts, 
that will give an air of natural connection to sub- 
jects, if it does not belong to them. Whatever 
Cowper's art of transition may be, the effect of 
it is to crowd into close contiguity his Dutch 
painting and Divinity. 'J'his moment we view 
him, as if prompted l)y a disdain of all the gaudy 
subjects of imagination, sporting agreeably with 
every trifle that comes in his way ; in tiie ne.xt, 
a recollection of the most awful concerns of the 
human soul, and a bei.ef that four-fifths of the 
species are living un ler the ban of ihi'ir Creator's 
displeasure, come across his m.nd ; and we then, 
in the compass of a page, exchange the facetious 
satirist, or the poet of the garden or the green- 
house, for one who speaks to us in tlie name of 
the Omnipotent, and who announces to us all his 
terrors. No one, undoulitedly. sh;dl {)rescribe 
limits to the associat on of devout and ord.nary 
thoughts; but still propiiely dictates, that the 
aspect of composition shall not rapidly turn f oin 
the smile of levity to a frown that denounces eter- 
nal perdition. 

He not only passes, within a short compass, 
from the jr)cose to the awful, but be sometimes 
b!enils them intimately together. It is fair that 
blundering commentators on the Bd>le should be 
exposed. The idea of a diunken post Ion for- 
getting to put the linchpin in the wheel of his 
carriage, may also be very entert.iining to those 
whose safety is not endangered by his negl geiice; 
but still the comparison of a filse ju:lginent wh ch 
a perverse commentator may pass on the Holy 
Scriptures, with the accident of Tom the driver 



being in his cups, is somewhat too familiar for sc 
grave a subject. The force, the humour, and 
piciuiesijueness of those satirical sketches, which 
are interspersed with his religious poems on Hope, 
Truth, Charity, &c. in his first volume, need not 
be disputed. One should be sorry to lose them, 
or indeed any thing that Cowper has written, 
always saving and excepting the story of Misaga- 
thus and his horse, which might be mistaken for 
an inter[)olation by Mrs. Unwin. But in those 
satirical sketches there is still a taste of some- 
thing like comic sermons ; whether he describes 
the antiquated prude going to church, followed 
by her footiioy, with the dew-drop hanging at his 
nose, or Vinoso, in the military mess-room, thus 
expounding his religious belief: 

" Ai'ieu to all morality! if Grace 
Make works a vi in injiredieiit in the cafe. 
The Christian hope i- — \Vaiter. draw the cork — 
If 1 mistake not — Llockhead! wi.h a f>rk! 
\Vi hout good works, whatever some may boast, 
Mere folly and delusion — ."ir, vour toast. 
Sly firm prrsuasiou is at lest sometimes, 
That Heaven will weigh man's virtues and his crimes. 

I glide and ."^teal along with Heaven in view. 

And, — pardon me, tlie bottle stands with you.' — Hope. 

The mirth of the above lines consists chiefly in 
placing the doctrine of the importance of good 
works to salvation in the mouth of a drunkard. 
It is a Calvinistic poet making game of an anti- 
Calvinistic creed, and is an excellent specimen 
of pious bantering and evangelical raillery. But 
Religion, which disdains the hostility of ridicule, 
ought also to be above its alliance. Against this 
practice of compounding mirth and godliness, we 
may quote the poet's own remark upon St. Paul : 

" ?o did not I'aul. Direct me to a quip, 
Or merry turn, in all he ever wrote; 
Aud 1 consent you take il for your text." 

And the Christian poet, by the solemnity of his 
subject, certainly identifies himself with the Chris- 
tian preacher; who, as Cowper elsewhere re- 
marks, should be sparing of his smile. 'J^he nol)le 
effect of one of his religious pieces, in which he 
has scarcely in any instance descended to the 
ludicrous, proves the justice of his own advice. 
His "Expostulation" is a poetical sermon — an 
eloquent and sublime one. But there is no Ho- 
garth-painting in this brilliant Scripture piece. 
Lastly, the objects of his satire are sometimes so 
unskilfully selected, as to attract either a scanty 
portion of our indignation, or none at all. When 
he exposes real vice and enormity, it is with a 
power that makes the heart triumph in their ex- 
posure. But we are very little inleresteii by h:s 
declamat ons on such topics as the effeminacy of 
moJerii soldiers; the prodigality of poor gentle- 
men giving cast clothes to their valets ; or the 
finery of a country girl, who.se head-iliess is 
" indebted to some smart wig-weaver's hand." 
There is also much of the querulous Ludior 
teiiiparis iiri in repornching the English youths 
of his own day, who beat the Fremh in trials of 
horseiiianshi(t, for not being like their forefathers, 
who beat the same peojile in contests for crowns, 
as if there were any thing more laudable in men 



WILLIAM COWPER. 



butchering their fellow-creatures for the purposes 
of unprincipled amMtion, than employing them- 
selves in the rivalship of manly exercise. One 
would have thought too, that the gentle recluse 
of (Jlney, who had so often employed himself in 
making ho.xes and bird-cages, might have had a 
little more indulgence for such as amuse them- 
selves with chess and billiards, than to inveigh so 
bitterly against those pastimes.* 

In the mean time, while the tone of his satire 
becoines rigid, that of his poetry is apt to grow 
relaxed. The saintly and austere artist seems to 
be so much afraid of making song a mere fasci- 
nation to the ear, that he casts, now and then, a 
little roughness into his versification, particularly 
his rhymes ; not from a vicious ear, but merely to 
siiow that he despises being smooth ; forgetting 
that our language has no superfluous harmony 
to throw away, and that the roughness of verse is 
not its strength, but its weakness — the stagnation 
of the stream, and not its forcible current. Ap- 
parently, also, from the fear of ostentation in 
language, he occasionally sinks his expression 
into flatness. Even in his high-toned poem of 
" Expostulation," he tells Britain of the time 
when she was a " puling starveling chit."t 

Considering the tenor and circumstances of his 
life, it is not much to be wondered at, that some 
asperities and peculiarities should have adhered 
to the strong stem of his genius, like the moss 
and fungus that cling to some noble oak of the 
forest, amid the damps of its unsunned retire- 
ment. It is more surprising that he preserved, in 
such seclusion, so much genuine power of comic 
observation. 'I'hough he himself acknowledged 
having written "many things with bile" in his 
first voluine,^ yet his satire has many legitimate 
objects : and it is not abstracted and declamatory 
satire; but it places human manners before us 
in the liveliest attitudes and clearest colours. 
There is much of the full distinctness of 'J'heo- 
phrastus, and of the nervous and concise spirit of 
La Bruye, in his piece entitled "Conversation," 
with a cast of humour superadded, which is pecu- 
liarly English, and not to be found out of England. 
Nowhere have the sophist — the dubious man, 
whose evidence, 

"For want of prominence and just relief, 
■Would hang an honest man, and save a thief — 
Cunveisalion. 

the solemn fop, an oracle behind an empty cask — 
the sedentary weaver of long tales — the emphatic 
speaker, 

" who dearly loves t' oppose, 

In contact inconvenient, nose to nose" — 

Conversation. 

nowhere have these characters, and all the most 
prominent nuisances of colloquial intercourse, 
together with the bashful man, who is a nuisance 
ID himself, been more happily delineated. One 

\* See "The Task," B. vi. 1. 265 to 1. 277.] 

[|- "'While yet thou wast a groveling puling chit. 

Thy boned not fashion'd, and thy joints not knit." 

Expostulation.] 

It Soulhty's Cowper, vol. i. p. 261, and vol. ii. p. 183.] 



species of purity his satires possess, which is, that 
they are never personal. § To his high-minded 
views, 

" An individual was a sacred mark. 
Not to be 8tru( k in sport, or in the dark." 

Every one knows from how accidental a cir- 
cumstance his greatest original work, " The 
Task," took its rise, namely, from his having one 
day complained to Lady Austen that he kne\^ 
not what subject of poetry to choose, and her 
having told him to take her sola as a theme. 
The mock-heroic commencement of " The Task" 
has been censured as a blemish. || The general 
taste, I believe, does not find it so. Mr. Hayley's 
commendation of his art of transition may, in 
this instance, be fairly admitted, for he quits his 
ludicrous history of the sofa, and glides into a 
description of other objects, by an easy and na- 
tural association of thoughts. His whimsical 
outset in a work where he promises so little and 
performs so much, may even be advantageously 
contrasted with those magnificent commencements 
of poems which pledge both the reader and the 
writer, in good earnest, to a task. Cowper's 
poem, on the contrary, is like a river, which rises 
from a playful little fountain, and which gathers 
beauty and magnitude as it proceeds. 

" velut tenui nascens de fomite rivus 

Per tacitas, primum nullo cum murmure, valles 
Perpit ; et ut patrii se sensim e niargine fontis 
Largius effudit; pluvios modo colligit imhres, 
Et postquam spatio vu'es accepit et undas," &c. 

BOCHANAN. 

He leads us abroad into his daily walks ; he ex- 
hibits the landscapes which he was accustomed 
to contemplate, and the trains of thought in which 
he habitually indulged. No attempt is made to 
interest us in legendary fictions, or historical re- 
collections connected with the ground over which 
he expatiates; all is plainness and reality; but 
we instantly recognise the true poet, in the clear- 
ness, sweetness, and fidelity of his scenic draughts; 
in his power of giving novelty to what is com- 
mon ; and in the high relish, the exquisite en- 
joyment of rural sights and sounds which he 
communicates to the spirit. " His eyes drink the 
rivers with delight."ir He excites an idea, that 
almost amounts to sensation, of the freshness and 



g A single exception may he made to this remark, in the 
instance of Occiduus, whose musical funday parties he re- 
prehended, and who was known to mean the Key. G. Wes- 
ley. [See " The Hrogress of Error." 

" Beneath well-sounding Greek 
I slur a name a poet must not speak." — Bbpe.'] 
I know not to whom he alludes in these lines, 
" Nor he who, for the bane of thousands born. 
Built God a church, and laugh'd Ilis word to scorn." 

[" The Calvinist meant Voltaire, and the church of 
Ferney, with its inscription. Den erexit Voltaire." — Btron. 
WoHs vol. xvi. p. 121. See also Soutliry's Cowper, vol. viii. 
p. 305.] 

II In the Edinburgh Review. [The fox-hunting scene 
in Thomson's Autumn was cut away by Lord Lyttelton 
from every edition of "The Seasons" between 1750 and 
1762, when Murdoch restored the scene to its proper posi- 
tion. Lyttelton thought that an imitation of Philips was 
not in keeping with the tone of the poera.j 

% An expression in one of his le'ters. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 



delight of a rural walk, even when he leads us to 
the wasteful common, which, 

" overgrown with fern, and roupfh 

With prickly goss, that, shapeless and deform, 
And dangerous to the touch, has yet its bloom 
And decks itself with ornaments of gold, 
Yields no unpleasing ramble ; there the turf 
Smells fre.'h, and, rich in odorif<;vous herbs 
And fungous fruits of e;irth, regales the sense 
With luxury of unexpected sweets." 

The Task, B. i. 

His rural prospects have far less variety and 
compass than those of Thomson : but his graphic 
touches are more close and minute: not that 
Thomson was either deficient or undelightful in 
circumstanti;il traits of the beauty of nature, but 
he looked to her as a whole more than Cowper. 
His genius was more excursive and philosophical. 
The poet of OIney, on the contrary, regarded 
human philosophy with something of theological 
contempt. 'l"o his eye, the great and little things 
of this world were levelled into an equality, by 
his recollection of the power and purposes of Him 
who made them. They are, in his view, only as 
toys spread on the lap and carpet of nature, for 
the childhood of our immortal being. This reli- 
gious indifference to the world, is far, indeed, 
from blunting his sensibility to the genuine and 
sicnple beauties of creation ; but it gives his taste 
a contentment and fellowship with humble things. 
It makes him careless of selecting and refining 
his views of nature, beyond their casual appear- 
ance. He contemplated the face of plain rural 
English life, in moments of leisure and sensi- 
bility, till its minutest features were impressed 
upon his fancy ; and he sought not to embellish 
what he loved. Hence his landscapes have less 
of the ideally beautiful than Thomson's; but 
they have an unrivalled charm of truth and 
reality. 

The flat country where he resided certainly 
exhibited none of those wilder graces of nature 
which he had sufficient genius to have delineated ; 
and yet there are perhaps few romantic descrip- 
tions of rocks, precipices, and torrents, which we 
should prefer to the calm English character and 
familiar repose of the following landscape. It is 
in the finest manner of Cowper, and unites all 
his accustomed fidelity and distinctness with a 
softness and delicacy which are not always to be 
found in his specimens of the picturesque. 

" How oft upon yon eminence our pace 
Has slacken'd to a pause, and we have borne 
The rufl'.ing wind, scarce conscious that it blew, 
While Admiration, feeding at the eye, 
And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene. j 

Thence with what pleasure have we just discern'd 
The distant plough slow moving, and beside 
His liib'riug team, that swerved not from the track, 
The sturdy swain diminish'd to a boy ! + 

[J " Yon tall anchoring bark 

Diminish'd to her cock hei- cock a buoy 
Almost too small for sight." — Kiiii/ Le.cr. 
The original of Cowper's line, 

"God made the country and man made the town," 
T..e Tasi: 
is not in Hawkins Browne, as Cowper's friend Kose ima- 
gined, but in Cowley : 
"(iod the first garden made, and the first city Ci>in" — 
Es.<uys.—Tne Garden. 



Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain 
Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er, 
Conducts the eye along his sinuous course, 
Deliichted. There, fast rooted in their bank, 
Stand, never overlook'd. our fav'rite elms, 
That screen the herd-Oman's solitary hut; 
While far beyond and overth wart the stream, 
That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale, 
The sloping land recedes into the clouds; 
Displaying on its varied side the grace 
(,)f hedge-row beauties numberless, square tower. 
Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells 
Just undulates upon the listening ear. 
Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, remote." 

The Tusk; B. i. 

The whole scene is so defined, that one longs to 
see it transferred to painting. 

He is one of the few poets who have indulged 
neither in descriptions nor acknowledgments of 
the passion of love ; but there is no poet who has 
given us a finer conception of the amenity of fe- 
male influence. Of all the verses that have beet 
ever devoted to the subject of domestic happiness, 
those in his Winter Evening, at the opening of 
the fourth book of "The Task," are perhaps the 
most beautiful. In perusing that scene of "inti- 
matedelights," ''fireside enjoyments," and "home- 
born happiness," we seem to recover a part of 
the forgotten value of existence, when we recog- 
nise the means of its blessedness so widely dis- 
pensed and so cheaply attainable, and find them 
susceptible of description at once so enchanting 
and so faithful 

Though the scenes of " The Task" are laid in 
retirement, the poem affords an amusing per- 
spective of human affairs-t Remote as the poet 
was from the stir of the great Babel — from the 
" coti fusee somis urbis el illce.'ubile murmur" he 
glances at most of the subjects of public interest 
which engaged the attention of his contempo- 
raries. On those subjects, it is but faint praise 
to say, that he espoused the side of justice and 
humanity. Abundance of mediocrity of talent 
is to be found on the same side, rather injuring 
than promoting the cause, by its officious decla- 
mation. But nothing can be further from the 
stale common-place and cuckooism of sentiment, 
than the philanthropic eloquence of Cowper — he 
speaks " Uke one having authority." Society is 
his debtor. Poetical expositions of the horrors 
of slavery may, indeed, seem very unlikely agents 
in contributing to destroy it; and it is possible 
that the most refined planter in the West Indies 
may look, with neither shame nor compunction, 
on his own image in the pages of Cowper, ex- 
posed as a being degraded by giving stripes and 
tasks to his follow creature. But such appeals to 
the heart of the community are not lost. They 
fix themselves silently in the popular memory, 
and they become, at last, a part of that public 

a more vigorous though a quainter line. This is net 
among the parallel passages produced by Mr. leace; and 
printed in Mr. Southey's edition of Cowper. (i*ee vol. vi. 
p. 22', and vol. ix. p. 92.) Is this » resemblance or a 
thefc? Cowley's thought could take no other shane in 
Cowper's mind.] 

[* Is not " 'the Ta,«k'' a glorious poem ? The re'igion of 
" The Task.'' bating a few si raps of Calvini.^tic ;liviuity. Is 
the religion of God and .Nature; the relijrioii that exalts 
and ennobles man. — Bukns, to Mrs. Dunbip, 2Wi Dectia- 
h^r, 17^,5.] 

3 K 



710 



WILLIAM COWPER. 



opinion which must, sooner or later, wrench the 
lash from the hand of the oppressor. 

I should have ventured to ofler a few remarks 
on the shorter poems of Cowper, as well as on 
his translation of Homer, if I had not heen fear- 
ful, not only of trespassing on the reailer's pa- 
tience, but on the boundaries which I have been 
obliged to prescribe to myself, in the length of 
these notices. There are many zealous admirers 



of the poet, who will possi!)Iy refuse all quarter 
to the observations on his defects, which I have 
freely made ; but there are few who have read 
him, I conceive, who have l)een so slightly de- 
lighted, as to think I have over-rated his descrip- 
tions of external nature, his transcripts of human 
manners, or his powers, as a moral poet, of incul- 
cating those truths and affections which make 
the heart feel itself better and more happy.* 



FROM "THE TASK.' 



Colonnades commended — Aloove, and the view from it — 
'the \\ ildemess — The Grove — The Thresher — The neces- 
sity and benefits of Kxercise. 

Not distant far, a length of colonnade 
Invites us. Monument of ancient taste. 
Now scorn'd, but worthy of a better fate. 
Our fathers knew the value of a screen 
From sultry suns : and, in their shaded walks 
And long-protracted bowers, enjoy'd at noon 
The gloom and coolness of declining day. 
We bear our shades about us : self-deprived 
Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread, 
And range an India waste without a tree. 
Thanks to Benevolus — he spares me yet 
These chestnuts ranged in corresponding lines; 
And, though himself so polish'd, still reprieves 
The obsolete prolixity of shade. 

Descending now (but cautious lest too fast) 
A sudden steep upon a rustic bridge, 
We pass a gulf, in which the wdlows dip 
Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink. 
Hence, ancle-deep in moss and flowery thyme, 
We mount again, and feel at every step 
Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft, 
Raised by the mole, the miner of the soil. 
He, not unlike the great ones of mankind. 
Disfigures earth : and plotting in the dark, 
Toils much to earn a monumental pile. 
That may record the mischiefs he has done. 

The summit gain'd, behold the proud alcove 
That crowns it ! yet not all its pride secures 
The grand retreat from injuries impress'd 
By rural carvers, who with knives deface 
The pannels, leaving an obscure, rude name, 
In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss. 
So strong the zeal t' immortalize himself 
Beats in the breast of man. that even a few. 
Few transient years, won from the abyss abhorr'd 
Of blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize, 

[* Cowper is, as he deferves to be, the most popular 
poet of his age. His tranflation of Homer is the best 
Knglish verfion; noi; is it likely that a better can ever be 
produced, because it repre ents the original faiihlully and 
fully, except in that magnificent measure for whiih 
nothing either like or equivalent in this case can be sub- 
stituted in our language. The letters have a charm whith 
is never attained in those that are written with the re- 
mote! t view to public;ition : they come from the heart, 
and therefore they find the way to it.— Solthly, J^-oxpe.dus 
'o Oiwpii's WrKs. 

Tjord Dyron speaks of Onwper as a writer, but no poet; 
411 1 talks of his Dutch delineation of a wood, drawn up 



And even to a clown. Now roves the eye; 
And, posted on this speculative height. 
Exults in its command. The .sheepfold here 
Pours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe. 
At first progressive as a stream, they seek 
The middle ; hut scatter'd by degrees, 
Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land. 
There from the sunburnt haylield homeward 

creeps 
The loaded wain ; while lighten'd of its charge, 
The wain that meets it passes swiftly by ; 
The boorish driver leaning o'er his team 
Vociferous, and impatient of delay. 
Nor less attractive is the woodland scene, 
Diversified with trees of every growth. 
Alike, yet various. Here the gray smooth trunks 
Of ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine. 
Within the twilight of their distant shades; 
There, lost behind a rising ground, the wood 
Seems sunk and shorten'd to its topmost boughs. 
No tree in all the grove but has its charms, 
Though each its hue peculiar; paler some, 
And of a wannish gray ; the willow such, 
And poplar, that with silver lines his leaf. 
And ash far-stretching his umbrageous arm ; 
Of deeper green the elm ; and deeper still, 
Lord of the woods, the long-surviving oak. 
Some glossy-leaved, and shining in the sun, 
The maple, and the beech of oily nuts 
Prolific, and the lime at dewy eve 
DifTusing odours : nor unnoted pass 
The sycamore, capricious in attire. 
Now green, now tawny, and, ere autumn yet 
Have changed the woods, in scarlet honours brigliu 
O'er these, but far beyond, (a spacious map 
Of hill and valley interposed between,) 
The Ouse, dividing the well-water'd land. 
Now glitters in the sun, and now retires. 
As bashful, yet impatient to be seen. 

Hence the declivity is sharp and short. 
And such the re-ascent; between them weeps 
A little naiad her inipoverish'd urn 

like a seedsman's catalogue. Still stranger than this, he 
asks if any human render ever succeeded in reading his 
Ilomer. Many, we would answer, have succeeded in read- 
ing the Homer of this nmniacal C.lvinid nvd codUleil pint, 
as he is called in another ylace by Lord Lyron. It is to 
be regretted that Jlr. Campbell has not given his opinion 
of Hope's Homer in comparison with Cowper and with the 
original. In his memoir of Mickle. he has. however, casu- 
ally remarked that lope has departed widely fiom the 
majestic fimpli(ity of the Greek, and has given us the 
shakes and flouiisliiiigs of the flute for the deep sounds 
of the trumpet.] 



WILLIAM COWPER. 



711 



All summer long, which winter fills again. 
Tlie folded gates would bar my progress now, 
But that the lord of this enclosed demesne, • 
Communicative of the good he owns, 
Admits me to a share ; the guiltless eye 
Commits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys. 
Refreshing change ! where now the blazing sun 1 
By short transition we have lost his glare. 
And stepp'd at once into a cooler clime. 
Ye fallen avenues! once more I mourn 
Your fate unmerited, once more rejoice, 
That yet a remnant of your race survives. 
How airy and how light the graceful arch, 
Yet awful as the consecrated roof 
Re-echoing pious anthems ! while beneath 
The checker'd earth seems restless as a flood 
Bruah'd by the wind. So sportive is the light 
Shot through the boughs, it dances as they dance, 
Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick, 
And darkening ajid enlightening, as the leaves 
Play wanton, every moment, every spot. 

And now with nerves new-braced and spirits 
cheer'd 
We tread the wilderness, whose well-roll'd walks, 
With curvature of slow and easy sweep — 
Dece[ition innocent — give ample space 
To narrow bounds, 'i'he grove receives us next; 
Between the upright shafts of whose tall elms 
We may discern the thresher at his task. 
Thump after thump resounils the constant flail. 
That seems to swing uncertain, and yet falls 
Full on the destined ear. Wide flies the chaff. 
The rustling straw sends up a frequent mist 
Of atoms, sparkling in the noonday beam. 
Come hither, ye that press your beds of down. 
And sleep not; see him sweating o'er his bread 
Before he eats it. — 'Tis the primal curse, 
But soften'd into mercy; made the pledge 
Of cheerful days, and nights without a groan. 

By ceaseless action all that is subsists. 
Constant rotation of the unwearied wheel. 
That Nature rides upon, maintains her health. 
Her beauty, her fertility. She dreads 
An instant's pause, and lives but while she moves. 
Its own revolvency upholds the World. 
Winds from all quarters agitate the air, 
And fit the limpid element for use. 
Else noxious; oceans, rivers, lakes, and streams. 
All feel the freshening impulse, and are cleansed 
By restless undulation : even the oak 
Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm: 
He seems indeed indignant, and to feel 
l"he impression of the blast with proud disdain. 
Frowning, as if in his unconscious arm 
He held the thunder ; but the monarch owes 
His firm stability to what he scorns, 
More fix'd below, the more disturb'd above. 
The law by which all creatures else are bound. 
Binds man, the lord of all. Himself derives 
No mean advantage from a kindred cause. 
From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease. 
The sedentary stretch their lazy length 
When custom bids, but no refreshment find. 
For none they need ; the languid eye, the cheek 
Deserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk, 



And wither'd muscle, and the vapid soul. 
Reproach their owner with that love of rest, 
To which he forfeit's even the rest he loves. 
Not such the alert and active. Measure life 
By its true worth, the comforts it affords, 
And theirs alone seems worthy of the name. 
Good health, and, its associate in the most. 
Good temper; spirits prompt to undertake, 
And not soon spent, though in an arduous task , 
The powers of fancy and strong thought are 

theirs ; 
Even age itself seems privileged in them 
With clear exemption from its own defects. 
A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front 
The veteran shows, and, gracing a gray beard 
With youthful smiles, descends toward the grave 
Sprightly, and old almost without decay. 



OPENING OF THE SECOND BOOK OF "THE TASK." 

Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, 
Some boundless contiguity of shade. 
Where rumour of oppression and deceit. 
Of unsuccessful or successful war. 
Might never reach me more. My ear is pain'd. 
My soul is sick, with every day's report 
Of wrong and outrage, with which earth is fill'd 
There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart. 
It does not feel for man ; the natural bond 
Of brotherhood is sever'd as the flax. 
That falls asunder at the touch of fire. 
He finds his fellow guilty of a skin 
Not colour'd like his own ; and having power 
T' enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause 
Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. 
Lands intersected by a narrow frith 
Abhor each other. Mountains interposed 
Make enemies of nations, whf) had else, 
Like kindred drops, been mingled into one. 
Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; 
And, worse than all, and most to be deplored 
As human nature's broadest, foulest blot. 
Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat 
With stripes, that Mercy with a bleeding heart 
Weeps, when she sees inflicted on a beast. 
Then what is man ] And what man, seeing this. 
And having human feeling, does not blush, 
And hang his head, to think himself a man? 
I would not have a slave to till my ground, 
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep. 
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 
That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. 
No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 
Just estimation prized above all price, 
I had much rather be myself the slave, 
And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. 
We have no slaves at home — Then why abroad ? 
And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave 
That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. 
Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs 
Receive our air, that moment they are free ; 
They touch our country, and their shackles fall. 
That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud 



712 



WILLIAM COWPER. 



And jealius of the blessing. Spread it then, 
And let i; circulate through every vein 
Of all your empire; that, wh'ere Britain's power 
Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. 



FKOM BOOK IV. 

Arrival of the Post in a AVinter Evening— The Newspaper 
— The World contemplated at a distance— Address to 
WintfiF — The rural Amusements of a Winter Evening 
compared with fashionable ones. 

Hark ! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge, 
That with its wearisome but needful length 
Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon 
Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright; — 
He comes the herald of a noisy world, 
With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen 

locks ; 
News from all nations lumbering at his back. 
True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind. 
Yet careless what he brings, his one concern 
Is to conduct it to the destined inn ; 
And, having' dropp'd the expected bag, pass on. 
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch, 
Cold, and yet cheerful : messenger of grief 
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some ; 
To him indifferent whether grief or joy. 
Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks. 
Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet 
With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks 
Fast as the periods from his fluent quill. 
Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains, 
Or nymphs responsive, equally aflect 
His horse and him, unconscious of them all. 
But oh the important budget ! usher'd in 
With such heart-shaking music, who can say 
What are its tidings 1 have our troops awaked 1 
Or do they still, as if with opium drugg'd. 
Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave ? 
Is India free ! and does she wear her plumed 
And jewell'd turban with a smile of peace, 
Or do we grind her still ! The grand debate. 
The popular harangue, the tart reply. 
The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit. 
And the loud laugh — I long to know them all ; 
I burn to set the imprison'd wranglers free, 
And give them voice and utterance once again. 

JN'ow stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, 
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round. 
And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn 
'Phrows up a steamy column, and the cups, 
J'hat cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, 
So let us welcome peaceful evening in. 
Not such his evening, who with shining face 
Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezed 
And bored with elbow-points through both his 

sides, 
Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage: 
Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb. 
And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath 
Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage. 
Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles. 
'J'his folio of four pages, happy work ! 
Which not even critics criticise; that holds 
Inquisitive attention, while I read, 



Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair. 

Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break; 

W^iat is it. but a map of busy life. 

Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns ? 

Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge, 

That tempts Anil)ition. On the summit see 

The seals of office glitter in his eyes ; 

He climbs, he pants, he grasps them ! At his heels, 

Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends. 

And with a dexterous jerk soon twists him down, 

And wins them, but to lose them in his turn. 

Here rills of oily eloquence in soft 

Meanders lubricate the course they take: 

The modest speaker is aslmmed and grieved 

To engross a moment's notice; and yet begs, 

Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts, 

However trivial all that he conceives. 

Sweet bashfulness ! it claims at least this praise; 

The dearth of information and good sense, 

That it foretells us, always comes to pass. 

Cataracts of declamation thunder here; 

There forests of no meaning spread the page, 

In which all comprehension wanders lost; 

While fields of pleasantry amuse us there 

With merry descants on a nation's woes. 

The rest appears a wilderness of strange 

But gay confusion ; roses for the cheeks. 

And Idles for the brows of faded age. 

Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald ; 

Heaven, earth, and ocean, plunder'd of their sweeta; 

Nectareous essences, Olympian dews. 

Sermons, and city feasts, and fav'rite airs, 

^Ethereal journeys, submarine exploits. 

And Katerfelto, with his hair on end 

At his own wonders, wondering for his bread. 

''J'is pleasant through the loopholes of retreat. 
To peep at such a world ; to see the stir 
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd ; 
To hear the roar she sends through all her gates 
At a safe distance, where the dying sound 
Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear. 
Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease 
'I'he globe and its concerns, I seem advanced 
'J'o some secure and more than mortal height, 
That liberates and exempts me from them all. 
It turns submitted to my view, turns round 
With all its generations : I behold 
The tumult, and am still. The sound of war 
Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me; 
Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride 
And avarice, that make man a wolf to man; 
Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats. 
By which he speaks the language of his heart, 
And sigh, but never tremble, at the sound. 
He travels and expatiates, as the bee 
From flower to flower, so he from land to land; 
The manners, customs, policy, of all 
Pay contribution to the store he gleans; 
He sucks intelligence in every clime, 
And spreads the honey of his deep research 
At his return — a rich repast for me. 
He travels, and I too. I tread his deck. 
Ascend his top-mast, through his peering eyes 
Discover countries, with a kindrett heart 
Suffer iiis woes, and share in his escapes ; 



WILLIAM COWPER. 



713 



While fancy, like the finger of a clock, 
Runs the great circuit, and is still at home. 

O Winter, ruler of the inverted year, • 

Thy scatter'd hair with sleet like ashes fill'd. 
Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeks 
Fringed with a beard made white with other snows 
Than those of age, thy forehead wrapp'd in clouds, 
A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne 
A sliding car, indebted to no wheels. 
But urged by storuis along its slippery way, 
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st. 
And dreaded as thou art! Thou ho'.d'st the sun 
A pris'ner in the yet undawning east. 
Shortening his journey between morn and noon, 
And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, 
Down to the rosy west ; but kindly still 
Compensating his loss with added hours 
Of social converse and instructive ease. 
And gathering, at short notice, in one group, 
The family dispersed, and fixing thought. 
Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. 
I crown thee king of intimate delights. 
Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness, 
And all the comforts that the lowly roof 
Of undisturb'd Retirement, and the hours 
Of long uninterrupted evening know. 
No rattling wheels stop short before these gates; 
No powder'd pert, proficient in the art 
Of sounding an alarm, assaults these doors 
Till the street rings; no stationary steeds 
Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the sound, 
The silent CTcle fan themselves, and quake: 
But here the needle plies its busy task. 
The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower, 
"Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn, 
Unfolds its bosom ; buds, and leaves, and sprigs. 
And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed. 
Follow the nimble finger of the fair ; 
A wreath, that cannot fade, of flowers that blow 
"U'iih most success when all besides decay. 
The poet's or historian's page by one 
Maiie vocal for the amusement of the rest; 
The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds 
The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out; 
And the clear voice symphonious, yet distinct. 
And in the charming strife triumphant still; 
Beguile the night, and set a keener edge 
On female industry : the threaded steel 
Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds. 
The volume closed, the custoniary rites 
Of the last meal commence. A Roman meal: 
Such as the mistress of the world once found 
Delicious, when her patriots of high note, 
Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors, 
And under an old oak's domestic shade, 
Enjoy'd, s|)are feast! a radish and an egg. 
Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull, 
Nor such as with a frown forbids the play 
Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth: 
Nor do we madly, like an impious world, 
Who deem relgion frenzy, and the God, 
That made them, an intruder on their joys, 
Start at his awful name, or deem his praise 
.\ jarring note. Themes of a graver tone, 
Exciting oft our gratitude and love, 
90 



While we retrace with Memory's pointing wand, 

That calls the past to our exact review, 

The dangers we have 'scaped, the broken snare, 

The disappointed foe, deliverance found 

Unlook'd for, life preserved, and peace restored. 

Fruits of omnipotent, eternal love. 

Oh, evenings worthy of the gods ! exclaim'd 

The Sabine bard. Oh, evenings, I reply. 

More to he prized and coveted than yours, 

As more illumined, and with nobler truths. 

That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy. 



FROM BOOK VI. 

Bells at a distance— Fine Noon in Winter— Meditation 
better than Books. 

Theee is in souls a sympathy with sounds, 
And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleased 
With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave; 
Some chord in unison with what we hear 
Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies. 
How soft the music of those village bells. 
Falling at intervals upon the ear 
In cadence sweet, now dying all away. 
Now pealing loud again, and louder still, 
Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on ! 
With easy force it opens all the cells 
Where Memory slept. Wherever I have heard 
A kindred melody, the scene recurs. 
And with it all its pleasures and its pains. 
Such comprehensive views the spirit takes, 
That in a few short moments I retrace 
(As in a map the voyager his course) 
The windings of my way through many years. 
Short as in retrospect the journey seenis, 
It seem'd not always short ; the rugged path. 
And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn. 
Moved many a sigh at its disheartening length. 
Yet feeling present evils, while the past 
Faintly impress the mind, or not at all. 
How read.ly we wish time spent revoked. 
That we might try the ground again, where once 
('I'hrough inexperience, as we now perceive) 
We miss'd that happiness we might have found ! 
Some friend is gone, perhaps his son's best friend, 
A father, whose authority, in show 
When most severe, and mustering all its force, 
Was but the graver countenance of love; 
Whose favour, like the clouds of spring, might 

lower, 
And utter now and then an awful voice. 
But had a blessing in its darkest frown. 
Threatening at once and nourishing the plant. 
We loved. iHit not enough, the gentle hand 
That rear'd us. At a thoughtless age, allured 
By every gilded folly, we renounced 
His sheiieiing side, and wilfully forewent 
That converse, which we now in vain regret. 
How gladly would the man recall to life 
'J'he boy's neglected sire J a mother too. 
That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still. 
Might he demand them at the g;ites of death. 
Sorrow has, since they went, subdued and tamed 
The playful humour; he could now endure, 
(Himself grown sober in the vale of tears) 
3k2 



714 



WILLIAM COAVrER. 



And feel a parent's presence no restraint. 
But not to understand a treasure's worth, 
Till time has stolen away the slighted good, 
Is cause of half the poverty we feel, 
And makes the world the wilderness it is. 
The few that pray at all |>ray oft amiss, 
And. seeking grace t' improve the prize they hold, 
Would urge a wiser suit than asking more. 

The night was winter in his roughest mood ; 
The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon 
Upon the southern side of the slant hills. 
And where the woods fence off the northern blast, 
The >eason smiles, resigning all its rage, 
And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue 
Without a cloud, and white without a speck 
The dazzling splendour of the scene below. 
Again the harmony comes o'er the vale ; 
And through the trees I view the embattled tower, 
\\'hence all the music. I again perceive 
The soothing influence of the wafted strains, 
And settle in soft musings as I tread 
1"he walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms, 
Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. 
The roof though movable through all its length 
As the wind sways it, has yet well sutHced, 
And, intercepting in their silent fall 
The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. 
No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. 
The redbreast warbles still, but is content 
With slender notes, and more than half sut)press'd : 
Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light 
From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes 
From many a twig the pendent drops of ice. 
That tinkle in the wither'd leaves below. 
Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, 
Charms more than silence. Meditation here 
May think down hours tomoments. Here the heart 
May give a useful lesson to the head, 
And Learning wiser grow without his books. 



ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.^ 

TO THE MABCH IN 8CIPI0. 

Toll for the brave ! 

The brave that are no more ! 
All sunk beneath the wave. 

Fast by their native shore! 

Eight hundred of the brave. 
Whose courage well was tried, 

Had made the vessel heel. 
And laid her on her side. 

A land-breeze shook the shrouds. 

And she was overset; 
Down went the Royal George, 

With all her crew complete 

Toll for the brave ! 

Brave Kempenfelt is gone; 



[* Cowper wrote this very noble poem to induce Govern- 
ment to tlie attempt of weighing up poor Kempenfelt's 
vessel. II ^ong cuulJ have induced men to the trial, this 
Burely should have had the effect. 'Ihe IJoyal (ieortce has 
been weighid up .viuce the poet wrote, by the ingenuity of 
Colonel 1 asley, but in a less noble way.] 



His last sea-fight is fought; 
His work of glory done. 

It was not in the battle; 

No tempest gave the shock; 
She sprang no fatal leak; 

She ran upon no rock. 

His sword was in its sheath ; 

His fingers held the pen, 
When Kempenfelt went down 

With twice four hundred men. 

W'eigh the vessel up. 

Once dreaded by our foes ! 

And mingle with our cup 
The tear that England owes. 

Her timbers yet are sound. 

And she may float again, 
Full charged with England's thunder, 

And plough the distant main. 

But Kempenfelt is gone. 

His victories are o'er; 
And he and his eight hundred 

Shall plough the wave no more. 



YARDLEY OAK. 

SuKVivoR sole, and hardly such, of all 
That once lived here, thy brethren, at my birth, 
(Since which I number threescore winters past,) 
A shatter'd veteran, hollow-trunk'd perhaps, 
As now, and with excoriate forks deform. 
Relics of ages! could a mind, imbued 
With truth from heaven, created thing adore, 
I might with reverence kneel, and worship thee. 

It seems idolatry with some excuse. 
When our forefather Druids in their oaks 
Imagined sanctity. The conscience yet 
Unpurified by an authentic act 
Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine, 
Loved not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom 
Of thi<-kest shades, like Adam after taste 
Of fruit proscribed, as to a refugee, fled. 

Thou wast a bauble once, a cup and ball 
Which babes might play with; and the thievish 

jay. 
Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'd 
The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down 
Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs. 
And all thine embryo vastness, at a gulp. 
But Fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rains 
Beneath thy parent tree niellow'd the soil 
Design'd thy cradle ; and a skipping deer, 
W'ith pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepare 
The soft receptacle, in which, secure. 
Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through. 

So fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can. 
Ye reasoners broad awake, whose busy search 
Of argument, employ'd too oft amiss. 
Sifts half the pleasures of short life away ! 

Thou fell'st mature; and, in the loatny clod 
Swelling with vegetative force instinct. 
Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled Twins, 
Now stars; two lobes, protruding, pair'd exact; 



WILLIAM COWPER. 



A leaf surceeded, and another leaf, 
Anil, all the elements thy puny growth 
Fostering propitious, thou becaniest a twig. 

Who lived when thou wast such 1 Oh, couldst 
thou speak, 
As in Dodona once thy kindred trees 
Oracular, I would not curious ask 
'I'lie future, liest unknown, hut, at thy mouth 
Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past. 

By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, 
The clock of history, facts and events 
Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts 

Recovering, and misstated setting right 

Desperate attempt, till trees shall speak again! 

'I'lnie made thee what thou wast — king of the 

woods; 

And Time hath made thee what thou art — a cave 

For owls to roost in. Once Ihy spreading houghs 

O'erhung the champaign; and the numerous 

flocks 
That grazed it stood beneath that ample cope 
Uncrowded, yet safe sheller'd from llie stoi in. 
No flock frequents thee now. 'I'hou hast outlived 
Thy [)0|)ulanty, and art become 
(Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing 
Forgotten, as the foliage of thy youth. 

While thus through all the stages thou hast 
push'd 
Of treeship — first a seedling, hid in grass ; 
Then twig; then sapling; and, as century roll'd 
Slow after century, a giant-bulk 
Of girth enormous, with mos-s-cushion'd root 
Upheaved above the soil, and sides emboss'd 
With prominent wens, globose — till at the last 
The rottenness, which time is charged to inflict 
On other mighty ones, found also thee. 

What exhibitions various halh the world 
Witness'd of mutability in all 
That we account most durable below ! 
Change is the diet on which all subsist. 
Created changeable, and change at last 
Destroys them. Skies uncertain, now the heat 
Transmitting cloudness, and the solar beam 
Now quenching in a boundless sea of clouds — 
Calm and alternate storm, moisture and drought, 
Invigorate by turns the springs of life 
In all that live, plant, animal, and man. 
And in conclusion mar them. Nature's threads, 
Fine passing thought, e'en in her coarsest works, 
Delight in agitation, yet sustain 
The lorce that agitates not unimpair'd ; 
But, worn by frequent impulse, to the cause 
Of their best tone their dissolution owe. 

Thought cannot spend itself, comparing still 
The great and little of thy lot, thy growth 
From almost nullity into a state 
Of matchless grandeur, and declension thence, 
Slow, into such magnificent decay. 
Time was, when, settling on thy leaf, a fly 
Could shake thee to the root — and time has been 
V\ hen tempests could not. At thy firmest age 
Thou hadst within thy bole solid contents 
That might have ribb'd the sides and plank'd the 

deck 
Of some flagg'd admiral ; and tortuous arms, 



The shipwright's darling treasure, didst present 
To the four-quarter'd winds, ro'oust and bold, 
Warp'd into tough knee-timber, many a load! 
But the axe spared thee. In those thriftier days 
Oaks fell not, hewn by thousands, to supply 
The bottomless demands of contest waged 
For senatorial honours. Thus to Time 
'i'he task was left to whittle thee away 
With his sly scythe, whose ever-nibbling edge, 
Noiseless, an atom, and an atom more. 
Disjoining from the rest, has, unobserved, 
Achieved a labour which had, far and wide, 
By man perforin'd, made all the forest ring. 

Embowell'd now, and of thy ancient self 
Possessing naught but the scoop'd rind that 

seems 
A huge throat calling to the clouds for drink. 
Which it would give in rivulets to thy root. 
Thou temptest none, but rather much forbidd'st 
The feller's toil, which thou conldst ill requite. 
Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock, 
A quarry of stout spurs and knotted fangs. 
Which, crook d into a thousand whimsies, clasp 
The stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect. 

So stands a kingdom, whose foundation yet 
Fails not. in virtue and in wisdom laid, 
Though all the superstructure, by the tooth 
Pulverized of venality, a shell 
Stands now, and semblance only of itself! 

'i'hine arms have left thee. Winds have rent 
them off 
Long since; and rovers of the forest wild 
With bow and shaft, have burnt them. Some 

have left 
A splinter'd stump hleach'd to a snowy white ; 
And some, memorial none where once they grew. 
Yet life still lingers in thee, and puts forth 
Proof not contemptible of what she can. 
Even where death predominates. The Spring 
Finds thee not less alive to her sweet lorce 
Than yonder upstarts of the neighbouring wood, 
So much thy juniors, who their birth received 
Haifa millennium since the date of thine. 

But since, although well qualified by age 
To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice 
May be expected from thee, seated here 
On thy distorted root, with hearers none, 
Or prompter, save the scene, I will perforin 
Myself the oracle, and will discourse 
III my own ear such matter as I may. 

One man alone, the father of us all. 
Drew not his lile from woman; never gazed. 
With mute unconsciousness of what he saw. 
On all around him; learn'd not by degrees, 
Nor owed articulation to his ear; 
But, moulded by his Maker into man 
At once, upstood intelligent, survey'd 
All creatures — with precision understood 
Their purport, uses, properties — assign'd 
'J'o each his name significant, and, fill'd 
With love and wisdom, render'd back to Heaven 
In praise harmonious the first air he drew. 
He was excused the penalties of dull 
Minority. No tutor charged his hand 
With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mind 



■16 



WILLIAM COWPER. 



With problems. History, not wanted yet, 
Lean'd on her elbow, watching Time, \ 

course. 
Eventful, should supply her with a theme;* 



TO MARY.t 
The twentieth year is well nigh past, 
Since first our sky was overcast ; 
Ah would that this might be the last! 

My Mary ! 
Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 

I see thee daily weaker grow 

'Twas my distress that brought thee low. 

My Mary ! 
Thy needles, once a shining store. 
For my sake restless heretofore. 
Now rust disused, and shine no more ; 

My Mary ! 
For though thou gladly wouldst fultil 
The same kind otfice for tne still. 
Thy sight now seconds not thy will. 

My Mary ! 

But well thou play'dst the housewife's part. 
And all thy threads with magic art 
Have wound themselves about this heart. 

My Mary ! 
Thy indistinct expressions seem 
Like language utter'd in a dream ; 
Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme. 

My Mary ! 

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 
Are still more lovely in my sight 
Than golden beams of orient light. 

My Mary I 
For could I view nor them nor thee, 
What sight worth seeing could I see 1 
The sun would rise in vain for" me, 

My Mary ! 
Partakers of thy sad decline. 
Thy hands their little force resign ; 
Yet gently prest, press gently mine. 

My Mary ! 

Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, 
That now at every step thou movest 
Upheld by two ; yet still thou lovest, 

My Mary ! 

And still to love, though prest with ill. 
In wintry age to feel no chill. 
With me is to be lovely still. 

My Mary ! 

But ah ! by constant heed I know, 
How oft the sadness that I show. 
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe. 

My Mary ! 

[* Cowper never bestowed more l.ibour on any of his 
Totnpositions than upon the " YarUley Oak:" nor did he 
ever labour more successfully. — SoUTHEY, Lift «f Cowpe.r, 
vol. iii. p. 17.J 

I h About this time it was that he addressed to her 



And should my future lot be cast 
With much resemblance of the past. 
Thy worn-out heart will break at last, 

My Mary ! 



TO MY COUSIN ANNE BODIIAM. 

ON RECErVINQ FROM HER A NETWORK PURSE, MADE BT HERSELI' 

My gentle Anne, whom heretofore, 
When I was young, and thou no more 

Than plaything for a nurse, 
I danced and fondled on my knee, 
A kitten both in size and glee, 

I thank thee for my purse. 

Gold pays the worth of all things here; 
But not of Love; — that gem's too dear 

For richest rogues to win it : 
I, therefore, as a proof of Love, 
Esteem thy present far above 

The best things kept within it. 



LINES ON HIS MOTHER'S PICTURE. 

Oh that those lips had language! Life has 
pass'd 
With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see. 
The same, that oft in childhood solaced me; 
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 
"Grieve not, my child, chase nil thy fears away!" 
'I'he meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
(Blest be the art that can immortalize. 
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
To quench it) here shines on me still the same. 

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 

welcome guest, though unexpected here! 
Who biddest me honour with an artless song, 
Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 

1 will obey, not willingly alone. 

But gladly, as the precept were her own : 
And, whde that face renews my filial grief. 
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, 
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 
A momentary dream, that thou art she. 

My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead. 
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ] 
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son. 
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? 
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss; 
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers — Yes. 
I heard the bell toH'd on thy burial day, 
I saw the hearse that bore thee stow away. 
And, turning from my nursery window, drew 
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! 
But was it such ] — It was. — Where thou art gone 
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 
The parting word shall pass my lips no more ! 

(Mrs. Unwin) one of the most touching, and certninly the 
most widely-known of ali his poems, tor it has been read 
by thousands who have never perused "The Task," nor 
perhaps seen or heard of any other of his works. — Souihby, 
Life of Cuwpcr, vol. iii. p. 150.J 



ERASMUS DARWIN. 



717 



Thy maidpns, grieved themselves at my concern, 

Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 

What ardently I wish'd, I long helieved, 

And, disappointed still, was still deceived 

By expectation every day heguiled. 

Dupe of lo-m&rrnw even from a child. 

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 

Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, 

I iearn'd at last submission to my lot, 

But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 

W here once we dwelt our name is heard no more, 
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; 
And where the gardener Robin, day by day, 
Drew me to school along the public way. 
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd 
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capp'd, 
'Tis now become a history little known. 
That once we call'd the pastoral house our own. 
Short-lived possession ! but the record fair. 
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, 
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced 
A thousand other themes less deeply traced. 
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid ; 
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 
The biscuit, or confectionary plum; 
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd 
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd : 
All this, and more endearing still than all. 
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall. 
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks, 
That humour interposed too often makes; 
All this still legible in memory's page, 
And still to be so to my latest age, 
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
Such honours to thee as my numbers may ; 
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, 
Not scorn'd in Heaven, though little noticed here. 

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours. 
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, 
The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 
I prick'd them into paper with a pin, 
(And thou wast happier than myself the while, 
Wouldst softlyspeak,and stroke my head, and smile,) 



Could those few pleasant days again appear, 
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them 

here? 
I would not trust my heart — the dear delight 
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. — 
But no — what here we call our life is such. 
So little to be loved, and thou so much. 
That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
'J'hy unbound spirit into bonds again. 

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast 
(The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd) 
Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle 
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, 
There sits quiescent on the floods that show 
Her beauteous form reflected clear below, 
While airs impregnated with incense play 
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; 
So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reach'd the 

shore, 
" Where tempests never beat nor billows roar," 
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 
Of life, long since has anchor'd by thy side. 
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,' 
Always from port withheld, always distress'd — 
Me, howling blasts drive devious, tempesl-toss'd. 
Sails ripp'd, seamsopeningwide, and compass lost, 
And day by day some current's thwarting force 
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 
Yet oh the thought that thou art safe, and he ! 
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
My boast is not, that I deduce my birth 
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth; 
But higher far my proud pretensions rise — 
The son of parents pass'd into the skies. 
And now, farewell — Time unrevoked has run 
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. 
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
I seem t' have lived my childhood o'er again ; 
To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, 
Without the sin of violating thine; 
And, while the wings of Fancy still are free, 
And I can view this mimic show of thee. 
Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. 



ERASMUS DARWIN. 



[Born, 1732. Died, 1802.] 



Erasmus Darwin was born at Elton, near 
Newark, in Nottinghamshire, where his father 
was a private gentleman. He studied at St. 
John's College, Cambridge, and took the degree 
of bachelor in medicine ; after which, he went to 
Edinburgh, to finish his medical studies. Having 
taken a physician's degree at that university, he 
settled in his profession at Litchfield ; and, by a 
bold and successful display of his skill in one of 
the first cases to which he was called, established 
his practice and reputation. About a year after 
his arrival, he married a Miss Howard, the daughter 
of a respectable inhabitant of Litchfield, and by 
that connection strengthened his interest in the 



place. He was, in theory and practice, a rigid 
enemy to the use of wine, and of all intoxicating 
liquors; and, in the course of his practice, was 
regarded as a great promoter of temperate habits 
among the citizens : but he gave a singular in- 
stance of his departure from his own theory, 
within a few years after his arrival in the very 
place where he proved the apostle of sobriety. 
Having one day joined a few friends who were 
going on a water-party, he got so tipsy after a 
cold collation, that, on the boat approaching Not 
tingham, he jumped into the river and swam 
ashore. The party called to the philosopher lu 
return ; but he walked on deliberately, in his 



18 



ERASMUS DARWIN. 



wet clothes, tiH he reached the market-place of 
NottinRhiun, and was there found hy his friend, ati 
apothecary of the place, haranfruina: the town's- 
people on the benefit of fresh air, till he was per- 
suaded t)y his friend to come to his house and 
shift his clothes. Dr. Darwin stammered habitu- 
ally; but on this occasion wine untied his tongue. 
In the prime of life, he had the misfortune to 
break the patella of his knee, in consequence of 
attempting to drive a carriage of his own Utopian 
contr.vunce, which upset at the first experiment. 

He lost his first wife, after thirteen years of 
domestic union. During his widowerhood, Mrs. 
Pole the wife of a Mr. Pole, of Redburn, in Derby- 
sliire, brought her children to his house to be cured 
of a poison, which they had taken in the shape 
of medicine, and, by his invitation, she cont nued 
with him till the young patients were perfectly 
cured. He was soon after called to attend the 
lady, at her own house, in a dangerous fever, and 
prescribed with more than a physician's interest 
in her fate. Not being inviteii to sleep in the 
house in the night after his arrival, he spent the 
hours till morning beneath a tree, opposite to her 
apartment, watching the passing and repassing 
lights. While the life which he so passionately 
loved was in danger, he paraphrased Petrarch's 
celebrated sonnet on the dream which predicted 
to him ihe death of Laura. Tliough less favoured 
by the muse than Petrarch, he was more fortu- 
nate in love. Mrs. Pole, on the demise of an 
aged partner, accepted. Dr. Darwin's hand in 
1781 ; and, in compliance with her inclinations, 
he removed from Litchfield to practice at Derby. 
He had a family by his second wife, and continued 
in high professional reputation till his death, in 
1802, which was occasioned by angina pectoris, 
the result of a sudden cold. 

Dr. Darwin was between forty and fifty before 
he began the principal poem by which he is 
known. Till then he had written only occasional 
verses, and of these he was not ostentatious, 
fearing that it might affect his medical reputation 
to be thought a poet. When his name as a physi- 
cian had, however, been estabi shed, he ventured, 
in the year 1781, to publish the first part of his 
" Botanic Garden." Mrs. Anna Seward, in her 
life of Darwin, declares herself the authoress of 
the opening lines of the poem ; but as she had 
never courage to make this pretension during 
Dr. Darwin's life, her veracity on the subject is 
ex[)osed to suspicion.* In 1789 and 1792, the 
scconil and third part of his botanic poem ap- 
peared. In 1793 and 1796, he published the first 
and second parts of his " Zoonomia, or the Laws 
of Organic liife." In 1801, he published "Phy- 



toiogia, or the Philosophy of Agriculture and 
Gardening;" and, about the same time, a small 
treatise on female education, which attracted little 
notice. After his death appeared his poem, "The 
Te(nple of Nature," a mere echo of the •' Botanic 
Garden." 

Darwin was a materialist in poetry no less than 
in j)hilosophy. In the latter, he attempts to build 
systems of vital sensibility on mere mechanical 
principles; and, in the former, he paints every 
thing to the mind's eye, as if the soul had no 
pleasure beyond the vivid conception of form, 
colour, and motion. Nothing makes poetry more 
lifeless than description by abstract terms and 
general qualities ; but Darwin runs to the opposite 
extreme of prominently glaring circumstantial 
description, without shade, relief, or perspective. 

His celebrity rose and fell with unexampled 
rapidity. His poetry appeared at a time pecu- 
liarly favourable to innovation, and his attempt 
to wed poetry and science was a bold experiment, 
which had some apparent sanction from the 
triumphs of modern discovery. When Lucretius 
wrote, science was in her cradle; but modern 
philosophy had revealed truths in nature more 
sublime than the marvels of fiction. The Rosi- 
crucian machinery of his poem had, at the first 
glance, an imposing appearance, and the variety 
of his allusion was surprising. On a closer view, 
it was observable that the Botanic goddess, and 
her Sylphs and Gnomes, were useless, from their 
having no employment ; and tiresome, from being 
the n)ere pretexts for deilamation. The variety of 
allusion is very whimsical. Dr. Franklin is com- 
pared to Cup d ; while Hercules, Lady Melbourne, 
Emma Crewe, BriniUey's canals, and sleeping 
cherubs, sweepon like images in a dream. Tribes 
and grasses are likened to angels, and the trulHe 
is rehearsed as a subterranean empress. His la- 
borious ingenuity in finding comparisons is fre- 
quently like thatof Hervey in his " Meditations," 
or of Flavel in his "Gardening Spiritualized" 

If Darwin, however, was not a good poet, it 
may be owned that he is frequently a bold per- 
sonifier, and that some of his insulated passages 
are musical and picturesque. His Botanic Gar- 
den once pleased many better judges than his 
aflected biograj)her, Anna Seward ; it fascinated 
even the taste of Cowper, who says, in conjunc- 
tion with Hayley, 

'■ We. therefore pleased, extol thy song, 
'J hough various yet complete, 

Klch in embellishment, iw strong 
And learned us Jtis sweet. 

And deem the bard, whne'ev he be, 
And howsoever known.- 

That will not weave a wreath for thee, 
Unworthy of his own." 



FROM "THE BOTANIC GAUDEN," CANTO II. 

DESTRUCTION OP CAMBTSKs's ARMV. 

When Heaven's dread justice smites in crimes 
o'ergrown 
The blood-nursed Tyrant on his purple throne, 

L* " I was at Licthfield," writes K. L. Edgeworth to 
Str M altnr Su-tt, "when the lines in question were 



Gnomes ! your bold forms unnumber'd arms out- 
stretch. 
And urge the vengeance o'er the guilty wretch. — 
'J'hus when Cambyses led his barbarous hosts 
From Persia's rocks to Egyj)t's trembling coasts- 
written by Miss Seward." — ikiyewoilli's Mtinoiis, vol. ii 
p. 207.] 



ERASMUS DARWIN. 



719 



Del'ileil each hallow'd fane and sacred wood, 
And, drunk with fury, swell'd the Nile with hlood ; 
Waved his proud banner o'er the Thehan states, 
And pour'd destruction through her hundred 

gates; 
In dread divisions march'd the marshall'd bands. 
And swarming armies blacken'd all the lands, 
By Memphis these to Ethiop's sultry plains. 
And those to Hammon's sand-encircled fanes. 
Slow as they pass'd, the indignant temples frown'd, 
Low curses muttering from the vaulted ground ; 
Long a isles ofcy press waved their deepen 'd glooms, 
And quivering spectres grinn'd amid the tombs ! 
Pr(>[)hctic whispers breathed froin Sphinx's tongue. 
And Memnon's lyre with hollow murmurs rung; 
Burst from each pyramid expiring groans, 
And darker shadows stretch'd their lengthen'd 

cones. 
Day after day their dcathful route they steer. 
Lust in the van, and Rapine in the rear. 

Gnomes! as they march'd, you hid the gather'd 

fruits, 
The bladed grass, sweet grains and mealy roots ; 
Scared the tired quails that journey'd o'er their 

heads, 
Retain'd the locusts in their earthy beds ; 
Bade on your sands no night-born dews distil, 
Stay'd with vindictive hands the scanty rill. — 
Loud o'er the camp the fiend of Famine shrieks. 
Calls all her brood and champs her hundred beaks ; 
0"er ten square leagues her pennons broad expand. 
And Iwil ght swims upon the ^hudde^ing sand : 
Perch'd on her crest the gritRn Discord clings, 
And giant Murder rides betwee?) her wings; 
Blood from each clotted hair and horny quill. 
And showers of tears in blended streams distill; 
Hii;h poised in air her spiry neck she bends. 
Rolls her keen eye, her dragon claws extends. 
Darts fiom above, and tears at each fell swoop 
With iron fangs the decimated troop. 

Now o'er their head the whizzing whirlwinds 

breathe, 
And the bve desert pants, and heaves beneath ; 
'J'inged by the crimson sun, vast columns rise 
Of eddying sands, atid war amid theskies; 
In red arcades the billowy plain surround, 
And whirling turrets stalk along the ground. 
— Long ranks in vain their shining blades extend, 
'I'o demon-gods their knees unhallow'd bend. 
Wheel in wide circle, form in hollow square. 
And now they front, and now they fly the war. 
Pierce the deaf tempest with latnenting cries. 
Press their parch'd lips, and close their blood-shot 

eyes. 
Gnomes ! o'er the waste you led your myriad 

powers. 
Climb'd on the whirls, and aim'd the flinty showers ! 
Onward resistless rolls the infuriate surge, 
Clouds follow clouds, and mountains mountains 

urge; 
Wave over wave the driving desert swims. 
Bursts o'er their heads, inhumes their struggling 

limbs ; 
Man mounts on man, on camels camels rush, 
Hosts uiarcho'er hosts, and nations nations crush — 



Wheeling in air the winged islands fall. 
And one great earthy ocean covers all ! — 
Then ceased the storm, — Night bow'd his Ethiop 

brow 
To earth, and listened to the groans below, — 
Grim Horror shook, — awhile the living hill 
Heaved with convulsive throes, — and all was still! 



FROM CANTO HI. 

Persuasion to Mothers to suckle their own Children. 

Connubial Fair! whom no fond transport 
warms 
To lull your infant in maternal arms. 
Who, bless'd iu vain with tumid bosoms, hear 
His tender wailings with unfeeling ear; 
The soothing kiss and milky rill deny 
To the sweet pouting lip, and glistening eye ! — 
Ah ! what avails the cradle's damask roof. 
The cider bolster, and embroider'd woof! 
Oft hears the gilded couch unpitied plains. 
And many a tear the tasseled cushion stains! 
No voice so sweet attunes his cares to rest. 
So soft no pillow as his mother's breast! — 
'J'hus charm'd to sweet repose,when twilight hours 
Shed their soft influence on celestial bowers, 
The cherub Innocence, with smile divine. 
Shuts hiswhite wings, and sleeps on beauty's shrine. 



FROM THE SAME. 

Midnight Conflagration; Catastrophe of the families of 
W ooduiason and Molesworlh. 

From dometodomewhen flames infuriate climb, 
Sweep the long street, invest the tower sublime; 
Gild the tall vanes, amid the astonish'd night. 
And reddet)ing Heaven returns the sanguine light; 
While with vast strides and bristling hair aloof 
Pale Danger glides along the falling roof; 
And giant Terror howling in amaze 
Moves his dark lind>s across the lurid blaze. 

Nymphs! you first taught the gelid wave to rise, 
Hurl'd in resplendent arches to the skies; 
In iron cells condensed the airy spring. 
And imp'd the torrent with unfailing wing; 
— On the fierce flames the shower impetuous falls, 
And sudden darkness shrouds the shatter'd walls; 
Steam, smoke, and dust in blended volumes roll. 
And night and silence repossess the pole. 

Where were ye. Nymphs! in those disastrous 
hours. 
Which wrapp'd in flames Augusta's sinking 

towers ] 
Why did ye linger in your wells and groves. 
When sad Woodniason mourn'd her infant loves ? 
When thy fair daughters with unheeded screams, 
Ill-fated Molesworlh! calTdlhe loiteringstrcams] — 
The trembling nym|)h on bloodless fingers hung, 
Eyes from the tottering wall the distant throng, 
W ith ceaseless shrieks her slee[ting friends alarms, 
Drops with singed hair into her b)ver's arms, — 
The illumined mother seeks with footsteps fleet. 
Where hangs the safe balcony o'er the street, 
VVra|)p'd in her sheet heryouiigest hope suspends, 
And panting lowers it to her tiptoe friends ; 



720 



JAMES BEATTIE. 



Again she hurries on affection's winps, 
And now a third, and now a fourth she brings; 
Safe all her babes, she smoothes her horrent brow, 
And bursts through bickering flames, unscorch'd 

below. 
So by her son arraign'd, with feet unshod, 
O'er burning bars indignant Emma trod. 

E'on on the day when Youth with Bonuty wed, 
The flames surprised them in their nuptial bed ; — 
Seen at the opening sash with bosom bare. 
With wringing hands, and dark disheveird hair, 
The blushing bride with wild disorder'd charms 
Round her fond lover winds her ivory artns ; 
Beat, as they clasp, their throbbing hearts with 

fear. 
And many a kiss is mix'd with many a tear ; — 
Ah me ! in vain the labouring engines pour 
Round their pale limbs the ineffectual shower — 
— Then crash'd the floor, while shrinking crowds 

retire, 
And Love and Virtue sunk amid the fire ! — 
With piercing screams afflicted strangers mourn. 
And their white ashes mingle in their urn. 



FROM CANTO IV. 

The heroic Attachment of the Youth in Holland, who 
attended his mintress iu the plague. 

Thits when the Plague, upborne on Belgian air, 
Look'd through the mist and shook his clotted 

hair; 
O'er shrinking nations steer'd malignant clouds, 
And rain'd destruction on the gasping crowds; 
The beauteous JEgle felt the venom'd dart,* 
Slow foll'd her eye, and feebly throbb'd her heart; 



Each fervid' sigh seemed shorter than the last. 
And starting friendship shunn'd her as she pass'd. 
— With weak unsteady step the fainting maid 
Seeks the cold garden's solitary shade, 
Sinks on the pillowy moss her drooping head, 
And prints with lifeless liml)s her leafy bed. 
— On wings of love her plighted swain pursues, 
Shades herfrom winds, and shelters her from dews, 
Extends on tapering poles the canvas ri'of, 
Spreads o'er the straw-wove mat the flaxen woof, 
Sweet buds and blossoms on her bolster strows. 
And binds his kerchief round her aching brows; 
Soothes with soft kiss, with tender accents charms, 
And clasps the bright infection in his arms. — 
With pale and languid smiles the grateful fair 
Aj)plauds his virtues, and rewards his care; 
Mourns with wet cheek her fair companions fled 
On timorous step, or number'd with the dead; 
Calls to her bosom all its scatter'd rays, 
And pours on Thyrsis the collected blaze ; 
Braves the chill night, caressing and caressd, 
And folds her hero-lover to her breast. — 
Less bold, Leander at tlie dusky hour 
Eyed, as he swam, the far love-lighted tower; 
Breasted with struggling arms the tossing wave, 
And sunk benighted in the watery grave. 
Less bold, 'Jobias claim'd the nuptial bed 
Where seven fond lovers by a fiend had bled ; 
And drove, instructed by his angel-guide, 
The enamour'd demon from the fatal bride. — 
— Sylphs ! while your winnowing pinions fann'd 

the air. 
And shed gay visions o'er the sleeping pair; 
Love round their couch effused his rosy breath, 
And with his keener arrows conquer'd Death. 



JAMES BEATTIE. 



[Born. 1735. Died, 1803.] 



JaMes Beattie was born in the parish of 
Lawience Kirk, in Kincardineshire, Scotland. 
His father, who rented a small farm in that 
parish, died when the poet was only seven years 
old ; but the loss of a protector was happily sup- 
plied to him by his elder brother, who kept him 
at school till he obtained a bursary at the Ma- 
rischal ('ollege, Aberdeen. At that university he 
took the degree of master of arts ; and, at nine- 
teen, h? entered on the study of divinity, sup- 
porting himself, in the mean time, by teaching a 
school in the neighbouring parish. While he 
was in this obscure situation, some pieces of 
verse, v,hich he transmitted to the Scottish Maga- 
zine, gained him a little local celebrity. Mr. 
Garden, an eminent Scottish lawyer, afterward 

*\Vhen the jilajiue rajied in Holland, in lfi.36, a young 
;5irl was pcizeil with it. had three carhuncle.<<, and wa.^ 
removed to a garden, where her lover, who was hetrothed 
to her. attended her as a nurse, and slept with her as hig 
«»ife. lie rem.'iined uninfected, and she recoveretl, and 
■vas married to him. The story is related by Tine. Fobri- 
•ius, iu the Misc. Cur. Ann. II. Obs. 1S8. 



Lord Gardenstone, and Lord Monboddo, en- 
couraged him as an ingenious young man, and 
introduced him to the tables of the neighbouring 
gentry : an honour not usually extended to a 
parochial schoolmaster. In 1757, he stood can- 
didate for the place of usher in the high-school 
of Aberdeen. He was foiled by a competitor, 
who surpassed him in the minutise of Latin 
grammar; but his character as a scholar suffered 
so little by the disappointment, that at the next 
vacancy he was called to the place without a 
trial. He had not been long at this school, 
when, in 1761, he published a volume of Original 
Poems and Translations which (it speaks much 
for the critical clemency of the times) were fa- 
vourably received and highly commended in the 
English Reviews. So little satisfied was the 
author himself with those early effusions, that, 
i excepting four, which he admitted to a subse- 
I quent edition of his works, he was anxious to 
I have them consigned to oblivion ; and he de- 
! stroyed every copy of the volume which he could 



JAMES BEATTIE. 



721 



procure. About the age of twenty-six, he ob- 
tained the chair of Moral Philosophy in the 
Marischal College of Aberdeen, a promotion 
which he must have owed to his general reputa- 
tion in literature: but it is singular, that the 
friend who first proposed to solicit the High Con- 
stable of Scotland to obtain this appoininent, 
should have grounded the proposal on the merit 
of Boattie's poetry. In the volume already men- 
tioned there can scarcely be said to be a budding 
promise of genius. 

Upon his appointment to this professorship, 
which he held for forty years, he immediately 
prejtared a course of lectures for the students; 
and gradually compiled materials for those prose 
works, on which his name would rest with con- 
siderable reputation, if he were not known as a 
poet. It is true, that he is not a first-rate 
metaphysician; and the Scotch, in undervaluing 
his powers of abstract and close reasoning, have 
been disposed to give him less credit than he 
deserves, as an elegant and amusing writer. 
But the English, who must be best able to judge 
of his style, admire it for an ease, familiarity, and 
an Anghcism that is not to be found even in the 
correct and polished diction of Blair. His mode 
of illustrating abstract questions is fanciful and 
interesting. 

In 1765, he published a poem entitled "The 
Judgment of Paris," which his biographer. Sir 
William Forbes, did not think fit to rank among 
his works.* For more obvious reasons Sir Wil- 
liam excluded his lines, written in the subsequent 
year, on the proposal for erecting a monument 
to Churchill in Westminster Abbey — lines which 
have no beauty or dignity to redeem their bitter 
expression of hatred. On particular subjects, 
Beattie's virtuous indignation was apt to be 
hysterical. Dr. Reid and Dr. Campbell hated 
the principles of David Hume as sincerely as the 
author of the Essay on Truth ; but they never 
betrayed more than philosophical hostility, while 
Beattie used to speak of the propriety of exclud- 
ing Hume from civil society. 

His reception of Gray, when that poet visited 
Scotland in 1765, shows the enthusiasm of his 
literary character in a finer light. Gray's mind 
was not in poetry only, but in many other re- 
spects, peculiarly congenial with his own ; and 
nothing could exceed the cordial and reverential 
welcome which Beattie gave to his illustrious 
visitant. In 1770, he published his " Essay on 
Truth," which had a rapid sale, and extensive 
popularity; and within a twelvemonth after, the 
first part of his "Minstrel." The poem appeared 
at fiist anonymously; but its beauties were im- 
mediately and justly appreciated. The second 
part was not published till 1774. When Gray 
criticised the Minstrel he objected to its author 
that, after many stanzas, the description went 
on and the narrative stopped. Beattie very 

* It is to be found in the Scottish Magazine; and, if I 

may judge from an obscure recollection of it, is at least 

as well worthy of revival as some of his minor pieces. 

'See it also in the Aldine edition of Beattie, p. 97.1 

91 



justly answered to this criticism, that he meant 
the poem for description, not for incident.f Bui 
he seems to have forgotten this proper apology, 
when he mentions in one of his letters his in- 
tention of producing Edwin, in some subsequent 
books, in the character of a warlike bard in- 
spiring his countrymen to battle, and contributing 
to repel their invaders.J This intention, if he 
ever seriously entertained it, might have pro- 
duced some new kind of poem, but would have 
formed an incongruous counterpart to the piece 
as it now stands, which, as a picture l>f still life, 
and a vehicle of contemplative morality, has a 
charm that is inconsistent with the bold evolu- 
tions of heroic narrative. After having portrayed 
his young enthusiast with such advantage in 
a state of visionary quiet, it would have been 
too violent a transition to have begun in a 
new book to surround him with dates of time 
and names of places. The interest which we 
attach to Edwin's character, would have been 
lost in a more ambitious effort to make him 
a greater or more important, or a more locally 
defined being. It is the solitary growth of his 
genius, and his isolated and mystic abstraction 
from mankind, that fix our attention on the 
romantic features of that genius. The sim- 
plicity of his fate does not divert us from his 
mind to his circumstances. A more unworldly 
air is given to his character, that instead of 
being tacked to the fate of kings, he was one 
'< Who envied not, who never thought of kings;" 
and that, instead of mingling with the troubles 
which deface the creation, he only existed to 
make his thoughts the mirror of its beauty 
and magnificence. Another English critic§ has 
blamed Edwin's vision of the fairies as too 
splendid and artificial for a simple youth ; but 
there is nothing in the situation ascribed to Ed- 
win, as he lived in minstrel days, that necessarily 
excluded such materials from his fancy. Had he 
beheld steam-engines or dock-yards in his sleep, 
the vision might have been pronounced to be too 
artificial ; but he might have heard of fairies and 
their dances, and even of tapers, gold, and gems, 
from the ballads of his native country. In the 
second book of the poem there are some fine 
stanzas; but he has taken Edwin out of the 
school of nature, and placed him in his own, that 
of moral philosophy ;. and hence a degree of lan- 
guor is experienced by the reader. 

Soon after the publication of the " Essay on 
Truth," and of the first part of the "Minstrel,"' 
he paid his first visit to London. His reception, 
in the highest literary and polite circles, was dis. 
tinguished and flattering. The university of Ox- 



[t Gray complained of a want of action. " As to descrip- 
tion," he says, " I have always thought that it made the 
moFt graceful ornament of poetry, but never ought to 
make the subject."] 

[1 This was no written intention, but one delivered orally 
in reply to a question from Sir William Forbes. An inva. 
sion, however, had been for long a settled point — some 
great service that the minstrel was U) do his country ; but 
his plan was never concerted.] 

^Ur.Aikin. 

3L. 



722 



JAMES BEATTIE. 



ford conferred on him the degree of doctor of laws, 
and the sovereign himself, besides honouring him 
with a personal conference, bestowed on him a 
pension of £200 a year. 

On his return to Scotland, there was a pro- 
posal for transferring him to the university of 
Edinburgh, which he expressed his wish to de- 
cline, from a fear of those personal enemies whom 
he had excited by his Essay on Truth. 'I'his 
motive, if it was his real one, must have been 
connected with that weakness and irritability on 
polemical subjects which have been already al- 
luded to. His metaphysical fame perhaps stood 
higher in Aberdeen than in Edinburgh ; but to 
have dreaded personal hostility in the capital of a 
religious country, amid thousands of individuals 
as pious as himself, was a weakness unbecoming 
the professed champion of truth. For reasons 
of delicacy, more creditable to his memory, 
he declined a living in the Church of England, 
which was offered to him by his friend Dr. 
Porteous. 

After this, there is not much incident in his 
life. He published a volume of his Essays in 
1776, and another in 1783; and the outline of 
his academical lectures in 1790. In the same 
year, he edited, at Edinburgh, Addison's papers 
in " The Spectator," and wrote a preface for the 
edition. He was very unfortunate in his family. 
The mental disorder of his wife, for a long time 
before it assumed the shape of decided derange- 
ment, broke out in caprices of temper, which dis- 
turbed his domestic peace, and almost precluded 
him from having visitors in his family. The loss 



of his son, James Hay Beattie, a young man of 
highly promising talents, who had been conjoined 
with him in his professorship, was the greatest, 
though not the last calamity of his life. He 
made an attempt to revive his spirits after that 
melancholy event, by another journey to England, 
and some of his letters from thence bespeak a 
temporary composure and cheerfulness but the 
wound was never healed. Even music, of which 
he had always been fond, ceased to be agreeable 
to him from the lively recollections which it ex- 
cited of the hours which he had been accustomed 
to spend in that recreation with his favourite boy. 
He published the poems of this youth, with a 
partial eulogy upon his genius, such as might be 
well excused from a father so situated. At the 
end of six years more, his other son, Montague 
Beattie, was also cut off in the flower of his 
youth. This misfortune crushed his s|)irits even 
to temporary alienation of mind. With his wife 
in a madhouse, his sons dead, and his own health 
broken, he might be pardoned for saying, as he 
looked on the corpse of his last child, " I have 
done with this world." Indeed he acted as if he 
felt so ; for, though he performed the duties of his 
professorship till within a short time o( his death, 
he applied to no study, enjoyed no society, and 
answered but few letters of his friends. Yet, 
amid the depth of his melancholy, he would some- 
times acquiesce in his childless fate, and exclaim, 
" How could [ have borne to see their elegant 
minds mangled with madness!" He was struck 
with palsy in 1799, by repeated attacks of which 
his life terminated in 1803. 



THE MINSTREL; OR, TITE PROGRESS OF GENIUS. 

BOOK I. 

An! who can tell how hard it is to climb 
The steep where Fame's proud temple shines 
Ah ! who can tell how many a soul sublime [afar; 
Has felt the influence of malignant star. 
And waged with fortune an eternal war; 
Check'd by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown, 
And Poverty's unconquerable bar, 
In life's low vale remote has pined alone, 
Then dropp'd into the grave, unpitied and un- 
known ! 

And yet the languor of inglorious days 
Not equally oppressive is to all; 
Him who ne'er listened to the voice of praise 
'i"he silence of neglect can ne'er appal. 
There are, who, deaf to mad Ambition's call, 
Would shrink to hear the obstreperous trump of 
Supremely blest, if to their portion fall [Fame; 
Health, competence, and peace. Nor higher aim 
Had he, whose simple tale these artless lines 
proclaim. 

The rolls of fame I will not now explore ; 
Nor need I here describe, in learned lay. 
How forth the Minstrel fared in days of yore, 
Right glad of heart, though homely in array ; 



His waving locks and beard all hoary gray : 
While from his bending shoulder, decent hung 
His harp, the sole companion of his way, 
Which to the whistling wind responsive rung; 
And ever as he went some merry lay he sung. 

Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of pride. 
That a poor villager inspires my strain ; 
With thee let Pageantry and Power abide: 
The gentle Muses haunt the sylvan reign ; 
Where through wild groves at eve the lonely 

swain 
Enraptured roams, to gaze on Nature's charms. 
They hate the sensual, and scorn the vain. 
The parasite their influence never warms. 
Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold 

alarms. 

Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn. 
Yet horror screams from his discordant throat. 
Rise, sons of harmony, and hal the morn, 
While warbling larks on russet pinions float: 
Or seek at noon the woodland scene remote, 
Where the gray linnets carol from the hill. 
Oh let them ne'er, with artificial note. 
To please a tyrant, strain the little bill. 
But sing w hat Heaven inspires, and wander where 
they will. 



JAMES BEATTIE. 



Liberal, ^ot lavish, is kind Nature's hand ; 
Nor was perfedion made for man below. 
Yet all her schemes with nicest art are plann'd, 
Good counteracting ill. and gladness woe. 
With gold and gems if Chilian mountains glow ; 
If bleak and barren Scotia's hills arise; 
There plague and poison, lust and rapine grow ; 
Here peaceful are the vales, and pure the skies, 
And freedom fires the soul, and sparkles in the 
eyes. 

Then grieve not, thou, to whom the indulgent 

Muse 
Vouchsafes a portion of celestial fire; 
Nor blame the partial Fates, if they refuse 
The imperial banquet, and the rich attire. 
Know thine own worth, and reverence the lyre. 
Wilt thou debase the heart which God refined ] 
No ; let thy Heaven-taught soul to Heaven 

aspire. 
To fancy, freedom, harmony, resign'd. 
Ambition's groveling crew for ever left behind. 

Canst thou forego the pure ethereal soul 
In each fine sense so exquisitely keen. 
On the dull couch of Luxury to loll, 
Stung with disease, and stupefied with spleen ; 
Fain to implore the aid of Flattery's screen. 
Even from thyself thy loatbsome heart to hide, 
(The mausiiiu then no more of joy serene,) 
Where fear, distiust, malevolence, abide, 
And impotent desire, and disappointed pride ! 

Oh, how canst thou renounce the boundless store 
Of charms whith Nature to her votary yields! 
'i'he warbling woodland, the resounding shore. 
The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields; 
All that the genial ray of morning gilds, 
And all that echoes to the song of even. 
All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields, 
And all the dread magnificence of Heaven, 
Oh how canst thou renounce, and hope to be 
forgiven 1 

These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health, 
At)d love, and gentleness, and joy, impart. 
But these thou must renounce, if lust of wealth 
E'er win its way to ihy corrupted he.nt : 
J'or ah ! it poisons like a scorpion's dart; 
Pfomiiting the ungenerous wish, the selfish 

scheme. 
The stern resolve unmoved by pity's smart, 
'J'he troublous day. and long distressful dream. 
Return, my roving Muse, resume thy jiurposed 
theme. 

There lived in Gothic days, as legends tell, 
A shepberd-swain, a man of low degree ; 
Whose sires, perchance, in Fairyland might 

dwell, 
Sicilian groves, or vales of Arcady ; 
but he, 1 ween, was of the north counlrie; 
A nation fiined for song, and beauty's charms ; 
Zealous, yet modest; innocent, tliough free; 
Patient of toil ; serene aundst alarms; 
lullexible in faith; invincible in arms. 



The shepherd-swain of whom I mention made. 
On Scotia's mountains fod his little flock ; 
The sickle, scythe, or plough, he never sway'd; 
An honest heart was almost all his stock: 
His drink the living water from the rock ; 
The milky dams supplied his board, and lent 
Their kindly fleece to baffle wi, iter's shock; 
And he, though oft with dust and sweat besprent, 
Did guide and guard their wanderings, wheresoe'er 
they went. 

From labour health, from health contentment 

springs: 
Contentment opes the source of every joy. 
He envied not, he never thought of kings; 
Nor from those appetites sustain'd annoy, 
That chance may frustrate, or indulgence cloy: 
Nor Fate his calm and hundile hopes beguiled ; 
He mourn'd no recreant friend, nor mistress coy, 
For on his vows the blameless Phojbe smiled, 
And her alone he loved, and loved her from a 
child. 

No jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast. 
Nor blasted were their wedded days with strife: 
Each season look'd delightful as it past. 
To the fond husband and the faithful wife. 
Beyond the lowly vale of shepherd life 
'J'hey never roam'd ; secure beneath the storm 
Which in Ambition's lofty land is rife. 
Where peace and love are canker'd by the worm 
Of pride, each bud of joy industrious to deform. 

The wight, whose tale these artless lines unfold, 
Was all the oflTspring of this humble pair: 
His birth no oracle or seer foretold ; 
No prodigy appear'd in earth or air. 
Nor aught that might a strange event declare. 
You guess each cinumstance of Edwin's birth; 
The parents' transport, and the parents' care; 
The gossip's prayer for wealth, and wit, and 
wonh ; 
And one longsummerday of indolence and mirth. 

And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy. 
Deep thought oft seem'd to fix his infant eye. 
Dainties be heeded not, nor gaud, nor toy. 
Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy : 
S.lent when glad; affectionate, though shy; 
And now his look was most demurely sa '; 
And now he laugh'd aloud, yet none knew why. 
The neighbours stared and sigh'd, yet bless'd 
the la.l : 
Some deem'd him wondrous wise, and some be- 
lieved him mad. 

But why should I his childish feats display 1 
Concourse, and noise, and toil, he ever fled ; 
Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray 
Of squabbling imps; but to the forest sped. 
Or roam'd at large the lonely mountain's head, 
Or, where the maze of some bewilder'd stream 
To deep untrodden groves his fujtsteps led. 
'I'here would he wander wild, till Phtebus' beam. 
Shot from the western cLfT, released the wea>y 
team. 



724 



JAMES BEATTIE. 



The exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed, 

To him nor vanity nor joy could bring; 

His heart, from cruel sport estranged, would 

bleed 
To work the woe of any living thing, 
By trap or net; by arrow, or by sling; 
These he detested ; those he scorn'd to wield : 
He wish'd to be the guardian, not the king, 
Tyrant far less, or traitor of the field. 
And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy might 
yield. 

Lo ! where the stripling, rapt in wonder, roves 
Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine; 
And sees, on high, amid the encircling groves. 
From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine: 
While waters, woods, and winds, in concert join, 
And echo swells the chorus to the skies. 
Would Edwin this majestic scene resign 
For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies? 
Ah ! no : he better knows great Nature's charms 
to prize. 

And oft he traced the uplands, to survey, 
When o'er the sky advanced the kindling dawn. 
The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain gray. 
And lake, dim-gleaming on the smoky lawn : 
Far to the west the long, long vale withdrawn. 
Where twilight loves to linger for a while; 
And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn, 
And villager abroad at early toil. 
But lo ! the sun appears! and heaven, earth, 
ocean, smile. 

And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb. 
When all in nust the world below was lost. 
What dreadful pleasure ! there to stand sublime, 
liike shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast. 
And view the enormous waste of vapour, tost 
In billows, lengthening to the horizon round, 
Now scoop'd in gulls, with mountains now 

emboss'd ! 
And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound. 
Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar 

profound ! 

In truth he was a strange and wayward wight, 
Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful scene. 
In darkness, and in storm, he found delight: 
Nor less, than when on ocean-wave serene 
The southern snn diffused his dazzling shene. 
Even sad vicissitude amused his soul: 
And if a sigh would sometimes intervene. 
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll, 
A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not to control. 

" Oh ye wild groves, oh where is now your bloom !" 
(The Muse interprets thus his tender thought) 
"Your flowers, your verdure, and your balmy 

gloom, 
Of late so grateful in the hour of drought! 
Why do the birds that song and rapture brought 
To all your bowers, their mansions now forsake 1 
Ah! why has fickle chance this ruin wrought? 
t^or now the storm howls mournful through the 

brake, 
\nd the dead foliage flies in many a shapeless flake. 



"Where now the rill, melodious, pure and cool 
And meads, with life, and mirth, and beauty 

crown'd ! 
Ah! see the unsightly slime, and sluggish pool. 
Have all the solitary vale embrown'd ; 
Fled each fair form, and mute each meltingsound. 
The raven croaks forlorn on naked spray : 
And hark ! the river, bursting every mound, 
Down the vale thunders, and with wasteful sway 
Uproots the grove, and rolls the shatter'd rocks 

away. 

"Yet such the destiny of all on earth : 
So flourishes and fades majestic man. 
Fair is the bud his vernal morn brings forth, 
And fostering gales a while the nursling fan. 
Oh smile, ye Heavens, serene ; ye mildews wan. 
Ye blighting whirlwinds, spare his balmy prime, 
Nor lessen of his life the little span. • 
Borne on the swift, though silent, wings of 
Time, 
Old age comes on apace to ravage all the clime. 

" And be it so. Let those deplore their doom, 
Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn: 
But lofty souls, who look beyond the tomb. 
Can smile at fate, and wonder how they mourn. 
Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more 

return ? 
Is yonder wave the sun's eternal bed ? 
Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn. 
And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed, 
Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead. 

" Shall I be left forgotten in the dust, 
When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive? 
Shall Nature's voice, to man alone unjust, 
Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to live? 
Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive 
With disappointment, penury, and pain? 
No : Heaven's immortal springs shall yet 

arrive. 
And man's majestic beauty bloom again, 
Bright through the eternal year of Love's trium- 
phant reign." 

This truth sublime his simple sire had taught: 
In sooth 'twas almost all the shepherd knew. 
No subtile nor superfluous lore he sought. 
Nor ever wish'd his Edwin to pursue. [view, 
"Let man's own sphere," said he, "confine his 
Be man's peculiar work his sole delight." 
And much, and oft, he warn'd him to eschew 
Falsehood and guile, and aye maintain the right. 
By pleasure unseduced, unawed by lawless might. 

"And from the prayer of Want, and plaint of 
Oh never, never turn away thine ear! [Woe, 
Forlorn, in this bleak wilderness below, 
Ah ! what were man, should Heaven refuse to 

hear! 
To others do (the law is not severe) 
What to thyself thou wishest to be done. 
Forgive thy foes; and love thy parents dear. 
And friends, and native land; nor those alone; 
All human weal and woe learn thou to mako 
thine own." 



JAMES BEATTIE. 



725 



See. in the rear of the warm sunny shower 
The visionary boy from shelter fly ; 
For now the storm of summer rain is o'er, 
And cool, and fresh, atid fragrant is the sky. 
And lo ! in the darii east, expanded high. 
The rainbow brightens to the setting sun ! 
Fond fool, that deem'st the streaming glory nigh, 
How vain the chase thine anlour has begun ! 
'Tis fled afar; ere half thy purposed race be run. 

Yet couldst thou learn, that thus it fares with age. 
When pleasure, wealth, or power, the bosom 

warm. 
This baffled hope might tame thy manhood's rage, 
And disappointment of her sting disarm. 
But why should foresight thy fond heart alarm 1 
Perish the lore that deadens young desire ; 
Pursue, poor imp. the imaginary charm. 
Indulge gay hope and fancy's pleasing fire: 
Fancy and hope too soon shall of themselves expire. 

When the long-sounding curfew from afar 
Loaded with loud lament the lonely gale, 
Young Edwin, lighted by the evening star, 
Lingering and listening, wander'd down the vale. 
'I'here would he dream of graves, and corses pale ; 
And ghosts that to the charnel-dungeon throng. 
And drag a length of clanking chain, and wail, 
Till silenced by the owl's terrific song, 
Or blast that shrieks by fits the shuddering aisles 
along. 

Or when the setting moon, in crimson dyed, 

Hung o'er the dark and melancholy deep, 

To haunted stream, remote from man, he 

hied. 
Where fays of yore (heir revels wont to keep; 
And there let Fancy rove at large, till sleep 
A vision brought to his entranced sight. 
And first, a wildly murmuring wind 'gati creep 
Shrill to his ringing ear; then tapers bright. 
With instantaneous gleam, illumed the vault of 

night. 

Anon in view a portal's blazon'd arch 
Arose : the trumpet bids the valves unfold ; 
And forth an host of little warriors march. 
Grasping the diamond lance, and targe of gold. 
Their look was gentle, their demeanour bold, 
And green their helms, and green their silk attire; 
And here and there, right venerably old. 
The long-robed minstrels wake the warliling wire, 
And some with mellow breath the martial pipe 
inspire. 

With merriment, and song, and timbrels clear, 
A troop of dames from myrtle bowers advance; 
The little warriors doff the targe and spear, 
And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance. 
They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance ; 
To right, to left, they thrid the flying maze; 
Mow bound aloft with vigorous spring, then 

glance 
Rapid along; with many-colour'd rays 
Of tapers, gems, and gold, the ichoing forests 

blaze. 



The dream is fled. Proud harbinger of day, 
Who scaredst the vision with thy clarion shrill. 
Fell chanticleer ! who oft hath reft away 
My fancied good, and brought substantial ill? 
Oh to thy cursed scream, discordant still, 
Let harmony aye shut her gentle ear: 
Thy boastful mirth let jealous rivals spill, 
Insult thy crest, and glossy pinions tear. 
And ever in thy dreams the ruthless fox appear. 

Forbear, my Muse. Let love attune thy line. 
Revoke the spell. Thine Edwin frets not .so. 
For how should he at wicked chance repine. 
Who feels from every change ainuseitient flow ! 
Even now his eyes with smiles of rapture glow, 
As on he wanders through the scenes of morn. 
Where the fresh flowers in living lustre blow. 
Where thousand pearls the dewy lawns adorn, 
A thousand notes of joy in every breeze are 
borne. 

But who the melodies of morn can tell ? 

The wild brook babbling down the mountain 

side , 
The lowing herd ; the sheepfold's simple bell , 
The pipe of early shepherd dim descried 
In the lone valley ; echoing far and wide. 
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above ; 
The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; 
The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love. 
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. 

The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark ; 
Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings; 
The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, 

hark! 
Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon 

rings; 
Through rustlingcorn the hare astonish'd springs; 
Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour ; 
The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; 
Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower. 
And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tour. 

O Nature, how in every charm supreme ! 
Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new ! 
Oh for the voice and fire of seraphim. 
To sing thy glories with devotion due! 
Blest be the day I 'scaped the wrangling crew, 
From Pyrrho's maze and Epicurus' sty ; 
And held high converse with the godlike few. 
Who to the enraptured heart, and car, and 
eye. 
Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love, and melody 

Hence! ye, who snare and stupefy the mind, 
Sophists, of beauty, virtue, joy. the bane! 
Greedy and fell, though impotent and blind, 
Who spread your filthy nets in Truth's fair fane, 
And ever ply your venom'd fangs amain ! 
Hence to dark error's den, whose rankling slime 
First gave yo'i form ! Hence ! lest the Muse 

should deign 
(Though loath on theme so mean to waste a 

rhyme). 
With vengeance to pursue your sacrilegioi* crime. 
3l2 



TIG 



JAMES BEATTIE. 



But hail, ye mighty masters of the lay, 
Nature's true sons, the friends of man and truth ! 
Whose song, suhliinely sweet, serenely gay. 
Amused my childhood, and inform'd my youth. 
Oh let your spirit ^till my hosoni soothe, 
Inspire my dreams, and my wild wanderings 

guide ; 
Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth, 
For well I know wherever ye reside. 
There harmony, and peace, and innocence abide. 

Ah me ! neglected on the lonesome plain, 
As yet poor Edwin never knew your lore, 
Save when against the winter's drenching rain, 
And driving snow, the cottage shut the door. 
Then, as instructed by tradition hoar. 
Her legend when the beldame 'gan impart. 
Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er, 
Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart; 
Much he the tale admired, but more the tuneful 
art. 

Various and strange was the long-winded tale ; 
And hall8,andknights,and feats of arms, display'd; 
Or merry swains, who quaff' the nut-brown ale. 
And sing enamour'd of the nut-brown maid; 
The moonlight revel of the fairy glade ; 
Or hags, that suckle an infernal brood, 
And ply in caves the unutterable trade 
'Midst fiends and spectres, quench the moon in 

blood. 
Yell in the midnight storm, or ride the infuriate 

flood. 

But when to horror his amazement rose, 
A gentler strain the beldame would rehearse, 
A tale of rural life, a tale of woes, 
The orphan-babes, and guardian uncle fierce. 
Oh cruel ! will no pang of pity pierce 
That heart, by lust of lucre .sear'd to stone? 
For sure, if aught of virtue last, or verse. 
To latest times shall tender souls bemoan 
Those hopeless orphan babes by thy fell arts 
undone. 

Behold, with berries smear'd, with brambles torn. 
The babes now famish'd lay them down to die: 
Amidst the howl of darksome woods forlorn, 
Folded in one another's arms they lie ; 
Nor friend, nor stranger, hears their dying cry: 
*' For from the town the man returns no more." 
But thou, who Heaven's just vengeance darest defy. 
This deed with fruitless tears shall soon deplore, 
When Death lays waste thy house, and flames 
consume thy store. 

A stifled smile of stern vindictive joy 
Brighten'd one moment Edwin's starting tear, 
" But why should gold man's feeble mind 

decoy, 
And innocence thus die by doom severe?" 
O Edwin ! while thy heart is yet sincere. 
The assaults of tlisconlent and doubt repel : 
Dark even at noontide is our mortal sphere ; 
But K't us hope ; to doubt is to rebel ; 
I <n us exult in hope, that all shall yet be well. 



Nor be thy generous indignation check'd. 
Nor check'd the tender tear to Misery given; 
From guilt s contagious power shall that protect. 
This soften and refine the soul for Heaven. 
But dreadful is their doom, whom doubt has 

driven 
To censure Fate, and pious Hope forego: 
Like yonder blasted boughs by lightning riven, 
Perfection, beauty, life, they never know. 
But frown on all that pass, a monument of woe. 

Shall he, whose birth, maturity, and age 
Scarce fill the circle of one summer day, — ■ 
Shall the poor gnat, with discontent and rage, 
Exclaim that Nature hastens to decay, 
If but a cloud obstruct the solar ray, 
If but a momentary shower descend ! 
Or shall frail man Heaven's dread decree gainsay, 
Which bade the series of events extend 
Wide through unnumber'd worlds, and ages with- 
out end ! 

One part, one little part, we dimly scan 
Through the dark medium of life's feverish 

dream ; 
Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan. 
If but that little part incongruous seem. 
Nor is that part perhaps what mortals deem ; 
Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise. 
Oh then renounce that impious self-esteem, 
That aims to trace th^ secrets of the skies : 
For thou art but of dust; be humble, and be 

wise. 

Thus Heaven enlarged his soul in riper years, 
For Nature gave him strength, and fire, to soar 
On Fancy's wing above this vale of tears; 
Where dark, cold-hearted sceptics, creeping, pore 
Through microscope of metaphysic lore: 
And much they grope for truth, but never hit. 
For why ? Their powers, inadeciuate before, 
'i'his idle art makes more and more unfit; 
Yet deem they darkness light, and their vain blun- 
ders wit. 

Nor was this ancient dame a foe to mirth : 
Her ballad, jest, and riddle's quaint device 
Oft cheer'd the shepherds round their social 

hearth ; 
Whom levity or spleen could ne'er entice 
To purchase chat, or laughter, at the price 
Of ileccncy. Nor let it faith exceed, 
That Nature forms a rustic taste so nice. 
Ah ! had tl.ey been of court or city breed. 
Such delicacy were right marvellous indeed. 

Oft when the winter storm had ceased to rave. 
He roam'd the snowy waste at even, to view 
'J'he clouds stupendous, from the Atlantic wave 
High-towering, sail along the horizon blue: 
Where 'midst the changeful scenery, ever new, 
Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries. 
More wildly great than ever pencil drew. 
Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size, 
And glittering cliils on cliffs, and fiery ramparts 



CHRISTOPHER ANSTEY. 



r27 



Theiicu musing onward to the sounding shore, 
The lone enthusiast oft would take his way, 
Listening, with pleasing dread, to the deep roar 
Of the wide-weltering waves. In hlack array 
When sul(ihurous clouds roH'd on the autumnal 

day, 
Even then he hastcn'd from the haunt of man, 
Along the trembling wilderness to stray. 
What time the lightning's fierce career began, 
And o'er Heaven's rending arch the rattling 

thunder ran. 

Responsive to the sprightly pipe, when all 
Iti sprightly dance the village youth were join'd, 
Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall, 
From the rude gambol far remote reclined. 
Soothed with the soft notes warbling in the 

wind. 
Ah, then all jollity seem'd noise and folly : 
To the pure soul by Fancy's fire refined, 
Ah, what is mirth but turbulence unholy. 
When with the charm compared of heavenly me- 
lancholy ! 

Is there a heart that music cannot melt! 

Alas ! how is that rugged heart forlorn ! 

Is there, who ne'er those mystic transports felt 

Of solitude and melancholy born 1 

He needs not woo the Muse ; he is her scorn. 

The sophist's rope of cobweb he shall twine ; 

Mope o'er the schoolman's peevish page; or 

mourn. 
And delve tor life in Mammon's dirty mine ; 
Sneak with the scoundrel fox.or grunt with glutton 

swine. 

For Edwin, Fate a nobler doom had plann'd ; 
Song was his favourite and first pursuit. 
The wdd harp rang to his adventurous hand. 
And languish'd to bis breath the plaintive flute. 



His infant Muse, though artless, was not mute: 
Of elegance as yet he took no care ; 
For this of time and culture is the fruit; 
And Edwin gain'd at last this fruit so rare: 
As in some future verse I purpose to declare. 

Meanwhile, whate'er of beautiful or new. 
Sublime or dreadful, in earth, sea, or sky. 
By chance, or search, was offer'd to liis view, 
He scann'd with curious and romantic eye. 
Whate'er of lore tradition could supply 
From Gothic tale, or song, or fable old. 
Roused him, still keen to listen and to pry. 
At last, though long by penury controH'd, 
And solitude, her soul his graces gan unfold. 

Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land. 
For many a long month lost in snow profound. 
When Sol from Cancer sends the season bland. 
And in their northern cave the storms are bound ; 
From silent mountains, straight, with startling 

sound. 
Torrents are hurl'd ; green hills emerge ; and lo, 
The trees with foliage, clifTs with flowers, are 

crown'd ; 
Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go , 
And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart 

o'erflow. 

Here pause, my Gothic lyre, a little while ; 
I'he leisure hour is all that thou canst claim. 
But on this verse if Montague* should smile. 
New strains ere long shall animate thy frame ; 
And her applause to me is more than fame; 
For still with truth accords her taste refined. 
At lucre or renown let others aim, 
I only wish to please the gentle mind, 
Whom Nature's charms inspire, and love of 
human kind. 



CHRISTOPHER ANSTEY. 



[Born, 1724. Died, 1803.J 



This light and amusing poet was the son of 
the Rev. Dr. Anstey, rector of Brinkeley, in Cam- 
bridgeshire, who had been a fellow of St. John's 
College, Cambridge. When very young, he was 
sent to school at Bury St. Edmunds. From 
thence he was removed to Eton, and placed at 
the fourth form, as an oppidan, and afterward on 
the foundation. He finished his studies at Eton 
with a creditable character, and in 1741 went as 
captain to the Mount. From thence he went to 
Cambridge, where he obtained some reputation 
by his Tripos verses. In 1745, he was admitted 
fellow of King's college, and in the following 
year took his bachelor's degree in the university. 
When he had nearly completed the terms of his 
qualification for that of master of arts, he was 
prevented from obtaining it in consequence of 
what his own son his biographer, calls a spirited 
and popular opposition, which he showed to the 



leading men of the university. The phrase of 
" popular and spirited opposition," sounds pro- 
mising to the curiosity ; but the reader must not 
expect too much, lest he should be disappointed 
by learning that this popular opposition was only 
his refusing to deliver certain declamations, which 
the heads of the university (unfairly it was 
thought) required from the bachelors of King's 
College. Anstey, as senior of the order of 
bachelors, had to deliver the first oration. He 
contrived to begin his speech with a rhapsody of 
adverbs, which, with no direct meaning, hinted a 
ridicule on the arbitrary injunction of the uni- 
versity rulers. They soon ordered him to dis- 
mount from the rostrum, and called upon him 
for a new declamation, which, as might be ex- 
pected, only gave him an opportunity of pointmy 

[* Mrs. Montague.] 



728 



CHRISTOPHER ANSTEY. 



finer irony in the shape of an apology. This 
affront was not forgotten hy his superiors ; and 
when he applied for his degree, it was refused 
to him. 

In the year 1756 he married Miss Calvert, 
sister to his oldest and most intimate friend John 
Calvert, Esq. of Albury Hall, in Hertfordshire, 
and sat in several successive parliaments for the 
horough of Hertford. Having succeeded, after 
his marriage, to his father's estate, he retired to 
the family seal in Cambridgeshire, and seems to 
hnve spent his days in that smooth happiness 
which gives life few remarkable eras. He was 
addicted to the sports of the field and the amuse- 
ments of the country, undisturbed by ambition, 
and happy in the possession of friends and for- 
tune. His first literary effort which was pub- 
lished, was his translation of Gray's Elegy in a 
Churchyard into Latin verse, in which he was 
assisted by Dr. Roberts, author of "Judah Re- 
stored." He was personally acquainted with 
Gray, and derived from him the benefit of some 
remarks on his translation. 

His first publication in English verse was 



•• The New Bath Guide," which appeared ir 
1766. The droll and familiar manner of the 
poem is original; but its leading characters are 
evidently borrowed from Smollett.* Ansley gave 
the copy price of the piece, which was j£200, as 
a charitalile donation to the hospital of Bath ; 
and Dodsley, to whom it had been sold, with re- 
markable generosity restored the copyright to 
its author, after it had been eleven years pub- 
lished. 

His other works hardly require the investi- 
gation of their date. In the decline of life he 
meditated a collection of his letters and poems; 
but letters recovered from the repositories of dead 
friends are but melancholy readings ; and, pro- 
bably overcome by the sensations which they ex- 
cited, he desisted from his collection. After a 
happy enjoyment of life, (during fifty years of 
which he had never been confined to bed, except 
one day, by an accidental hurt upon his leg,) he 
quietly resigned his existence, at the house of his 
son-in-law, Mr. Bosanquet, in his eighty-first 
year, surrounded by his family, and retaining his 
faculties to the last. 



FROM THE NEW BATH GUIDE. 



LETTER Xin. 



Mr. SiMPKiN B— N- 



-R— D, at ■ 



A PuHic Breakfast— Motives for the same — A List of the 
Company — A tender Scene — An unfortunate Incident. 

W HAT blessings attend, my dear mother, all those 
Who to crowds of admirers their persons expose ! 
Do the gods such a noble ambition inspire? 
Or gods do we make of each ardent desire ? 
Oh generous passion ! 'tis yours to afford 
The splendid assembly, the plentiful board ; 
To thee do I owe such a breakfast this morn. 
As I ne'er saw before since the hour I was born ; 
'Twas you made my Lord Ragamuffin come here, 
Who, they say, has been lately created a Peer, 
And to-day with extreme complaisance and re- 
spect ask'd 
All the people at Bath to a general breakfast. 

You've heard of my Lady Bunbutter, no doubt. 
How she loves an assembly, fandango, or rout ; 
No lady in London is half so expert 
At a snug private party her friends to divert; 
But they say that, of late, she's grown sick of 

the town. 
And often to Bath condescends to come down : 
Her Lailyship's favourite house is the Bear: 
Her chariot, and servants, and horses are there : 
My Lady declares that retiring is good ; 
As all with a separate maintenance should : 
For when you have put out the conjugal fire, 
' Tis time for all sensible folk to retire ; 

[* Anstey was the orignal, for Humphrey Clinker was 
not out till i;71, nor written before 1770. This inadver- 
tency of Mr. Campbell has been pointed out by Loi-d Byron 
in the Appendix to the 5th Canto of Don Juan. 

" Hut Anstey's diverting satire," says i-ir Walter Scott, 
" was but b slight sketch, compared to the finished and 



If Hymen no longer his fingers will scorch, 
Little Cupid for others can whip in his torch. 
So pert is he grown since the custom began 
To be married and parted as quick as you can. 
Now my Lord had the honour of coming down 

post. 
To pay his respects to so famous a toast; 
In hopes he her Ladyship's favour might win. 
By playing the part of a host at an inn. 
I'm sure he's a person of great resolution. 
Though delicate nerves, and a weak constitution ; 
For he carried us all to a place 'cross the river. 
And vow'd that the rooms were too hot for his 

liver : 
He said it would greatly our pleasure promote. 
If we all for Spring-gardens set out in a boat: 
I never as yet could his reason explain. 
Why we all sallied forth in the wind and the rain; 
For sure, such confusion was never yet known ; 
Here a cap and a hat, there a cardinal blown : 
While his Lordship, embroider'd and powder'd 

all o'er. 
Was bowing and handing the ladies ashore: 
How the misses did huddle and scuddle, and run: 
One would think to be wet must be very good fun • 
For by wagging their tails, they all seem'd to 

take pains 
To moisten their pinions like ducks when it rains; 
And 'twas pretty to see how, like birds of a feather. 
The people of quality flock'd all together; 
All pressing, addressing, caressing, and fond. 
Just the same as those animals are in a pond: 

elaborate manner in which Smollett has, in the first 
place, identitied his characters, and then fitted them with 
language, sentiments, and powers of observation, in exact 
correspondence with their talents, temper, condition, &iiid 
disposiUon."— i/«c. iV. Wwki, vol. iii. p. ICO.J 



Vou've read all their names in the news, I suppose, 
But, for fear you have not, take the list as it goes : 
There was Lady Greasewrister, 
And Madam Van-Twister 
Her Ladyship's sister ; 
Lord Cram, and Lord Vulture, 
Sir Brandish O'Culter, 
With Marshal Carozer, 
And old Lady Mouzer, 
And the great Hanoverian Baron Pansmowzer: 
Besides many others, who all in the rain went, 
On purpose to honour this great entertainment: 
The company made a most brilliant appearance, 
And ate bread-and-butter with great perseverance : 
All the chocolate, too, that my Lord set before 'em, 
The ladies despatch'd with the utmost decorum. 
Soft musical numbers were heard all around. 
The horns' and the clarions' echoing sound : 
Sweet were the strains, as odorous gales that 

blow 
O'er fragrant banks, where pinks and roses grow. 
That Peer was quite ravish'd, while close to his side 
Sat Lady Bunbutter, in beautiful pride! 
Oft turning his eyes, he with rapture survey'd 
All the powerful charms she so nobly display'd. 
As when at the feast of the great Alexander 
Timotheus, the musical son of Thersander, 
Breathed heavenly measures; 
The prince was in pain. 
And could not contain, 
W^hile Thais was sitting beside him ; 
But, before all his peers, 
Was for shaking the spheres, 
Such goods the kind gods did provide him ; 
Grew bolder and bolder. 
And cock'd up his shoulder. 
Like the son of great Jupiter Ammon, 
Till at length quite oppress'd. 
He sunk on her breast, 
And lay there as dead as a salmon. 
Oh had I a voice that was stronger than steel. 
With twice fifty tongues to express what I feel. 
And as many good mouths, yet I never could utter 
All the speeches my Lord made to Lady Bun- 
butter! 
So polite all the time, that he ne'er touch'd a bit. 
While she ate up his rolls and applauded his wit : 
For they tell me that men of true taste, when they 

treat. 
Should talk a great deal, but they never should eat : 
And if that be the fashion, I never will give 
Any grand entertainment as long as I live: 
For I'm of opinion 'tis proper to cheer 
The stomach and bowels, as well as the ear. 
^or me did the charming concerto of Abel 
liegale like the breakfast I saw on the table: 
I freely will own I the muffins preferr'd 
'l"o all the genteel conversation I heard. 
E'en though I'd the honour of sitting between 
My Lady Stufl-damask and Peggy Moreen, 
Who both flew to Bath in the nigluly machine. 
Cries Peggy, "This place is enchantingly pretty ; 
We never can see such a thing in the city : 



You may spend all your lifetime in Cateaton-street, 

And never so civil a gentleman meet; 

You may talk what you please ; you may search 

London through ; 
You may go to Carlisle's, and to Almanac's too: 
And I'll give you my head if you find such a host, 
For coffee, tea, chocolate, butter, and toast : 
How he welcomes at once all the world and his 

wife'. 
And how civil to folk he ne'er saw in his life !" — 
"These horns," cries my lady, "so tickle one's ear, 
Lord ! what would I give that Sir Simon was here ! 
To the next public breakfast Sir Simon shall go, 
For I find here are folks one may venture to know : 
Sir Simon would gladly his Lordship attend, 
And my Lord would be pleased with so cheerful 

a friend." 
So when we had wasted more bread at a breakfast 
Than the poor of our parish have ate for this week 

past, 
I saw, all at once, a prodigious great throng 
Come bustling, and rustling, and jostling along: 
For his Lordship was pleased that the company 

now 
To my Lady Bunbutter should curt'sy and bow: 
And my Lady was pleased too, and seemed vastly 

proud 
At once to receive all the thanks of a crowd : 
And when, like Chaldeans, we all had adored 
This beautiful image set up by my Lord, 
Some few insignificant folk went away, 
Just to follow the employments and calls of the 

day; 
But those who knew better their time how to 

spend, 
The fiddling and dancing all chose to attend. 
Miss Clunch and Sir Toby performed a Cotillion, 
Just the same as our Susan and Bob the postillion ; 
All the while her mamma was expressing her joy. 
That her daughter the morning so well could 

employ. 
— Now why should the Muse, my dear mother, 

relate 
The misfortunes that fall to the lot of the great 1 
As homeward we came — 'tis with sorrow you'll 

hear 
What a dreadful disaster attended the Peer: 
For whether some envious god had decreed 
That a Naiad should long to ennoble her breed ; 
Or whether his Lordship was charm'd to behold 
His face in the stream, like Narcissus of old ; 
In handing old Lady Bumfidget and daughter. 
This obsequious Lord tumbled into the water; 
But a nymph of the flood brought him safe to the 

boat. 
And I left all the ladies a cleaning his coat. 

Thus the feast was concluded, as far as I hear, 
To the great satisfaction of all that were there. 
Oh may he give breakfasts as long as he stays, 
For I ne'er ate a better in all my born days. 
In haste I conclude, &c. &c. &c. 

S B— •«— «r-D 

Bath, 1766. 



APPENDIX. 



A. 

WHAT DID DENIIAM AND WALLER EFFECT FOR ENGLISH 
VERSIFICATION ? 



As every poet distinguished for his cultivation 
of our couplet nurnliers that lias touched upon the 
Art of Poetry, or made selections from our poets, 
has spoken of our heroics with rhyme as our only 
true poetic measure, indeed as if we had no other, 
and made Denham and Widler the fathers of our 
versification, a refutation of an absurdity perhaps 
unparalleled in the whole history of Engli>h litera- 
ture will not he without its use. An assertion trace- 
aiile in fifty places to Dryden, sanctioned in some 
way by Prior,* and confirmed by the whole scope 
and tendency of Dr. Johnson's writings : but not, 
it is right to add, without its other assistances ; for 
when Goldsmith published his Select Beauties of 
British Poetry, he found no poet to cull a single 
flower from before Waller — ^a more contracted 
taste, or a slighter knowledge of ihe art he himself 
excelled in, it is impossible to imagine. 

'J"o say that Waller and Denham are the fathers 
of English versification is absurd — 'Unless all ver- 
sification is confined to the couplet. Who has 
im[)roved, let us ask, on the versification of Spen- 
ser, or of any of the stanza measures of the refgn 
of Elizabeth — has Prior, or has 'I'homson, or has 
Beattie, or has Burns? Who has improved 
upon the dramatic blank verse of Shakspeare, 
of Fletiher, or of Jonson — has Otway, has 
Southerne, or has Rowe ? Has Jonson or Carew 
been excelled in lyrical ease by Waller or liord 
Laiisdowne 1 The Gondibert of Dnvenant or the 
Annus Mirabilis of Dryden or the Elegy of Gray 
are not more musical in their numbers than the 
quiitrains of Davies, who never leaves the ear, as 
Johnson says, ungratified. 

W hat did the blank verse of Milton gain in its 
m(/st mellifluous passages from the rhymes of 
Denham or of Waller] Nothmg! Yet Dryden 
can lie found to assert, with all the confidence of 
truth, that unless Waller had written, no one could 
have written in the age in which he wrote with 



* I'Hor Piiys tb»t Darevavt and Waller improved our 
versH.catiun — not, an he is made to pay by Johns-on and 
others, />(-»/»(»( and Waller, I^avenaut'a muubure was the 
heroic with alternate rhyme. 



any thing like success, when the surpassing f.lory 
of Dryden's age was a poem setting at defiance, 
in its preface and its numbers, the very principle 
of versification that Denham and Waller adopted, 
and Dryden sanctioned and improved. 

" Well-placing of words for the sweetness of 
pronunciation was not known," says Dryden, " till 
Mr. Waller introduced it." — "The excellence and 
dignity of rhyme were never fully known till .Mr. 
Waller taught it in lyric and Sir John Denham 
in epic poesy." — "Our numbers," he says in 
another place and at a later period of life, "were 
in their nonage till Waller and Denham ap- 
peared," and that "the sweetness of English 
verse was never unilerstood or practised by our 
fathers." But Dryden's criticisms are a series 
of contradictions: "Blank verse," he says, "is 
acknowledged to he too low for a poem, nay 
more, for a paper of verses;" yet he is an a<lmirer 
of Paradise Lo.-t: — Denham and Waller did every 
thing for English versification — yet "Sjjenser and 
Fairfax were great masters of our language, and 
saw much farther into the beauties of our num- 
bers than those who immediately followed them;" 
and " Many besides himself had heard our famous 
Waller own that he derived the harmony of his 
numbers from the Godfrey of Bulloigne, which 
was turned into English by Mr. Fairfax." He is 
now for the new way of writing scenes in rhyme, 
now without, now for couplets, and now for qua- 
trains; whatever he had in hand was best ; rhyme 
invigorated thought and now constrained it — sug- 
gested or cramped ideas as his fancy found it, 
when writing, to exhibit his present performance 
to the greatest advantage. 

Our ten-syllable rhymed verse, or heroic with 
rhyme, was used by Chaucer in his Palamon and 
Arcite, by Douglas in his translation of Virgil, 
and by Spenser in the tale of Mother Hubiiard. 
Donne, Hall, and Marston used it in their Satires; 
Ben Jonson occasionally in his epigrams or Com- 
mendatory Poems; Beaumont in his Bosworth 
Field; Drummond in his Poem on Prince Henry, 
and his Forth Feasting ; and Guiding, Sandys, and 
731 



■32 



APPENDIX. 



May in their translations from Ovid, Virgil, and 
Lucan. Denham's first publication was in 1642, 
and Waller's Poems were not collectively in 
print before 1645. The following extracts are 
brought together to show by examples in what 
state, when they began to write, the reputed 
fathers of English verse found the cultivation of 
our couplet measure; how little they did ; and 
how much they left to Dryden, to Prior, and Pope 
to do. " By knowing the state," says Johnson, 
"in which Waller found our [loetry. the reader 
may judge how much he improved it." 

Donne is always a rugged versifier. He has the 
restraint of rhyme without its emphasis; and the 
fetters which others wear like bracelets are on him 
inconvenient chains and incumbrances. The 
lines which follow are in his most melodious 
flow. 

When I behold a stream, which from the spring 
Doth, with doubtful melodious murmuring, 
Or in a speechless slumber, calmly ride 
Her wedded channel's bosom, and there chide, 
And bend her brows, and swell, if any bough 
Do but stoop down to kiss her utmost brow : 
Yet if her often-gnawing kisses win 
The traitorous banks to gape and let her in, 
She rusheth violently and doth divorce 
Her from her native and her long-kept course. 
And roars and braves it, and in gallant scorn. 
In flattering eddies promising return, 
She flouts her channel, which thenceforth is dry ; 
Then say I, " that is she, and this am I." — Ehgy, vL 

Hall had a better ear than Donne — his 
words are better placed, and his pauses infi- 
nitely more select. What follows was printed 
in 1597. 

Time was, and that was term'd the time of gold. 
When world and time were young that now are old, 
(When quiet Saturn, sway'd the mace of lead. 
And pride was yet unborn, and yet unbred). 
Time was, that whiles the autumn-fuU did last. 
Our hungry sires gaped for the fallin" mast 
Uf the Dodonian oaks. 
Could no unhusked acorn leave the tree, 
But there was challenge made whose it might be. 
Their royal plate was clay, or wood, or stone ; 
The vulgar, save his hand, else he had none. 
Their only cellar was the neighbour brook ; 
None did for better care, for better look. 
The king's pavilion was the grassy green 
Under safe shelter of the shady treen. 
Under each bank men laid their limbs along. 
Not wishing any ease, not fearing wrong : 
Clad with their own, as they were made of old. 
Not fearing shame, not feeling any cold. 

Satires, B. Ui. Sat. i. 

In the point, volubility, and vigour of Hall's 
numbers, says Mr. Campbell, we might frequently 
imagine ourselves perusing Dryden. 

Another scorns the home-spun thread of rhymes, 
Match'd with the lofty feet of elder times : 
Give me the number'd verse that Virgil sung. 
And Virgil's self shall speak the English tongue: 



" ilanhood and garboils shall he chant," with changed feet 

And head-strong dactyls making music meet: 

The nimble dactyl striving to out-go 

The drawling spondees, pacing it below ; 

The lingering spondees labouring to delay 

The breathless dactyls with a sudden stay. 

Satires, B. i. Sat ri. 

" Hall's versification," says Warton, " is equally 
energetic and eU'gant; and the fabrics of the 
couplets approaches to the modern standard." 

Great is the folly of a feeble brain, 
O'erruled with love, and tyrannous disdain : 
For love, however in the basest breast 
It breeds high thoughts that feed the fancy best. 
Yet is he blind, and leads poor fools awry, 
While they hang gazing on their mistress' eye. 
The lovesick poet, whose importune prayer 
Repulsed is with resolute despair, 
Ilopeth to conquer his disdainful dame, 
With public plaints of his conceived flame 
Then pours he forth in patched sonnettings, 
His love, his lust, and loathsome Batterings : 
As though the starving world hang'd on his sleeve. 
When once he smiles to laugh,and when he sighs to grieve 
Careth the world, thou love, thou live or die ? 
Careth the world how fair thy fair one be 1 
Fond witrwal, that would'st load thy witless head 
With timely horns, before thy bridal bed. 
Then can he term his dirty ill-faced bride 
Lady, and queen, and virgin deified : 
Be she all sooty black, or berry brown, 
She's white as morrow's milk, or flakes new blown. 
And though she be some dunghill drudge at home, 
Yet can he her resign some refuse room 
Amidst the well-known stars : or if not there. 
Sure will he saint her in his calendar. 

Satires, B. i. Sat. vii. 

Marston is below Hall, and scarcely above Donne. 
Ben Jonson. however, is vigorous at times, and 
though too frequently found carrying the sense in 
an ungraceful way from one verse into another, is 
musical after a kind. 

TO WILLIAM CAMDEN. 

Camden ! most reverend head, to whom I owe 
All that I am in arts, all that I know; 
(How nothing's that!) to whom my country owes 
The great renown, and name wherewith she goes I 
Than thee the age sees not that thing more grave, 
More high, more holy, that she more would crave, 
What name, what skill, what faith hast thou in things' 
What sight in searching the most antique springs 1 
What weight and what authority in thy speech I 
Men scarce can make that doubt, but thou canst teacfa. 
Pardon free truth, and let thy modesty. 
Which conquers all, be once overcome by thee. 
Many of thine, this better could, than I; 
But for their powers, accept my piety. 



TO HEAVEN. 
Good and great God ! can I not think of Thee 



But it must straight my melancholy be ? 

Is it interpreted in me disease, 

That laden with my sins, I seek for ease? 



APPENDIX. 



r33 



Oh be Thou witness, that the reins dost know 

And hearts of all, if I be snd for show. 

And judge me after : if I dare pretend 

To aught but grace, or aim at other end. 

As Thou art all, so be Thou all to me, 

First, Midst, and Last, conyertcd. One and Three 1 

My faith, my hope, my love, and in this state 

My Judge, my Witness, and my Advocate. 

Where have I been this while exiled from Thee, 

And whither rapt, now Thou but stoop'st to me ? 

Dwell, dwell here still ! oh, being everywhere, 

How can I doubt to find thee ever here ? 

I know my state both full of shame and scorn, 

Conceived in sin, and unto labour born. 

Standing with fear, and must with horror fall, 

And destined unto judgment after all. 

1 feel my griefs too, and there scarce is ground, 

Upon my flesh t' inflict another wound ; 

Yet dare I not complain, or wish for death. 

With holy Paul, lest it be thought the breath 

Of discontent; or that these prayers be 

For weariness of life, not love of Thee. 

In the evenness, sweetness, and flow of his 
numbers. Sir John Beaumont is very excellent. 

Why should vain sorrow follow him with tears. 
Who .shakes off burdens of declining years? 
AVhose thread exceeds the usual bounds of life, 
And feels no stroke of any fatal knife? 
The Destinies enjoin their wheels to run, 
Until the length of his whole course be spun : 
No envious cloud obscures his struggling light. 
Which sets contented at the point of night : 
Yet this large time no greater profit brings. 
Than every little moment whence it springs. 
Unless employ'd in works deserving praise ; 
Most wear out many years and live few days. 

* * * * * 

His memory hath a surer ground than theirs. 
Who trust in stately tombs, or wealthy heirs. 

To the. Memory of Ferdinando Pulton, Esq. 

The following lines are far from halting, and 
the couplet restricts the sense after the epigram- 
matic fashion of Pope and Darwin. 

He makes sweet music, who in serious lines 
Light dancing tunes, and heavy prose declines. 
When verses like a milky torrent flow. 
They equal temper in the poet show. 
He paints true forms, who with a modest heart 
Gives lustre to his work, yet covers art. 
Uneven swelling is no way to fame. 
But solid joining of the perfect frame : 
So that no curious finger there can find, 
The former chinks, or nails that fastly bind. 
Yet most would have the knots of stitches seen. 
And holes where men may thrust their hands between. 
On halting feet the ragged poem goes. 
With accents neither fitting verse or prose. 
The style mine ear with more contentment fills 
tn lawyers' pleadings or physicians' bills, Ac. 

To James I. concerning the true form of 
English Poetry. 

■>' William Browne," says Hallam, " is an early 
model of ease and variety in the regular couplet. 
Many passages in his unequal poem are hardly 
excelled by the Fables of Dryden." But Drum- 



mond of Hawthornden is by far his superior. His 
Forth Feasting, says the same competent autho- 
rity, "is perfectly harmonious; and what is very 
remarkable in that age, he concludes the verse 
at every couplet with the regularity of Pope." 
The Forth is made to congratulate King James. 

To virgins, flowers— to sun-burnt earth the rain- 
To mariners, fair winds amid the main. 
Cool shades to pilgrims, which hot glances bum, 
Are not so pleasing as thy West return. 
That day, dear prince, which robb'd us of thy sight 
(Day ? No, but darkness and a dusky night,) 
Did fill our breast with sighs, our eyes with tears. 
Turn minutes to sad months, sad months to years : 
Trees left to flourish, meadows to bear flowers, 
Brooks hid their heads within their sedgy bowers : 
Fair Ceres cursed our trees with barren frost. 
As if again she had her daughter lost : 
The Muses left our groves, and for sweet songs 
Sate sadly silent, nor did weep their wrongs : 

Oh virtue's pattern 1 glory of our times! 
Sent of past days to expiate the crimes; 
Great king, but better far than thou art great, 
Whom state not honours, but who honours state , 
By wonder borne, by wonder first install'd. 
By wonder after to new kingdoms call'd ; 
Young, kept by wonder from home-bred alarms. 
Old, saved by wonder from pale traitors' barms ; 
To be for this thy reign, which wonders brings, 
A king of wonder, wonder unto kings. 
If Pict, Dane, Norman, thy smooth yoke had seen. 
Pict, Dane, and Norman had thy subjects been : 
If Brutus knew the bliss thy rule doth give, 
Even Brutus joy would under thee to live : 
For thou thy people dost so dearly love. 
That they a father, more than prince, thee prove. 

Ah ! why should Isis only see thee shine ? 
Is not the Forth, as well as Isis, thine ? 
Though Isis vaunt she hath more wealth in store. 
Let it suflice thy Forth doth love thee more : 
Though she for beauty may compare with Seine,. 
For swans and sea-nymphs with imperial Kheine ; 
Yet, for the title may be claim'd in thee, 
Nor she, nor all the world, can match with me. 
Now, when, by honour drawn, thou shall away 
To her, already jealous of thy stay ; 
When in her amorous arms she doth thee fold. 
And dries thy dewy hairs with hers of gold. 
Much asking of thy fare, much of thy sport, 
Much of thine absence, long, howe'er so short, 
And chides, perhaps, thy coming to the North, 
Loath not to think on thy much-loving Forth: 
Oh I love these bounds, where of thy royal stem, 
More than a hundred wore a diadem. 
So ever gold and bays thy brows adorn, 
So never time may see thy race outworn ; 
So of thine own still mayst thou be desired. 
Of strangers fear'd, redoubted and admired; 
So memory thee praise, so precious hours 
May character thy name in starry flowers ; 
So may thy high exploits at last make even 
With earth thy empire, glory with the heaven ! 

There is not much melody in May— he is more 
vigorous than musical, and writes as if anxious 
rather for the strength of his thoughts than the 
3M ' 



734 



APPENDIX. 



flow of his numbers. But S-.<ndys is called by 
Dryileii "the best versifier of the former age."* 
Waller, when he condescended to acknowledge 
Fairfax for his model, might have owned his 
obligations to the Ovid of Sandys. 

And now the work is ended, which. Jove's rage, 
Nor fire, nor sword, shall raze, nor eating age. 
Come when it will my death's uncertain hour. 
Which of this body only hath the power, 
Yet shall my better part tran.scend tlie slty, 
And my immortal name .shall never die, 
For wher.oe'er the Roman E.igles fpread 
Their conquering wing.?, I shall of all be read : 
And, if we Poets true presages give, 
I in uiy Fame eternally shall live. 

Ovid. B. XV. fol. Oxfd. 1632. 

Deep in a bay, an isle with stretch"d-out sides, 
A harbour malces, and breaks the justling tides : 
The parting floods into a land-lock'd sound 
Their streams discharge, with rocks environ'd round : 
Whereof two, equal lofty, threat the skies. 
Under whose lee the safe sea silent lies : 
Their brows with dark and trembling woods array'd, 
Whose spreading branches cast a dreadful shade. 
Within the hanging rock a cave well known 
To sacred sea-nymphs, bench'd with living stone. 
In fliuntjiins fruitful. Here no hawser bound 
The shaking ships, nor anchor broke the ground. 
Hither ji^^neas, &c. 

Virgil. B. i. Ed. 1632. 

Fenton, anxious to exalt his favourite Waller, 
and make good the praise he had awarded him 
as — 

Maker and model of melodious verse — 

would seem to have assigned to some of the poems 
of Waller too early a date; dates, which their 
titles rather than their contents would justify him 
in assigning. Johnson has noticed this, and very 
properly. " Neither of these pieces, "t he says, 
"tlmt seem to carry their own dates, could have 
been the sudden effusion of fancy. In the verses 
on the Prince's escape, the prediction of his 
marriage with the Princess of France must have 
been written after the event ; in the other, the 
promises of the king's kindness to the descendants 
of IJuckinghaiTi, which couM not be properly 
{)raised till it had appeared by its effects, show 
that time was taken for revision and improve- 
ment. It is not known that they were published 
till they appeared long afterward with other 
poems.'' 

'J'his is as curious as it is convincing. Nor is 
it less so, that the flow o( Waller was the result 
o( hilxiur, not an inherent melody — for the feli- 
city of numbers so much dwelt upon in his mis- 
called early productions, (first known to have 
been jjrinted in the poet's fortieth year,) is not 
found in the only printed poem of his before the 
famous 45; for his verses "Upon Ben Jonson," 
written and printed in 1637-8, are wanting in all 

*M alone, vol. iv. 588. 

t " I f the danger His Majesty (being Prince') escaped in 
the road at St. AndiTO," and "on His Majesty's recei>iug 
the new of the Duke of Buckingham's death." 



his after excellences. What follows is inferior 
to what had been done before him : — 

Mirror of poets! mirror of our age ! 
Which her whole face beholding on thy stage, 
PIea.«ed and displeaiied with her own faults, endures 
A remedy like those whom music cures. 
Thou not alone those various iucIinationB 
Which nature gives to ages, sexes, nations, 
Hast traced with thy all-resembling pen. 
But all that custom hath imposed on men, 
Or ill-got habits, which distort them so, 
That scarce the brother can the brother know, 
Is represented to the wondering eyes 
Of all that see or read thy comedies. 
Whoever in those glasses looks, may find 
The spots return'd, or graces, of his mind; 
And, by the help of .so divine an art. 
At leisure view and dress his nobler part. 
Narcissus, cozen'd by that flattering well. 
Which nothing could but of his beauty tell. 
Hud liere, discovering the deform'd estate 
Of his fond mind, pre.served himself with hate. 
But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad 
In flesh and blood so well, that Plato had 
Beheld, what his high fancy once embraced. 
Virtue with colours, speech, and motion graced. 

Jonsonits Vtrbius. 1638. 

This is not above the level of other poems in 
the same collection ; yet the man who could 
write this way in 1638, is supposed to have 
written fifteen years before with a melody which 
he never afterward surpassed. 

The early translations of Denham have all the 
faults of youth and all the faults of the age in 
which they were written. His Co(iper''s Hill 
was an immense stride, in language and in 
nundiers, though the first edition of 1642 wants 
much of the after sweetness infused into it. 
'J'his is not superior to Sandys (we quote from 
the first edition). 

As those who raised in body, or in thought 
Above the earth, or the air's middle vault, 
Behold how winds and storms, and meteors grow, 
How clouds condense to rain, congeal to snow, 
And see the thunder form'd, before it tear 
The air, secure from danger and from fear ; 
So raised above the tumult and the crowd 
I see the city in a thicker cloud 
Of business, than of smoke, where men like ants 
Toil to prevent imaginary wants ; 
Yet all in vain, increasing witli their store 
Their vast desires, but make their wants the more; 
As food to unsound lx)dies, though it please 
The appetite, feeds only the disease. 

Nor is "The Flight of the Stag," from the same 
poem, much superior: — 

Wearied, forsaken and pursued at last. 
All safety in despair of safety placed, 
Courage he thence assumes, resolved to bear 
All their assaults, since 'tis in vain to fear. 
But wlicin he fees the eager (base renew'd. 
Himself by dogs, the dogs by men pursued, 
A\ hen nei her speeil, nor art, nor fiiends, or force 
Could help him, toward the stream he bends his course; 



APPENDIX. 



736 



Hoping the lesser beasts would not essay 
An element more mercileFB than they : — 
But fearless they pursue, nor can the flood 
Quench their dire thirst, alasl they thirst for blood! 

There are many liarmonious passages in Quarles' 
Emblenies, lirst printed it is said in 1635, though 
the edition here quoted is the Cambridge copy of 
1643. 

Not eat? Not taste? Not touch ? Not cast an eye 
Upon the fruit of this fair Tree ? And why ? 
V hy eat'f-t thou not what Heaven ordain'd for food? 
Or caust thou think that bad which Heaven cull'd good ? 
AVhy was it made, if not to be enjoy'd ? 
Nej^lert of favours makes a favour void. 
M'hat sullen star ruled my untimely birth. 
That would not lend my days one hour of mirth! 
How oft have these bare knees been bent, to gain 
The slender alms of one poor smile, in vain! 
How often tired with the fastidious light, 
Have my faint lips implored the shades of night? 
How often liave my mighty torments pray'd 
For lingering twilight, glutted with the shade? 
Day worse than night, night worse than day appears; 
lu fears I spend my nights, my days in tears : 



I moan unpitied, groan without relief; 
There is nor end, nor measure of my grief 
The smiling tiower salutes the day ; it grows 
Untouched with care ; it neither spins nor sows. 
Oh that my tedious life were like this flower. 
Or freed from grief, or finifh'd with an hour! 
%Vhy was I born ? Vhy was I born a man ? 
And why proportion'd by so large a span? 
Or why suspended by the common lot. 
And being born to die, why die I not? 
Ah me! why is my sorrow wasted breath 
Denied the easy privilege of death? 
The branded slave, that tugs the weary oar, 
Obtains the Sabbath of a welcome shore. 

Here let us stop. That Denham and Wallei 
improved this kind of versification, and that 
Dryden perfected it, there is no one to douht ot 
deny. But the debt that is due to Denham and 
Waller has been strangely overrated ; they were 
not the fathers of this kind of verse, but the 
succes.sful cultivators; and so far were they from 
improving our versification generally, that every 
kind of metre, the couplet excepted, was written 
with greater harmony ami excellence before they 
wrote, than it was in their age or has .since been. 



ON THE SALE OF "PARADISE LOST." 



" The slow sale," says Johnson, " and tardy 
reputation of Paradise Lost have been always 
mentioned as evidences of neglected merit, and 
of the uncertainty of literary fame; and inquiries 
have been made, and conjectures ofl'ered, ai>out 
the causes of its long obscurity and late reception. 
But has the case been truly stated 1 Have not 
lamentation and wonder been lavished on an evil 
that was never felt ? 

"'JMiat in the reigns of Charles and James the 
•Paradise Lost' received no public acclamations, 
is readily conlessed. Wit and Literature were 
on the side of the Court: and who that solicited 
favour or fashion would venture to praise the 
defender of the regicides? All that he himself 
could think his due, from evil tongues in evil days, 
was that reverential silence which was generously 
jircserved. But it cannot be inferred, that his 
Poem was not read, or not, however unwillingly, 
admired." 

"'J'he sale," he goes on to say, "if it he con- 
sidered, will justify the public. Those who have 
no power to judge of past times but by their own, 
should always doubt their conclusions. The call 
for books was not in Milton's age what it is in the 
present. 'l"o read was not then a general amuse- 
ment ; neillier traders noroften gentlemen thought 
themselves disgraced by ignorance. 'J'he women 
had not then aspired to hterature, nor was every 
house su|)plicd with a closet of knowledge. Those 
indeed who professed learning were not less 



learned than at any other time ; but of that 
middle race of studetits who read for pleasure 
or accomplishment, and who buy the numerous 
products of modern typogra[ihy, the number was 
then comparatively small. To prove the paucity 
of readers, it may be sufficient to remark, that the 
nation had been satisfied from 1623 t<i 16()4, that 
is forty-one years, with only two editions of the 
works of Shakspeare, which proballly did. not to- 
gether make one thousand copies. 

"The sale," he adds, "of thirteen hundred 
copies in two years, in opposition to so much 
recent enmity, and to a style of versification new 
to all, and disgusting to many, was an uncommon 
example of the prevalence of genius. 'J'he de- 
mand did not immediately increase ; for many 
more readers than were supplied at first the 
nation did not afl'ord. Only three thousand were 
sold in eleven years; for it forced its way without 
assistance; its admirers did not dure to publish 
their opinion ; and the opportunities now given 
of attracting notice by advertisements were then 
very few; the means of proclaiming the publica- 
tion of new books have been produced by that 
gcjieral literature which now pervades the nation 
through all its ranks." 

In answer to what Johnson has advanced, let 
us ask in his own words, "Has the case been 
truly stated!" 'i'he century that was satisfied 
with but two editions of Shakspeare in forty-one 
years, called for three of Paradise Lost in (e/i, 



736 



APPENDIX. 



and three of Prince Arthur in two. "That Prince 
Arthur found readers," says Johnson, "is certain ; 
for in two years it had three editions; a very un- 
common instance of favourable reception, at a 
time when literary curiosity was yet confined to 
particular classes of the nation." But it was no 
uncommon instance, for the same age demanded 
edition after edition of Cowley, of Waller, of Flat- 
man, and of Sprat. There was no paucity of 
readers : the sale of Paradise Lost was slow 
because it was not to the taste of the times: our 
very plays were in rhyme; and the public looked 
with wonder on Shakspeare when improved by 
Sliadwell, Ravenscroft, and Tate. Dryden, who 
wrote when Cowley was in the full blaze of his 
reputation, and Mdton neglected and unknown, 
lived long enough to see and tell of a distinct 
change in public opinion, and Milton stand where 
Cowley had stood. 

That the sale of thirteen hundred copies of a 
three-shilling book in two years was an uncommon 
example of the prevalence of genius, Mr. Words- 
worth was among the first to disprove. Yet so 
difficult is it to eradicate an error insinuatingly 
advanced by a popular author, that Johnson's 
overthrown statement has been printed without 
contradiction in every edition of his Lives, and 
has found an additional stronghold for its per- 
petuity in the Works of Lord Byron. "Milton's 
politics kept him down," says Byron; "but the 
epigram of Dryden, and the very sale of his work, 
in proportion to the less reading time of its publi- 
cation, prove him to have been honoured by his 
contemporaries."* 

But Blackmore, who wrote when literary curi- 
osity was yet confined, if we may believp Johnson, 
to particular classes of the nation, has told us in 
an acknowledged work that Paradise Ivost lay 
many years ■unspoken of and entirely disregarded. 
No better testimony could possibly be wished for; 
and as the passage has hitherto passed without 
extract or allusion, we shall quote it at length : 
"It must be. acknowledged," says Sir Richard 
Blackmore, "that till about forty years ago Great 
Britain was barren of critical learning, though 
fertile in excellent writers ; and in particular had 
so little taste for epic poetry, and were so unac- 
quainted with the essential properties and peculiar 
beauties of it, that Paradise Lost, an admirable 
work of that kind, published by Mr. Milton, the 
great ornament of his age and country, lay many 
years unspoken of and entirely disregarded, till at 
length it happened that some persons of greater 
delicacy and judgment found out the merit of 
that excellent poem, and by communicating their 
sentiments to their friends, propagated the esteem 
of the author, who soon acquired universal ap- 
plause."! 

To strengthen Blackmore in a position which 



is the very reverse of Johnson, there are othei 
authorities and circumstances, less curious, it is 
true, but still of interest. " Never any poet," writes 
Dennis, "left a greater reputation behind him 
than Mr. Cowley, while Milton remained obscure, 
and known but to few. "J "When Milton first 
published his famous poem," Swift writes to Sir 
Charles Wogan, "the first edition was long going 
off; few either read, liked, or understood it, and 
it gained ground merely by its merit." 

But it had other assistance: " It was your lord- 
ship's encouraging" (writes Hughes to Lord So- 
mers) " a beautiful edition of Paradise Lost that 
I first brought that incomparable poem to be gene- 
rally known and esteemed."§ This was in 1688 ; 
I and such, if we may judge the present by the 
I past, was then the influence of Lord Somers, 
that in a dedication of Swift's Tale of a Ttib to 
the same great man, the bookseller says, with 
ill-concealed satisfaction and in a very grateful 
strain, " Your IjOrdship's name on the front, in 
capital letters, will at any time get off one 
edition." Whatever Somers did, the poem had 
made no great way till Philips published his 
Splendid Shilling, Addison his translation from 
Virgil, and his delightful papers in The Spec- 
tator, that seem to have written it into repu- 
tation. 

True it is, we must add, that it had been 
called by Dryden in 1674, when its author was 
but newly in his grave, "one of the greatest, 
most noble, and most sublime poems, which 
either the age or nation has produced ;'"|| that 
The Stale of Innocence was suggested by it; that 
Dryden, the most popular of living poets, and 
the great critic of our nation, had repeatedly 
published his high approval, and, better slill, 
had turned his glorious epigram in its praise ; 
nay more, that the Earl of Roscommon, who was 
dead in 1684, had written in Milton's measure 
and manner.lT Yet Johnson would have us be- 
lieve that its admirers did not dare to publish 
their opinions ! But all were not of his way 
of thinking; and Rymer, who was in poetry 
what his name would denote, could speak of it 
in 1678, as "that Paradise Lost of Milton's, 
which some are pleased to call a poem ;"** and 
Prior and Montague, of its author, in 1687 as "a 
rough unhewn fellow, that a man must sweat to 
read him."tt 

This was the general feeling of the age ; and 
the truth is, as Sir Walter Scott has observed.^:}: 
that the coldness with which Milton's mighty 
epic was received upon the first publication, is 
traceable to the character of its author, so ob- 
noxious for his share in the government of 
Cromwell, to the turn of the language, so diffe- 
rent from that of the age, and the seriousness of 
a subject so discordant with its lively frivolities. 



* Works, vol. V. p. 15. f Essays, 8to. 1716. 

I Familiiir Letters. 

S Spenser's M'orks, 12mo. 1715. Dedication. 
Pi. Wiirl.s by JUalnne, yol.ii. p. 397. In another place 
(vol. ii. p. 403) he puts Stilton on the same footing with 
Homer, Virgil, .ind Tasso. Thi.s was in 1675. 
«f See page 331 of this volume. 



** Letter to Fleetwood Shepherd on the Tragedies of the 
Last A;/e, p. 143. 

tt'l'lie Hind and the Panther Transversed, *c. Bnyes 
says, after ijuoting a liquid line, " I writ this line for 
the ladies. 1 hate such a rough unhewn fellow as Mil- 
ton;' Ac. 

tt Miic. Pr. Wtn-ls, vol. i. p. 141. 



APPENDIX. 



73? 



A Christian poem, that should have found its 
greatest admirers and received its warmest ad- 
vancement from the Established Church, met 
there with open and avowed opposition. Milton, 
hateful as he was to the churchmen for the 
violence of his political tenets, encountered in the 
whole collected body of established clergy, that 
dislike which Sprat when Dean of Westminster 
professed to feel at the mention of his name, — 
a name too odious, as he said, to be engraven 
on the walls of a Christian church. What the 



clergy should have read, honoured, and en- 
couraged for their cloth, if not for their con- 
science' sake, was left in *he same disregarded 
state by the laity, who did not profess or wish 
for once to be w ser than chose whose duty it 
was to direct tijpir minds to good and holj 
bo( ks, and Milton woiked 'lis way against every 
obstacle slowly but surely No poetii ever ap- 
peared in in age less fitted or less inclinea 
to read, like, or understand it, than did Para 
disc Lost.* 



c. 



ANNE COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA, 



Was the daughter of Sir William Kingsmill of 
Sidmonton in the county of Southampton, maid 
of honour to the Duchess of York, and wife to 
Heneage Earl of Winchelsea. A collection of 
h^r poems was printed in 1713; several still re- 
main unpublished. 

" It is remarkable," says Wordsworth, " that 



excepting the Nocturnal Reverie, and a pas- 
sage or two in the Windsor Forest of Pope, 
the poetry of the period intervening between 
the publication of Paradise Lost and The Sea 
sons does not contain a single new image of 
external nature." 



A NOCTURNAL REVERIE. 

In such a night, when every louder wind 
Is to its distant cavern safe confined ; 
And only gentle Zephyr fans his wings, 
And lonely Philomel still waking sings; 
Or from some tree, famed for the owl's delight, 
She, hollowing clear, directs the wanderer right; 
In such a night, when parsing clouds give place, 
Or thinly vail the heavens' mysterious face ; 
When in some river, overhung with green. 
The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen ; 
When fi-eshen'd grass now bears itself upright. 
And makes cool banks to pleaaing rest invite. 
Whence springs the woodbine, and the bramble-rose, 
And where the sleepy cowslip shelter'd grows ; 
Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes, 
Yet chequers still with red the dusky brakes ; 
When seatter'd glow-worms, but in twilight fine, 
Show trivial beauties watch their hour to shine ; 
Whilst Salisbury stands the test of every light. 
In perfect charms and perfect virtue bright; 
When odours which declined repelling day. 
Through temperate air uninterrupted stray; 
When darken'd groves their softest shadows wear. 
And falling waters we distinctly hear ; 
When through the gloom where venerable shows 
Some ajicient &bric, awful in repose ; 



While stmbumt hills their swarthy looks conceal. 

And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale : 

When the loosed horse now, as his pasture. 

Comes slowly grazing through the adjoining meads, 

Whose stealing pace and lengthen'd shade we fea* 

Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear ; 

When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food. 

And unmolested kine rechew the cud ; 

When curlews cry beneath the village-walls, 

And to her straggling brood the partridge calls ; 

Their short-lived jubilee the creatures keep. 

Which but endures whilst tyrant man does sleep; 

When a sedate content the spirit feels. 

And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals; 

But silent musings urge the mind to seek 

Something too high for syllables to speak ; 

Till the free soul to a oomposedness charm'd. 

Finding the elements of rage disarm'd, 

O'er all below a solemn quiet grown, 

Joys in the inferior world and thinks it like her own : 

In such a night let me abroad remain. 

Till morning breaks, and all's confused again. 

Our cares, our toils, our clamours are renew'd, 

Or pleasures, seldom reach'd, again pursued. 

• Yet Mr. ITallam is inclined to think that the sale wag 
great for the time; and adds, " I have some few doubt* 
whether Paradise Lost, published eleven years since, 
would have met with a greater demand."— Xi«. Hitt. vol. 
It. p. 427. 

Su2 



GENERAL INDEX. 



Absbitce. Jago, 605. 

Addison (Joseph), specimens of, 387, 388. 

Elegy on the Death of. TickcH, 415. 
Agrippina, a Fiagment. Gray, bb(t, 
Akenside (Mark), notice of, 531; allusion to, 589. 

Specimens of, 532-537. 
Alexander (William). See Sterline (Earl of). 
Ambition, reflections on. Anon., 282. 
America, discovery and happiness of, predicted. 

Dwi'ght, 654 
Anacreontics, by Oldmixon, 418. 
Angler's Wish. Wa/to,,, 331. 
Anglo-Saxon Language, influence of the Norman 
Conquest on, 1. 

When it began to be English, 2. 
Anonymous Poets, specimens of, 237, 281, 337, 370, 

558, 682, 585. 
Anstev (Christopher), notices of, 342, 727. 

Specimen of his Bath Guide, 728. 
Argalia, adventures of. Chaniberlnyn, 257-263. 
Argentile and Curan, a tale. Warner, 38, 129. 
Armstrong (Dr. John), notice of, 586-588. 

Specimens of, 588-590. 
Athens described. Mil ton, 311. 
Ayres (Philip), specimens of, 338. 
Ayton (Sir Robert), Songs by, 281. 371. 

Poem said to have been written by, 141, note. 

Bale (Bishop), an early dramatic author, 29. 
Ballads. 

Robene and Makyne. Henryiione, 82. 

Dowsabel. Di ayton, 176. 

On a Wedding. Sir J. Suckling, 238, 

The Chronicle. Gotoley, 287. 

Colin'g Complaint. Rowe, 383. 

From the What-d'ye-call-it. Gay, 405. 

Colin and Lucy. Tlckell, 416. 

Sally in our Alley. Carey, 498. 

William and Margaret. 'Mallet, 509. 

Sir Charles Bawdin. Chaiterton, 540. 

May-Eve, or Kate of Aberdeen. Cunning- 
ham, 558. 

Owen of Carron. Langhome, 595. 

Hosier's Ghost. Glover, 636. 
Bampfylde (John), Sonnets by, 675, 676. 
Barbour (John), his Bruce, 80. 
Bakklay (Alexander), critical notice of, 21. 
Bateson's Madrigals, specimens from, 119. 
Bath, public breakfast at, described. Austey, 728, 
Baucis and Philemon, a Tale. Swiff, 431. 
Bbattie (Dr. James), account of, 720. 

Specimens of, 722. 

liis admiration of Thomson, 450. 
Beaumont (Francis), and Fletcher (John), notices 
of, 149, 150. 

Specimens of their dramatic productions, 
150-160. 

Critical observations on them, 46. 



Beaumont (Sir John), notice of, 165. 

Specimen of his Poems, 166. 

Further extracts from, 732. 
Beauty, vanity of. Gancaigne, 100. 

Final cause of our pleasure in. Akenside, 534. 

Mental. Akenside, 534. 
Bedford (Lucy, Countess of), epigram on. Ben 

Jonson, 207. 
Behn (Aphra), specimens of, 351. 
Bird's Collection of Songs, specimens from, 119. 
Bishop (Rev. Samuel), specimens of, 674, 675. 
Blacklock (Thomas), notice of, 662. 

Specimens "f, 66.3, 664. 
Blaokstone (Sir Wm.), specimen of, 602. 
Blair (Robert), notice of, 446. 

Specimens of, 447-449, 
Booth (Barton), specimen of, 406. 
Bowles (Rev. Mr.), his strictures on Pope, remarks 

on, 58-62, 423. 
Brathwaite (Richard), notice and specimen of, 

308, 309. 
Bramston (James), specimen of, 437-439. 
Brereton (Jane), Poem attributed to Lord Chester- 
field, written by, 562. 
Breton (Nicholas). 37. 147. 

Specimens of bis Poems, 147, 148. 
Brevity of Human Life. Qnarlet, 244. 
Brome (Alexander), notice of, 283. 

Specimens of his Poems, 283, 284. 
Brooke (Lord). See Grevii.i.e. 
Brooke (Henry), notice of, 605. 

Specimen of, 606-608. 
Brown (Dr. John), notice of, 517. 

Specimens of his Poems, 518. 
Brown (Thomas), specimens of, 365. 
Browne (Isaac Hawkins), specimens of, 488—490. 
Browne (William), notices of, 38, 245. 

Extracts from, 245, 246. 
Bruce (Michael), notices of, 520. 

Specimens of his Poems, 520, 521. 
Bulteel (John), specimen of the Poetry of, 299. 
Bunyan's Pilgriiii's Progress, remarks on, 28. 
Burns (Robert), account of, 676-680 ; notice of, 484, 

Specimens of, 680-687. 

Thought borrowed from Dr. Young, 511, note. 

Anecdote of, 593, note. 

His opinion of Cowper's Task, 690, note. 
Butler (Samuel), specimens of, 321-330 ; alluded 

to, 54. 
Byrom (John), Pastoral by, 490. 

Epigram by, 558. 
Byron (Lord), referred to, 57, 482, 500, 521, 547, 667 
618, 680, 708, 710. 

Cambyses's Army, destruction of. Darwin, 7 J 8. 
Cambyses, Preston's Tragedy of, 30. 
Canace, death of Lydgate, 78. 
Canterbury Tales, Prologue to, 69. 

73fi 



■40 



GENERAL INDEX. 



Canzonet. Anonymous, 117. 

Care, personification of. Tho. Snckville, 96. 

Carew (Thomas), notices of, 51, 212. 

Specimens of, 212-215. 
Carey (Henry), Ballad by, 498. 
Cartwdight (William), notice of, 44, 240. 

Specimens of, 240, 241. 
Castle of Indolence. 'J hnmiton, 450. 
Chalkhill, observations on, .'^S. 
Specimen of his Poetry, 39. 
Chamberlayne (William), notice of, 257. 

Specimens of, 257-263. 
Chambers (Sir Wm.), Heroic Epistle to. Jfaaon, 696. 
Chapman (George), notice of, 190. 
Specimens of his Plays, 190, 191. 
Character of his Translation of Homer, 60. 
His share in the Tragedy of Chabot, 280, note. 
Chastity described. Milton, 315. 
Chatterton (Thomas), notice of, 537-640. 

Biillad by, 540-544. 
Chauc'eb (Geoffrey), anecdotes of, 65-69. 
Observations on his Poetry, 16. 
Specimens of his Poems, 69-75. 
Chestkrpield (Philip Dormer Stanhope, Earl of), 

specimen of, 562. 
Chorus, the ancient, 688. 
Churchill (Charles), notice of, 499; alluded to, 622. 

Specimens of 501-505. 
Gibber (Colley), specimen of, 479. 

Ode on a Pipe of Tobacco, in imitation of. 
/. H. Browne, 488. 
Cleveland (John), his knotted deformities, 44. 
Coleridge (S. T.), opinion of Thomson and Cowper 
compared, 460, vote. 
Of Beaumont and Fletcher, 49, note. 
Collier (John Payne), his character of Brathwaite's 

Strappado, 309, vote. 

Collins (William), notice of, 476. 

Specimens of, 475-478. 

A Sonnet by, 698, note. 

His Poems, 698. 

HisHistoryof the Revival of Learning, 700, note. 
CoNGREVE (William), specimens of, 395-397. 
Constable (Henry), 147. 

Sonnet by, 147. 
Content, a pastoral. Cnnnitighnm, 557. 
Contentment, hvmn to. Painell, 380. 

Ode on. Ilnrte, 581. 
Cooper (John Gilbert), 

Song attributed to, 523. 
Song by, 523. 
Cooper's Hill described. Sir J. Benhaw, 295. 
Corbet (Bishop), 

Notice of and Extract from, 38, 194, 195. 
Commendatory Poeips, their importance in bio- 
graphy, 149, vote. 
Cotton (Charles), notice of, 342. 

Specimens of. 342-347. 
Cotton (Nathaniel), specimen of, 652. 
Country Justice, duties of. La>i(/horne, 692. 
Country Life described. Hernc'k, 285. 
Cowley (Abraham), notices of, 44, 61, 286. 
Specimens of his Poetry, 287-291. 
Critical remarks on it, 736. 
Note upon, 290. 

Line in, imitated by Cowper, 709, note/ his 
country-loving spirit, 492. 
Cowper (Wiiliam), account of, 703-710. 
Specimens of, 710-716. 
Compared with Thomson, 449,450. 
His character of Thomson, 450, note. 

I. H. Browne, 488, rtote. 
Notes on Milton by, 52, 53. 
Of similes, 69, note. 
Passage in his Homer, 61, note. 



Crashaw (Richard), notice of, 253. 

Specimen of his Poems, 253-265. 
Crawfurd (William) Songs by, 470. 
Croker (J. W.), note on Dr. Young by, 435. 

On the identity of Thales with Savage, 611. 
Cromwell's Conspiracy, a Tragi-Comed}', extrac* 

from, 281. 
Cuckoo, ode to. Logan, 641. 
Cunningham (Allan), notes by, 394, 696, 697. 

Life of Burns by, characterized, 679. 
Cunningham (John), specimens of, 557. 
Custom, influence of. Pom/ret, 364. 
Cymon and Iphigenia. Dryden, 360. 

Daniel (Samuel), notice and specimen of, 35, 37, 

38,143. 
Darwin (Dr. Erasmus), notice of, 717. 

Specimens of, 718-720. 

Brooke's " Universal Beauty" the prototype ot 
his Botanic Garden, 605. 
Davenant (Sir AViUiam), notices of, 65, 292. 

Specimens of Gondibert, 293-294. 
Davie (Adam), an early English poet, notice of, 13- 
Daties (Sir John), notice of, 42, 161. 

Specimen of his Poems, 162, 163. 
Davison's Rhapsody, specimen from, 117. 
De Brunne. See Mannyng. 
Death's Conquest. Jnmeg Shirley, 281. 
Dekker (Thomas), notice of, 217. 

Specimens of his Poems, 217, 218. 
Denham (Sir John), notice of, 295. 

Specimens of his Poetry, 295-298. 

Alterations in his Cooper's Hill, 297, note. 

Influence of his numbers upon English versifi- 
cation. Appendix A. 

Descriptive, Didactic, and Pathetic Poems. 

On the gratification which the lover's passion 
receives from the sense of hearing. Gower,17. 

Death of Canace. Lydi/ate, 78. 

A lover's description of his mistress, when he 
first saw her. Jnnies I. King of Scotland, 81. 

Dance of the seven deadly sins through hell. 
Dunhnr, 84. 

Description of Squyre Meldrum. Sir D. Lind^ 

soy, 86. 
Description of such an one as he would love. 

^(V T. Wyot, 90. 
Spring described. Earl of Surrey, 94. 
A prisoner's reflections on his past happiness. 

The same 93. 
A lover's request for comfort. Eicli. Edwards, 

95. 
Allegorical personages described in hell. Tho. 

Sockville, 96. 
Arraignment of a lover. Gnscoigne, 99. 
Una followed by the lion. Spenser, 107. 
Description of the witch Duessa's journey to the 

infernal regions. The same, 108. 
The Bower of Bliss. The same, 111. 
Glauce and Britomart exploring the Cave of 

Merlin. The same, 114. 
Belphoebe finding Timias wounded. The same, 

114. 
Successive appearances of nature during a sum- 
mer's day. A.II,fme,121. 
Mercv dwelling in he;iven, and pleading for the 

guilty. Giles Fletcher, 144. 
Justice addressing the Creator. The same, 145. 
Mercy brightening the rainbow. The same, 

145. 
The Palace of Presumption. The same, 145. 
Nymphidia, the court of Fairy. Drayton, 169. 
I The Poet's Elysium. The same, 37. 



GENERAL INDEX. 



Descriptive Poems, eoutinved. 

Morning, birds, and hunting of the deer. The 

same, 177. 
The Fairies' Farewell. Corbet. 195. 
The priestess of Diana. Chn khill, 39. 
The image of Jealousy. The same, 39. 
Abode of the witch Orandra. The same, 39. 
Address to his native soil. W. Browne, 245. 
Evening. The snme, 246. 
Death of Rosamond. Mny, 252. 
Soliloquy of Siitiin. Crai^hnw, 253. 
To Meadows. Hem'ck, 284. 
To Daffodils. The same, 285. 
To Blossf.ms. The same, 285. 
The Country Life. The same, 285. 
The Complaint. Coicfn/, 288. 
The Waiting-Maid. The same, 290. 
Honour. The same. 290. 
Wit. The same, 290. 
The Swallow. The same, 291. 
The father of Rhodalind offering her to Duke 

Gondibert. IJuveiinnt, 293. 
Cooper's Hill. Sir ./. Deiihaiiu 295. 
Complaint of a learned divine in puritan times. 

l)r. iriVf/e, 304. 
Song on May Morning. Milton, 310. 
Athens. The same, 311. 
Samson bewailing his blindness and captivity. 

The same, 311. 
Speeches of Manoah and the Chorus, on hear- 
ing of his last achievement and death. The 

same, 312. 
The Emigrants. Mnrre.II, 318. 
The Nymph complaining for the death of her 

Fawn. The same, 318. 
On translated verse. Roscommon, 331. 
Night Piece, or a picture drawn in the dark. 

Waller, 341. 
Voyage to Ireland, in burlesque. C. Cotton, 

342-348. 
Thoughts— What are they? Flatman, 350. 
Character of Shaftesbury. Diyden, 356. 
Character of Zimri. The same, 357. 
Character of Doeg and Og (the poets Settle and 

Shadwell). The same, 357. 
Description of Lyciirgns, King of Thrace, and 

Emetrius, King of Iiide. The same, 358. 
Preparations fo a Tournament. The same, 359. 
From The Flower and the Leaf. The same, 

361. 
The influence of custom. Pomfret, 364. 
The Bookworm. Parnell, 375. 
Letter from Italy. Addlaon, 387. 
On himself, when in a consumption. Dr. Sewell, 

394. 
From the Spleen. Green, 406. 
Epistle to his friends. Weif, 420. 
The Bastard. Sorn,,e, 422. 
Verses, written after seeing Windsor Castle. 

T. WartOJi.xen., 446. 

The Castle of Indolence, Canto I. Thomson, 

450. 
Epistle to the Eail of Dorset. A. Philips, 458. 
The Suminum Bonum. Welxted. 4(iO. 
Verse-s written in an Inn. A. Hill, 471. 
Allegorical description of Vertii. 6'. VFesf, 474. 
Grongiir Hill. Z)^ec, 481. 
From the Prophec y of Famine. Churchill, 503. 
Lochleven. Bmce, 521. 
E.\tracts from the Shipwreck. Falconer, 625- 

530. 
From The Pleasures of Imagination. Aken- 

side, 532-536. 
From A Monody to the Memory of his Wife. 

Shaw, 552. 



Descriptivr Poems, continued. 

The Farmer's Ingle, Ferifnnnon, 561. 

The Traveller. Goldsmith, 568-571. 

The Deserteil Village. The same, 571-575. 

Eulogius, or the Charitable Mason. H(irte,579, 

AV'ritten in the window of an obscure lodging- 
house. Anon., 682. 

The Old Bachelor. Anon., 685. 

From the Art of Preserving Health. Arm- 
strong, 588-590. 

Dnties of a Country Justice. Langhorne, 
592, <fec. 

Gipsies. The same, 594. 

The Helmets. Penrose, 601. 

The Field of Battle. The same, 602. 

The Reptile and Insect World. Bro;l-e, 606. 

E.xtracts from " Leonidas." Glover, 626-636. 

Invocation to Melancholy. Hendley, 640. 

Death of Irad, and the lamentation of Selima 
over his body. Dmhfht, 653. 

Extracts from Judah Restored. Br. Roberts, 
664-668. 

The Dying Indian. J. Warton, 701. 

E.\tracts from The Task. Cowper, 710-713. 

On the Loss of the Royal George. The same, 
714. 

Yardley Oak. The same, 714. 

Destruction of Catubyses's Array. Darwin, 717. 

]\Iidnight Conflagration. The same, 719. 

The heroic attachment of the youth in Holland 
who attended his mistress in the plague. The 
same, 720. 

The Minstrel. Book I. Beattie, 720. 
Dillon. See Roscommon. 
Disdain returned. Curew, 213. 
Dodsley (Robert), specimens of, 505. 
Donne (Dr. John), notice ..f, 38, 182. 

Specimens of his poetry, 183, 184. 

Specimens of his heroic verse with rhyme. 
Dorset (Charles Saekville, Earl of), notice of, 366. 

Specimens of, 366, 367. 
Douglas (GawainJ, his Translation of the .^neid, 
20. 

Descriptions of natural scenery, 79. 
Dowsabei, a balhid. Drai/lon, 176. 
Drake (Sir Francis), description of. Fitzgeffrey, 200. 

Dramatic Pieces. 

SHORT extracts. 

From David and Befhsabe. Peele, 31. 

From The Maid's Tragedy. Beaumoht and 

Fletcher, 150. 
From the tragedy of Philaster. The same, 151. 
From The Custom of the Cbuntry. The same, 

157. 
From the comedy of All Fools. Chapman, 190, 

191. 
From the tragedy of Women beware Women. 

Jlfldd/etnn, 196. 
From the play of Blurt, Master-Constable. The 

same. 199. 
From The Phoenix. The same, 199. 
From The Honest Whore. Dekker, 218. 
From Vittoria Corombona. Webster, 219. 
From The Bondman. Alassinger, 234. 
From The Great Duke of Florence. The same, 

236. 
From the Fair Maid of the Exchaijge. Hey- 

wood, 248. 
Fn.m The Gentleman of Venice. Th» fama, 

272. 
From The Traitor, 51. 
From The Brothers, 5J. 



742 



GENERAL INDEX, 



Dramatic Pieces, cnvtinned. 

ENTIRE SCF.NES. 

From the tragedy of Philaster. Beaumont and 

Fletcher, 151. 
From The Scornful Lady. The same, 15.3. 
From The Maid of the Mill, The same, 154, 
Frum the tragedy of RoUo. The same, 155. 
From The Beggar's Bush. The same, 155. 
From the tragedy of Bonduca. The same, 156. 
From the comedy of Monsieur Thomas. The 

same, 158. 
From A King and No King. The same, 160. 
From the tragedy of Amurath. Goffe, 164. 
From Sophonisba, a tragedy. Marston, 187. 
From Antonio and Mellida. The same, 188. 
From the comedy of All Fools. Chapman, 190 
From The Muses' Looking Glass, Randolph, 

192. 
From the tragedy of Women beware Women. 

M!ddleton, 196. 
F,rom The Roaring Girl. The same, 197-199, 
From The Fox. Den Jonson, 207, 
Fortune giving Fortunatus his choice of goods. 

Dekker, 217. 
From The Duchess of Malfi. Webster, 219-223. 
From the comedy of A New Wonder, Rowley, 

223. 
From The Lover's Melancholy. Ford, 225. 
From The Duke of Milan, a tragedy. 3fas- 

ainger, 228. 
From The Bondman. The same, 229-235. 
From The Fatal Dowrj'. Massinger and Field, 

236. 
From the tragedy of A Woman killed with 

Kindness. Heywood, 247. 
From The Fatal Contract. Hewinge, 266. 
From the tragedy of The Cardinal. Shirley, 

268-271. 
From The Royal Master. The same, 271. 
From The Doubtful Heir. The same, 272. 
From The Lady of Pleasure. The same, 274-277. 
From Chabot, Admiral of France, Shirley and 

Chapman, 280. 
From The City Match. Mayne, 306 
From The Masque of Comus. Milton, 313-316. 
From The Orphan. Otway, 333. 
From Venice Preserved, The same, 336. 
From Theodosius; or. The Force of Love. Lee, 

352. 
From The Fair Penitent. Rome, 381. 
From The Mourning Bride. Cont/rere, 395. 
From The Fatal Curiosity. Lillo, 410. 
From the tragedy of The Fatal Marriage. 

Southerne, 442. 
From The Gentle Shepherd. Allan Ramsay, 

485. 
From the tragedy of Barbarossa. Brown, 518, 
Fragment of the tragedy of Agrippina, Gray, 

550. 
From the tragedy of Creusa, W. Whitehead, 

622, 
From Caractacus. Mason, 690. 
Dramatic Poets of England, prior to Shakspeare, 

notice of, 29-32, 
After Shakspeare, and during the reign of 

James I., 35, &c. 
Dramatic Unities, remarks on, 34. 
Drayton (Michael), notice of, 47, 166. 
Specimens of his poetry, 167-178. 
Dread, description of. Thomas Sackrille, 97. 
Drum, ode on hearing. John Scott, 609. 
Drummond (William), notices of, 249. 
E.\tracts from, 38, 250, 251. 
Sonnets by, 250, 
His conversations with Jonson, 291. 



Dryden (John), specimens of, 356-362. 

Critical remarks on his works, 55-57. 

His descriptive powers, 61. 

Passage borrowed from, by Goldsmith, 575, 

His translation of the Eclogues and Georgics, 
compared with Warton's, 699. 

His contradictory criticism*, Ac, 631. 
Dubartas's poem on Creation, translated by Sylve$- 
ter, specimen of, 41, 

The question considered, how far Milton wai 
indebted to it, 41. 
Dulcina, a tale. Sir W. Raleigh, 141. 
Dunbar (William), notices of, 17, 20, 84. 

Specimen of his poems, 84, 85, 
DwiGHT (Timothy), specimens of, 653, 654. 
Dyer (John), notice of, 481, 

Specimen of, 481, 482, 

Edwards (Richard), specimens of his poetry, 95. 

Notice of, 30. 
Elegies. 

On the Death of Addison. Tichell, 415. 

A Love Elegy. Hammond, iM. 

On the sorrow of an ingenuous mind, on the 
melancholy event of a licentious amour. 
Shenstone, 496, 

On Spring. Bruce, 520. 

The Tears of Old May-day. Lovihond, 583. 
Elizabeth (Queen), general character of poetry 

during the age of, 7. ■ 
Ellis (George), his view of the rise of our language 

combated, 1-4,80. 
England's Helicon, extract from, 119. 
English Language, formation of, 2. 

Commencement of, 3. 
English Poetry, state of, in the twelfth century, 7. 

In the thirteenth century, 8. 

In the fourteenth century, 14. 

In the fifteenth century, 17. 

In the end of the fifteenth and beginning of the 
sixteenth ceniury, 20. 

During the sixteenth century, 22. 

During the seventeenth century, 32. 

During the former part of the eighteenth cen- 
tury, 69. 
Epigrams. 

On his return from Spain. Sir T. Wyat, 90. 

Of a precise Tailor. Sir J. Harrington, 131. 

On Lucy, Countess of Bedford. Ben Jonson, 2^1. 

The Remedy worse than the Disease. Prior, 
390. 

On partial Fame. The same, 390. 

On two Monopolists. Byrom, 558. 

Quod petis hie est. Bishop, 674. 

Splendeat usu. The same, 675. 

Quocunque modo rem. The same, 675. 

Miscellaneous. Perrot, 131. 
Epitaphs. 

On Elizabeth, L. H. Ben Jonson, 206. 

On the Countess of Pembroke. The same, 206. 

On Lady Mary Villiers. Corew, 213. 

On sauntering Jack and idle Joan. Prior, 390. 

On Mrs. Mason. Mason, 695. 
Etherege (George), notice of, 349. 

Specimens of, 350. 
Evening, ode to. Collins, 475. 

Tempestuous, ode on. John Scott, 609. 
Evening Star, address to. Stepney, 367. 

Fables. 

Fancy and Desire. Vere, 123. 
Related by a Beau to Esop. Vanhrugh, 394. 
The Court of Death. Gay, 405. 
Labour and Genius. Jago, 604. 
[ The Blackbird. Stephenson, 637. 



GENERAL INDEX. 



743 



FAiRrAX (Edward), notice of, 41, 179. 

Sjiecimens of his poems, 179-181. 
Fairy Queen, extracts from. Spenser, 107-116. 

Kaleigh's Sonnet upon, 142. 

Characterized, 26. 
Fairy, the court of, described. Drayton, 169-175. 
Faith. Qxarlen, 243. 
Falconer (William), notice of, 524. 

Specimens of, 625-531. 
Fancy, ode to. J.- Warton, 700. 
Fanshawe (Sir Richard), specimen of the poetry 
of, 292. 

His version of the Lusiad, 647. 
Fawkes (Francis), notice aind specimen of, 584. 
Fenton (Elijah), notice of, 397. 

Specimen of, 398. 
Fergusson (Robert), notice of, 560. 

Specimen of, 561. 
Field (Nathaniel), specimen of, 216. 

Assisted Massinger in The Fatal Dowry, 236, 
note. 
Fireside, described. Cotton, 652. 
FiTZGEFFRKY (Charlos), specimens of, 199. 
Flatman (Thomas), specimens of, 350, 351. 
Fletcher (Giles and Phineas), notices of, 38, 144. 

Specimens of their poems, 144-147. 
Fletcher (John), plan of, and strictures on his 
Island Princess, 47, note. 

See Beaumont (Francis), 
Ford (John), critical notices of, 49, 225. 

Specimens of, 225-227. 
France, journey to, described. Bishop Corbet, 194. 
Friend, character of a true one. Kath. Philips, 
265. 

Garrick, character of. Churchill, 502. 
Garth (Dr.), specimens of, 384-386. 
Oascoigne (George), notice of, 98. 

Specimens of his poems, 98-100. 

Notice of, 30. 

On the versification of Chaucer, 24. 
Gay (John), notices of, 105, 399. 

Specimens of his poems, 399-405. 
Genius, power of, over Envy. W, Broxone, 245. 

Enjoyments of, in collecting its stores for com- 
position. Akenside, 535. 
Geoffrey of Monmouth's history, character of, 17. 
Gifford (AVilliam), notes on Ford by, 49, 225. 

On Skelton, 22. 

On a passage in Shakspeare, 30. 
Gipsies described. Langhorne, 594. 
Glover (Richard), notice of, 626-628; alluded to, 
605. 

Specimens of his poems, 628-637. 
GoDOLPHiN (Sidney), specimen of, 239. 
Godwin (William), his extravagant admiration of a 

passage in Phaer's Virgil censured, 40. 
Goffe (Thomas), 164. 

Specimen of, 164. 
Golding (Arthur), a new fact in his life, 40, note. 
Gokling's translation of Ovid, remarks on, 40. 
Goldsmith (Oliver), notes by: — 



On Denham, 298. 

Wiiller, 339. 

Parnell, 373, 374. 

Rowe, 383. 

Addison, 387. 

Prior, 392. 

Tickell, 415,417. 

Savage, 422. 

Pope, 424. 
Goldsmith (Oliver), notice 
Specimens of, 568-575. 
Gould (Robert), specimens of, 371 



On Swift, 431, 432. 
A. Philips, 458. 
Collins, 475. 
E. Moore, 479. 
I. H. Browne, 488. 
Shenstone, 491. 
Young, 611. 
Smollett, 556. 

of, 563-567. 



QowER (John), notice of, 76. 

Specimens of his poems, 76-78. 
Strictures on his style and versification, 17. 
Grainger (Dr. James), specimen of, 521. 
Granville (George, Lord Lansdowne), specimen 

of, 408. 
Gray (Thomas), notice of, 546. 

Specimens of, 547-552. 
Greatness (human), instability of. Phineas Fletcher, 

146. 
Green (Matthew), notice of, 406. 

Specimens of his poetry, 406-408. 
Greene (Robert), notices of, 32, 102. 

Specimens of his poems, 102. 
Grenville (Sir Bevil), verses on the death of. Cart- 
wright, 240. 
Greville (Sir Fulke, Lord Brooke), specimens of, 

42, 165. 
Greville (Mrs.), specimen of, 618. 
Grimoald (N.), the second to use English blank 

verse, 24. 
Grongar Hill. Dyer, 481. 

Habington (William), notice of, 255. 

Specimens of his poems, 255, 256. 
Hafiz, song of, translated. iS'tV W. Jones, 673. 
Hall (John), specimen of, 257. 
Hall (Joseph, Bishop of Norwich), account of, 38, 
125, 126. 
Specimens of his poems, 126-128. 
Further specimens of, 732. 
Hallam (Henry), notes by : — 



On the Saxon Chro- 
nicle, 1. 

Commencement of 
English language. 



On Mr. Campbell's cha- 
racter of Spenser, 
27. 

Sir J. Beaumont, 
165. 

Chapman, 190. 

Drummond, 203. 

Carew, 212. 

Lord Sterline, 218. 



Layamon, 4. 
Spenser's language, 
27. 

Drayton, 164. 
Hamilton (William), notice of, 472. 

Specimens of, 472-474. 
Hammond (James), specimen of, 417. 
Hardyng's Chronicle of the History of England, 

character of, 20. 
Harlot, derivation and use of the word, 75, note. 
Harrington (John), 100. 

Specimen of his poetry, 100. 
Harrington (Sir .John), specimens of the poetry 

of, 130. 
Harte (Walter), notice of, 577. 

Specimens of, 579-582. 
Hawes (Stephen), a poet of the sixteenth century, 

character of, 20. 
Headley (Henry), notice of, 639. 

Specimen of, 640. 
Heminge (William), extracts from a play by, 266- 

268. 
Henry the Minstrel ('Blind Harry), 79. 
Henrysone (Robert), 82. 

Specimen of his poems, 82, 83. 
Herbert (George), specimen of the poetry of, 184- 

186. 
Hermitage, inscription in. Warton, 658. 
Herrick (Robert), notices of, 52, 284. 
Specimens of his poetry, 284-286. 
Hesperus, song of. Ben Jonaon, 206. 
Heywood (John), an early dramatic author, 29. 
Heywood (Thomas), notice of, 247. 

Specimens of, 247-249. 
Hill (Aaron), specimens of, 471. 
Honour, address to. Cowley, 290. 
Honour (feminine), described. Carew, 214 



744 



GENERAL INDEX. 



Hook (N.), specimen of, 3.38. 
Howard (Henry, Earl of Surrey), notice of, 91. 
Specimens of his poems, 93, 94. 
Something melancholy even in his strains of 

gallantry, 19. 
Estimate of the service rendered by him to 
British literature, 24. 
Hudibras, Butler's, extracts from, 321-331. 
And his Squire, described. Butler, 321. 
Commencing battle with the rabble, and lead- 
ing off Crowdero prisoner, 326. 
Vicarious justice exemplified by Ralpho, in the 
case of the Cobbler that killed the Indian, 329. 
Consulting the Lawyer, 329. 
Hume (Alexander), notice of, 121. 

Poetical specimen of, 121, 122. 
HuNNis (William), specimens of, 25, note, 95. 

Imagination, Pleasures of. Akennide, 532-537. 
Imprisonment, benefit of, to a wild youth. Mid- 

d/eton, 198. 
Independence, ode to. Smollett, 556. 
Indifference, prayer for. Mrs. Greville, 618. 
Ireland, voyage to. Cotton, 342. 

Jagg (Richard), specimens of, 604. 
James I., King of Scotland, notices of, 81. 

Specimens of his poems, 81, 82. 
James I., King of England, 44. 
Jealousy, description of. Greene, 102. 
Johnson (Dr. Samuel), specimens of, 611-617. 
Jones (Inigo), his quarrel with Jonson, 201. 
Jones (Sir William), notice of, 669. 

Specimens of his poetry, 673. 
JoNSON (Ben), account of, 201-204. 

Specimens of his poetry, 204-211. 

Extracts from, 731. 

Critical remarks on him as a dramatist, 45. 

His quarrel with Daniel, 143, note. 
Justice addressing the Creator. Giles Fletcher, lib. 

KiLLiGREW (.Mrs. Anne), ode to the memory of. 

Bnjden, 358. 
King (Dr. Henry), specimens of, 303. 
Kiss, the parting. Dodxley, 506. 
Knowledge (human), vanity of. Sir J. Davies, 162. 

Description of. Sir F. Greville, 165. 
Kyd, a dramatic poet of the age of Elizabeth, notice 

of, 23. 

Lahb (Charles), notes by: — 

On Chapman, 190. 

Shirley, 268. 

Wither, 301. 

T/angetoft (Peter de), notice of, 10, note. 

Langhorne (Dr. John), notice of, 591. 

Specimens of, 592-600. 
Langlande (Robert), a poet of the fourteenth cen.' 
tury, notice of, 15. 
Character of the poems ascribed to him, 16. 
Language, English, influence of the Norman Con- 
quest upon, 1. 
Lansdowne (George, Lord), song by, 408. 
Law, eulogy on. Middleton, 199. 
Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse. Sir W. Blaclcstone, 

602. 
Layamon's translation of Waee's Brut, strictures on 

the date of, 2-4, 7. 
Lee (Nathaniel), notice of, 352. 

Specimens of, 352-355. 
Lely (SirPeter), lines to, Ac. Richard Lovelace, 

254. 
Leoifdas, extracts from. Glover, 629-636. 
L 'Estrange (Sir Roger), poem ascribed to, 282. 
Leven Water, ode to. Smollett, 656. 



Life described. Dr. King, 303. 

The Happy. Sir H. Wootton, 215. 
LiLLO (George), notice of, 409. 

Specimens of, 410-415. 
Lloyd (Robert), notice of, 506. 

Specimens of his poetry, 506-508. 
Local poems, some enumerated, 295, note. 
Lockhart (J. G.), note by, upon Scott's Sir Tristrem, 
12. 

Dryden's adaptation.s of Chaucer, 58. 

His Life of Burns, 693. 
Lodge (Dr. Thomas), notice of, 148. 

Specimens of his poems, 148, 149. 
LoG.AN (John), notice of, 37, 641. 

Specimens of, 641, 642. 
Longland. See Langlande. 
Look Home. Sniihwell, 104. 
Love-song of the thirteenth century, specimen of, 9. 
Love, object of. Sir T. Wynt. 90. 

Requited with disdain. W. Hiinnis, 95. 

Servile lot of. Southwell, 104. 

A nymph's disdain of. Sir W. Rnhigh, 141. 

A shepherd's description of. The same, 141. 

Admits no rival. The same, 142. 

Devotion to. Middleton, 199, 

Persuasions to. Citrew, 212. 

Mediocrity in, rejected. The same, 212. 

Darts of. Carftcriyhf, 240. 

To Lucasta. Richard Lovelace, 264. 

Young, address to. Marvell, 319. 

Influence of. Waller, 340. 

Farewell of. The same, 341. 

At first sight. The same, 341. 

And Folly. Sehlen, 461. 

Triumphs of. Hamilton, 472. 

L 'Amour Timide. Sir J. H. Moore, 603. 
Lover, complaint of. Sir T. Wyat, 90. 

Suit to his unkind mistress. The same, 90. 

Lamentation that he ever had cause to doubt 
his lady's faith. The same, 91. 

Re,quest for comfort, aflBrming his constancy. 

Eirh. Edwards, 95. 
Arraignment of one. Gaocoigne, 99. 
The silent. Sir W. Raleigh, 140. 
Address of, to his mistress. Carew, 213. 
Persuasions of, to enjoy. The same, 213. 
Threatens ungrateful beauty. The same, 213. 
Disdain returned by. The same, 213. 
Address to Castara, inquiring why he loved 

her. Habington, 266. 
Description of Castara. The same, 256. 
Reflections of, on the sight of his mistress's 

house. Ayres, 338. 
Reflections of, on his mistress's girdle. Waller, 

.341. 
Self-banished. The same, 341. 
Dialogue between two. Logan, 642. 
Lovelace (Richard), notice of, 263. 

Specimens of his poems, 263, 264. 
LoviBOND (Edward), specimen of, 583. 
Loyal Garland, extracts from, 337. 
Loyalty confined. Anon., 282. 
Ludicrous Poems. 

Like Master, like Man. Rowlands, 181. 

Tragedy of Smug the Smith, The same, 182, 

The Vicar. The same, 182. 

Fools and Babes tell true. The same, 182. 

The married Scholar. The same, 182. 

On Lute-strings cat-eaten. Mennis and Smith, 

305. 
From the Strappado for the Devil. Drath' 

waite, 309. 
Extracts from Hudibras. Rntler, 321-331. 
The Splendid Shilling. Philipt, 368. 
The Church Builder. Anon. 371 



GENERAL INDEX. 



745 



LuDirnoFS Poems, continned. 

The Birth of the Squire. Gay, 403. 

The Rape of the Lock. Pope, 424-430. 

Soliloquyof the Princess Periwinkle. Smnrt,bib. 

The Hiiunch of Venison. Gotdimith, 575. 

Ad(ke.«s to the Deil. Burns, 682. 

A Public Breakfast at Bath. Anatey, 728, 729. 
Lydgate (John), notice of, 78. 

Specimens of his poetry, 78. 

Strictures on his style, 19. 
Lyly (John), notice of, 31, 44, 120. 

Specimens of his poetry, 120. 
Lyndsay (Sir David), notice of, 86. 

Specimens of his poems, 86-88. 
Lyttelton (George, Lord), specimen of, 559, 560. 

Mackenzie (Henry), supplemental lines to Collins, 

by, 477. 
Madrigal, Rosalind's. Lodge, 149. 
Maid, good counsel to a young. Carew 215. 
Mai.let (David), notice of, 508. 

Ballad and Song by, 509, 510. 
Mankind, ode to. Earl Nugent, 644. 
Mannyng (Robert), commonly called De Brunne, 9. 
Markham (Isabella), sonnet on. Harrington, 101. 
Marlowk (Christopher). 32,37, 103. 

Specimen of his poetry, 103. 
Marston (.John), notice of, 38, 187, 

Specimens of his poetry, 187-189. 
Marvkll (Andrew), notice of, 317, 318. 

Specimens of his poetry, 318, 319. 
Massivger (Philip), notice of, 34, 227. 

Sjiecimens of, 228-237. 

Critical remarks on his productions, 44. 
Mason (Rev. William), notice of, 687-690. 

Specimens of, 690-696. 
Mason (Mrs.), epitaph on. Mason, 695. 
Matches, few happy. Dr. Watts, 459. 
May (Thomas), notice of, 252. 

Specimen of, 252. 
Mayne (Jasper), specimens of, 306. 
Melancholy, invitation to. Headley, 640. 
Meldrum (Squyre), description and adventures of. 

Sir D. Lindsay, 86. 
Memory, ode to. Shenstone, 497. 
Mknnis (Sir John and James Smith), specimen of, 

305. 
Mercy dwelling in heaven and pleading for the 
guilty. Giles Fletcher, 144. 

Brightening the rainbow. The same, 145. 
Merrick (James), specimen of, 523. 
Meston (William), notice of, 439. 

Specimen of, 440, 441. 
Metaphysical Poets. Davies and Brooke, 42. 
Mickle (Wm. Julius), notice of, 646-648. 

Specimens of his poems, 648-652. 
MiDDLETON (Thomas), notice of, 196. 

Specimens of his poems, 196-200. 

Remark on his witches, 49, note. 
MiLTOX (John), notice of, 309, 310. 

Specimens of, 310-317. 

How far he was indebted to Sylvester's trans- 
Ijition of Dubartas, for the prima stamina of 
Paradise Lost, 41. 

Critical remarks on his poetical works, 52-54. 

His admiration of Shakspeare, 311. 

His obligations to Langlande. 16. 
To Browne, 245. 
To Drummond, 249. 
To Crashaw, 253. 

His Lycidas, 492. 

The power of his genius, 588. 

Sale of Paradise Lost, Appendix B. 
MiNOT (Laurence), a poet of the fourteenth centuiy, 
notice f, 13 

94 



Mirror for Magistrates gave hints to Spenser and 
Shakspeare, 19. 

Intention of, 96, note. 
Misery, personification of. Tho, Saclmlle, 96. 
Mitford (W.), his observation on the language of 
Layamon, 8. 

Langlande, 15. 
Montague (Mr. W.), verses on his return from travel. 

Carew, 214. 
Moore (Edward), notice of, 479. 

Specimens of, 479, 480. 
Moore (Sir J. H.), specimens of, 603. 
Moral Poems. 

The Soul's Errand. Anon., 116. 

A Valediction. Cartwright,2A\. 

Power of Genius over Envy. W. Browne, 245. 

On Ambition. Anon., 282. 

The Inquiry. Kath. Philips, 265. 

Character of a true friend. The same, 265. 

The Pre-existence of the Soul. Dr. ^fore, 348. 

From Alma, or the Progress of the Mind. Prior, 
392. 

The Wish. Merrick, 523. 

On Education. Gray, 548. 

On Vicissitude. The same, 549. 

London. Dr. Johnson, 611. 

The Vanity of Human Wishes. The same, 614. 

On the death of Dr. Robert Levett. The same, 
616. 
More (Dr. Henry), notice of, 348. 

Specimen of, 348, 349. 
Morning Star, address to. J. Hall, 257. 
Mortimer, Earl of March, surprised by Edward IIL 

Drayton, 167. . 

Mothers, persuasion to, to suckle their own children. 

Darwin, 719. 
Mother, lines on the prcture of his. Cowper, 716, 
MoTTEux (Peter Anthony), notice of, 386. 

Specimens of, 386. 

Nabbes (Thomas), specimen of, 251. 
Nash (Thomas), notice of, 123. 

Specimen of his poems, 123. 
Nature, successive appearances of, during a sum- 
mer's day, described. A. Hume, 121. 
Neyvile (Alexander), specimen of his traiislation 

of Seneca's (Edipus, 30. 
NiccoLS (Richard), notice of, 200. 

Specimens of his Poems, 200, 201. 
Night, song of Ben Jonsvn, 206. 
Nightingale, address to. Ayres, 338. 

Sonnet to. Milton, 310. 
Norman Conquest, influence of, on the English lan- 
guage, 1. 
State of Norman Poetry in the eleventh and 
twelfth centuries, 6-8. 
Nugent (Robert Nugent, Earl), notice of, 643. 
Specimens of, 644, 645. 

Goldsmith's Haunch of Venison, addressed to, 
575. 
Nut-Brown Maid, the beautiful ballad of, 22. 
Nymphs, address of, to their May Queen. Watson, 
104. 

OccLEVE, a versifier of the fifteenth century, notice 

of, 19. 
Odes. 

The Lover's Complaint. Sir T. Wyat, 90. 

A Lover's Suit to his Mistress. Tho same, 90. 

A Lover's Lament that he had ever cause to 

doubt his Lady's faith. The same, 91. 
To his coy Love. Drayton, 177. 
To the Alemory of Mrs. Killigrew. Drydcn 

368. 
On Providence. Addison, 388. 
3M 



746 



GENERAL INDEX. 



Odes, continued. 

On Retirement T. Warton, 446. 

An American love-ode. The same, 446. 

To Evening. Collins, 475. 

On the popular superstitions of the Highlands 
of Scotland. The same, 476. 

The Discovery. Moore, 479. 

To a Great Number of Great Men, newly made. 
WilUnms, 487. 

On Rural Elegance, Shenstone, 497. 

To Memory. The same, 497. 

On an Eagle confined in a college court. Smart, 
645. 

The Bard. Gray, 547. 

To Leven Water. Smollett, 556. 

To Independence. The same, 556. 

Contentment, industry, and acquiescence in the 
Divine Will. Harte, 681. 

To a Singing Bird. Richardson, 590. 

On hearing the Drum. Scott, 609. 

On Privateering. The same, 609. 

The Tempestuous Evening. The same, 609. 

To the Cuckoo. Logan, 641. 

To William Pulteney, Esq. Earl Nugent, 644. 

To Mankind. The same, 644. 

The Hamlet. T. Warton, 659. 

The Suicide. The same, 659. 

The Crusade. The same, 660. 

The Grave of King Arthur. The same, 661. 

To Aurora. Blackloek, 664. 

In imitation of Alcaeus. Sir W. Jones, 673. 

Bruce to his Men at Bannockbum. Burns, 
686. 

To Fancy, J. Warton, 700. 
Old Age, personification of. Tho. Sackville, 96. 
Old Man's Wish. Dr. Pope, 372. 
Oldmixon (John), specimens of, 418. 
Otway (Thomas), specimens of, 333-337. 

Character of his Plays, 66. 

Dryden's opinion of, note, 61. 
OvERBURY (Sir Thomas), notice of, 131. 

Specimen of his poems, 131, 
Owen of Carron, a Tale. Langhorne, 695. 
Oxford (Earl of). &e Verb, 

Pageants, influence of, on the literature of England, 

26. 
Paradise Lost, critical remarks on, 52. 

History of its sale, Appendix B, 
Parnell (Dr.), notice of, 58, 372. 

Specimens of, 373-380. 
Pastorals. 

A Sweet Pastoral. N, Breton, 147. 

Phillis and Coridnn. The same, 148. 

Monday, or the Squabble. Gay, 400. 

Thursday, or the Spell. The same, 401. 

Saturday, or the Flights. The same, 402. 

Colin and Phoebe. Byrom, 490. 

Content. Cunningham, 657, 
Pastoral poetry, the English deficient in, 105. 
Peele (George), character of his dramatic poetry, 
30. 

Specimen of it, 31. 
Penrose (Thomas), notice of, 601. 

Specimens of, 601, 602. 
Perrot's (Henry), Book of Epigrams, extracts from, 

131. 
Phaer's Translation of Virgil, strictures on, 40. 

. Specimen of it, 40. 
Phiui's (Ambrose), notice of, 456. 

Specimens of, 458, 459. 

Imitation of, by I. H. Browne, 489. 
Philips (John), notice of, 367. 

Specimen of, 368, 369. 
Philips (Aatharine), notice and specimens of, 265. 



Philosophy, insufiScicncy of. Sir F. Greville, 165. 

Phoenix' Nest, specimens from the, 117, 118. 

PicKE (Thomas), specimens of his poetry, 184. 

Piers Plowman's Visions, character of, 15, 

Pipe of Tobacco, verses on. /, M. Browne, 488-490 

Platonism, 23. 

Poetry, rhapsody on. Sioi/t, 432. 

See English, Norman, 

Lord Bacon's remark upon, 48. 
PoMFRET (John), specimen of, 364. 
Poor, appeal for the._ Langhorne, 594. 
Pope (Alexander), notice of, 423; alluded to, 619} 
his Homer, 647, 699, 700. 

Specimens of, 423-430. 

Critical remarks on the works of, 58, 63 

Imitation of, by I. H. Browne, 490. 

His imitations of Chaucer, 68. 

Hill's lines upon, 471. 
Pope (Dr. Walter), notice of, 372. 

Specimen of, 372. 
Posterity, Sonnet t«. Fitzgeffrey, 199. 
Preston's Tragedy of Cambyses, notice of, 30. 
Presumption, palace of, described. Giles Fletcher, 

145. 
Prior (Matthew), notice of, 389; his archness, 58. 

Specimens of, 389-39,3. 
Prior (James), his Life of Goldsmith, referred to, 

563-566. 
Price (Mr.), his criticisms on Scott's Sir Tristrem, 
12, 13, notes. 

On the Language of Layamon, 8, note. 

On some of Mr. Campbell's criticisms, 20, note. 
Privateering, ode on. John Scott, 609. 
Prologue to the Canterbury Tales. Chaucer, 69. 

To Coriolanus. Lyttelton, 560. 

Spoken at Drury-Lane. Johnson, 615. 
Protogenes and Apelles. Prior, 391. 
Psalm XXIII., paraphrase on. Addison, 388. 

LXVIIL Sandys, 241. 
Puritans, Oxford riddle on, 237. 



QuARLES (Francis), notice of, 242. 

Specimens of, 243, 244. 

Extract from, 734. 
Quin, character of. Churchill, 502. 

Raleigh (Sir Walter), notice of, 38, 140. 

Specimens of his Poems, 140-142. 
Ramsay (Allan), notices of, 482-484. 

Specimens of, 486-487. 
Ramsay (Allan), the Painter, whimsical Poem by, 

483, note. 
Randolph (Thomas), notice of, 44, 191. 

Extracts from, 192-194. 
Rape of the Lock. Pope, 424-430. 
Rastell, an early Moral Play by, 29. 
Reason, influence of. T. Scott, 663. 
Reformation, influence of, on the literature of Eng 

land, 24. 
Retirement, an ode. T. Warton, 446. 
Religion, address to. Sylvester, 142. 
Remorse, description of. Tho. Sackville, 96, 
Reynolds's (Sir Joshua), painted window, at Oxford, 

verses on. Warton, 667. 
Rhyme, whether of Anglo-Saxon, or Anglo-Norman 

origin, 5. 
Richard II. the morning before his murder. Daniel, 

143. 
Richard IIL before the Battle of Bosworth. Sir John 

Beaumont, 166. 

Richardson ( ), specimen of, 690. 

Riddle on the Puritans. Anon., 237. 

Rinaldu in the enchanted wood. Fair/ax, 179. 

Robene and Makyne, a ballad. Henrysone, 82. 



GENERAL 


INDEX. li-f 


RoBFRT DE Brunne, an early English poet, notice 


Satires. 


of, in. 


Extracts from various. Bp. Hall, 125-128. 


Character and style of his productions, 11. 


The Dispensary, Canto L Garth, 384. 


Robert of Gloucester, character of the poetry of, 9, 


The Cameleon. Prior, 391. 


Referred to, 3. 


The Man of Taste. Bramston, 437. 


Robert (Duke of Normandy), description of. Nic- 


Introduction to the Rosciad. Churchill, 501. 


coh, 200. 


Character of a Critical Fribble. The same, 501. 


Roberts (Wm. Hayward), notice of, 664. 


Chit-Chat. Llnyd, 506. 


Specimen of, 664-668. 


The Love of Praise. Young, 516. 


Rochester (John Wilmot, Earl of ), notice and spe- 


Propensity of man to false and fantastic joys. 


cimens of, 320, 321. 


The same, 516. 


RoLLE (Richard), a poet of the fourteenth century, 


The Wedded Wit. The same, 517. 


notice of, 13. 


The Astronomical Lady. The same, 517. 


Romances, early English, probable date of, 12. 


The Languid Lady. The same, 617. 


Romantic fiction, origin of, 7. 


The Swearer. The same, 517. 


Rosamond, the death of, described. May, 252. 


On Nash's picture at full length, between the 


Roscommon (Wentworth Dillon, Earl of), specimen 


busts of Newton and Pope at Bath. Lord 


of, 331-333. 


Chesterfield, 562. 


RowE (Nicholas), specimens of, 381-383 ; his in- 


Heroic Epistle to Sir William Chambers. Ma- 


fluence on the drama, 58. 


son, 696. 


Rowlands (Samuel), notice of, 181. 


Satire, probable date of, in the English language, 8. 


Specimens of his Poems, 181, 182. 


Savage (Richard), specimen of, 422. 


Rowley (William), notice of, 223. 


The Thales of Johnson's London, 611, note. 


Specimens of, 223-225. 


Saxon language, observations on the changes of, 


Royal George, verses on the loss of the. Cotcper, 


1, 4. 


713. 


Saxon Chronicle, 1. 


Rump (The), a collection of Poems, extract from. 


Schlegel on the unities of the drama, 34. 


282. 


Scholar, despair of a poor one described. Na»h, 


Rural Elegance, ode on. Shenstone, 497. 


123. 


Russell (Thomas), account of, 640. 


Scholastic divinity, observations on the docline 


Sonnets by, 641. 


of, 23. , 




Schoolmistress, The, in imitation of Spenser. Shen. 


Sackville (Thomas, Baron Buckhurst, and Earl 


stone, 492. 


of Dorset), notice of, 95. 


Scotland, the Tears of. Smollett, 555. 


Specimen of his poetry, 96-98. 


Scott (John), notice of, 608. 


Critical observations on it, 25. 


Specimens of, 609. 


And on his tragedy of Gorboduc, 29. 


Scott (Thomas), specimen of, 563. 


Sackville (Charles, Earl of), notice of, 366. 


Scott (Sir Walter), Notes by :— 


Specimens of, 366, 367. 


Chaucer and Dryden, 66. 


Sacred Poems. 


Swift, 431. 


The Quip. George Herbert, 185. 


Chatterton, 540-542. 


Grace. The same, 185. 


Smollett, 555. 


Business. The same, 185. 


Johnson, 611. 


Peace. The same, 186. 


Mickle, 646. 


Matins. The same, 186. 


His edition of Sir Tristrem, 12, 13. 


The Collar. The same, 186. 


Beaumont and Fletcher, 49. 


A Meditation. Sir H. Wotton, 216. 


Otway, 55. 


Psalm LXVII. Sandys, 241. 


Dryden's Virgil, 56. 


Faith. Qnarles, 242. 


Absalom, 57. 


An Emblem. The same, 243. 


Dryden characterized, 57. 


Spiritual Poems. Drummoud, 251. 


An erroneous opinion formed of Milton by, 


Cupio Dissolvi. Habington, 255. 


311, note. 


Litany to the Holy Spirit. Herriek, 286. 


Scottish Poets, general observations on, 79, 80. 


On the Circumcision. Milton, 310. 


Scrutiny, The. Richard Lovelace, 264. 


Early Rising and Prayer. Vaughan 355. 


Sedley (Sir Charles), specimens of, 363, 364. 


The Rainbow. The same, 356. 


Selden (Amhurst), specimens of, 461-464. 


The Wreath. (To the Redeemer.) The same, 


Seneca's tragedies, notice of translations, 30. 


356. 


Settle (Elkanah), the character of, by Dryden, 357. 


A Night-piece on Death. Parnell, 376. 


Seward (W.), remark on Beaumont and Fletcher, 


Piety, or the Vision. The same, 379. 


48. 


Hymn to Contentment. The same, 380. 


Sewell (Dr. George), specimen of, 393. 


Paraphrase on Psalm XXIIL Addison, 388. 


Shadwell (Thomas), specimen of, 355. 


The dying Christian to his Soul. Pope, 424. 


Character of, by Dryden, 357. 


Extracts from the Grave. Blnir, 447. 


Shaftesbury (Lord), character of. Dryden, 356. 


Extracts from the Nifrht Thoughts. Young, 512, 


Shakspeare (William), notice of, 132-138. 


Song of David. Smart, 545, note. 


Specimen of the sonnets of, 138, 139. 


Samson bewailing his captivity and blindness. 3Iil- 


Observations on, as a dramatist, 32, 33. 


ton, 311. 


Character of, by Dryden, 38. 


Speeches of his Father and of the Chorus, on 


His Venus and Adonis, 43, 105. 


hearing of his last achievement and death. 


His Sonnets, 43. 


The same, 312. 


Epitaph on. Milton, 311. 


Sandys (George), notice of, 241. 


Inscription for the Bust of. Akenstde, 537. 


Specimens of, 241, 242. 


Steevens's censure upon his Sonnets, 104, note. 


Extracts from. 733. 


Describes Fortune like a Wheelwright, 49, 


Sappho, translations of. A. Philips, 458, 459. 


note. 



748 



GENERAL INDEX. 



Shaw (Cuthbert), notice of, 552. 

Specimen of, 552, 553. 
Shenstone (William), notice of, 491,492. 

Specimens of his poems. 492. 
Sheplieril, the Stedfast. WUher, 302. 
Sliepherd's Address to his Love. Mtirtnice, 103. 

Life, Happiness of. Phin. Fletcher, 146. 

Hunting. Wither, 300. 

Resolution. The same, 301. 
Sheridan, character of. Churchill, 502. 
Shiinvreck, The, extracts from. Falconer, 525-530. 
Shirlkv (James), notice of, 268. 

Extracts from, 268-281. 

Criticiil observations on them, 49-51. 
Singing-bird, ode to a. liiihnrJgoii, 590. 
Skelton (John), critical account of, 21. 
Sleep, personification -of. Tho. So'-hville, 96. 

Address to. Sir P. Sidi,ey, 101. 
Smart (Christopher), notice of, 545. 

Specimens of his poems, 645. 
Smith (James), specimen of, 305. 
Smollett (Dr. Tobias), notice of, 554, 727. 

Specimens of his poems, 555-557. 
Solitude. Cowley, 291. 

Ode to. Gr»in,jer,b2\. 
Somerset (Earl of), verses on his falling from the 

favour of James I. Sir H. Wottnn, 216. 
SoMERViLLE (William), specimen of, 429. 
Songs. 



Hunnis, 25. 

Lyly, 120. 

Dr. Donne, 184. 

Ben Jonson, 205, 206. 

Ciirew, 213. 

N. Field, 218. 

Sir J. Suckling, 238. 

Quarles, 244, 

W. Browne, 245. 

Nal>bes, 251. 

Heywood, 249. 

Ihibington, 256. 

Lovelace, 264. 

Anon. 281. 

Brome, 28.3. 

Hcrrick, 285 

Bulteel, 299. 

Wither, 300. 

Dr. King, 303. 

Mayne, 308. 

Milton, 310. 

Earl of Rochester, 320 

Otway, 337 

Anon. 337, 338. 

Etherege, 350. 

Flatman, 351. 

Belin, 351. 

Shadwell, 355. 

Sedley, 363, 364. 

T. Brown, 365 

Eiirl of Dorset, 

Walsh, 369. 

Anon. 370, 371. 
Bonnets. 

Earlof Surrey, 94. 

Sydney, 101. 

Spen.^er, 116. 

Shakspe.are, 138, 139. 

Raleigh, 140. 

Constable. 147. 

Drayton, 177. 
Sonnets, Miscellaneous. 

Harrington, 101. 

Watson, 104. 

Lodge, 148, 149. 



,367 



Gould, 371. 
Rowe, 383. 
Motteux, 386. 
Prior, 390. 
Congreve, 397. 
Ward, 399. 
Gay, 405. 
Booth, 406. 

Lord Lansdowne, 408. 
Oldmixoii, 418. 
Weekes, 421. 
Southerne, 445. 
Thomson, 457. 
Crawl'uril, 470. 
Hamilton, 47.3. 
Cibber, 479. 
E. Moore, 480. 
Rams.iy, 4S7. 
Carey, 498. 
Dodsley, 505, 606. 
M.illet, 510. 
Cooper, 523. 
Smollett, 555. 
Anon. 557. 
Cunningham, 558. 
P. Whitehead, 577 
Lovibond. 583. 
Fawke.s 584. 
Sir J. H.Moore, 60.3. 
Stevens, 610. 
Thompson, 638. 
Sir W. .lones, 673. 
Burns, 685, 686, 687. 

Earl of Sterline, 218, 
Druinmond, 250. 
Fanshawe, 292. 
Milton, 310, 311. 
Russell. 640, 641. 
T. Warton, 662. 
Bampfylde, 675, 676. 

Greville (L. Brooke), 
165. 



Soul's, the, Errand. Anon. 37, 116. 
Soul, nature of. ^i> J. Duvies, 162. 

In what manner united to the body. The same, 
16.3. 

Reasons for its immortality. The same, 162. 

On the pre-existence of. Dr. More, 297. 
Southerne (Thomas), specimens of, 442-445. 
Southey (Robert), Notes by 



On Sir W. Jones, 673. 

Mason, 689. 

Cowper, 709. 

A passage in Pope, 
61. 

Origin of Romance, 
7, vote. 

Chaucer's versifica- 
tion, 24. 

Donne, 38. 



On Shadwell, 355. 

Pomfret, 364. 

Blair, 446. 

Byrom. 490. 

Churchill, 501, 503. 

Grainger, 521. 

Harte, 578. 

Glover, 628. 

N. Cotton, 652. 

Mason's opinion of 
Pope, 687. 
Southwell (Robert), notice of, 103. 

Specimens of his poems, 104. 
Spenser (Edmund), critical notice of, 105-107. 

Specimen of his poems, 107-116. 

Observations on his genius, versification, and 
diction, 26-29. 

Why not universally popular, 28. 

Allusion to, 492. 
Spring, description of. Earl of Surrey, 94. 

Sir It. Faushawe, 292. 

Elegy on. Bruce, 520. 
Stanhope. See Chesterfield. 
Stanihurst condemned, 26. 
Stanley (Thomas), specimens of, 319, 320. 
Steevens (George), his preference of Watson's eon- 
nets to Shakspeare's accounted for, 104, note. 
Stephenson (John llall), specimens of, 637, 638. 
Stepney (George), specimen of, 367. 
Sterline (William Alexander, Earl of), notice of, 

^ 35, 218. 

Sonnets by, 218. 
Sternhold and Ho))kins, observations on, 25. 
Stevens (George Alexander), notice of, 610. 

Specimen of, 610. 
Still (John), Bi.-hopof Bath and Wells, "Gammer 

Gurton"8 Needle," by, 29. 
Storer (Thomas), 124. 

Specimens of his poems, 124. 
Strafford (Lord), on the life and death of. Sir J. 

JJeuham, 298. 
Suckling (Sir John), notice of, 238. 

Specimens of, 238, 239. 
Surrey (Earl of). See Howard. 
Swift (Dr. Jonathan), specimens of, 431-436. 

Imitation of, by /. H. llrowuf, 490. 
Sydney (Sir Philip,) notice of, 101. 

Specimens of his poems, 101, 102. 

His life, poetry put into action, 26. 
Sydney (Lady), ver.'^es on her picture. Waller, 339. 
SvLVKSTER (Joshua), notice of, 142. 

Specimens of his poems, 142. 

Inquiry how far Milton was indebted to his 
translation of Dubartas* poem, for the prima 
gtniiiiii'i of Paradise Lost, 41. 

Specimen of Sylvester's version, 41. 

Beautiful expression in, 42. 

His right to the Soul's Errand, 116. 

Tales. 

Prologue to the Canterbury Tales. Chnvcer, 69 
Tale of the Coflers, or Caskets. Gower, 76. 
Argentile and Curan. Warner, 129. 
A Fairy Tale. Farnell, 373. 
The Hermit. The same, 377. 
Protogencs and Apelles. Prior, 391. 
Bacchus Triumphant. Someroille, 419 



GENERAL INDEX. 



749 



Tales, continued. 

Baucis and Philemon. Sid/t, 431. 

The Cobbler, an Irish tale. Mexton, 440. 

Love and Follv. A. Sdden, 461-469. 

Viiriety. W. Whifheud. 623. 

Syr Martyn. Mickh, 648. 

The Twa Dogs. Biunx, 676. 

Tam o'Shanter. The same. 684. 
TnoMPSoy (Capt. Edward), notice of, 638. 

-Specimens of, 638, 639. 
Thomson (James), notice of, 449. 

Specimen of, 460-457. 

Poem by, 489, note. 

Imitation of, by /. H. Browne, 489. 

Allusion to, 588. 

Compared with Cowper, 708, 709. 
Tibullus, imitation of. We»l, 47 i. 
TiCKBLL (Thomas), notice of, 415. 



specimens 



of, 415-417. 



Time, swiftness of. Guicoigne, 100. 

Traveller, The. Goldsmith, 568. 

Turner (Sharon), his History of the Anglo-Saxons 

referreil to, 5. 
Tj'e (Cris.), his Acts of the Apostles versified, 25. 

UxA followed by the lion. Spenser, 107. 
Unities, dramatic, observations on, 39. 

Vanbrugh (Sir John), notice of, 394. 

Specimens of, 394. 
Vanity of Human Knowledge. Sir J. Davies, 162. 

Of the World, farewell to. Sir H. Wootton, 215. 

Of Human Wishes. Dr. Johnson, 614. 
Variety, a tale. W. Whitehead, 623. 
Vaughan (Henry), specimens of, 355, 356. 
Vaux (Lord), notice of, 94. 

Specimens of his poems, 94. 
Venus, hymn to. A. Philips, 453. 

And Adonis. Wiltiim Browne, 246. 
Verb (Edward, Earl of Oxford), 123. 

Specimens of liis poems, 123, 124. 
Verse, translated, observations on. Roscommon, 331. 
Vertu, allegorical description of. G. TFes?, 474. 
Villiers (Lady Mary), epitaph on. Curew, 213. 
V^irgil, translated by Pliaer, strictures on, 40. 

Specimen of that version, 40, note. 

Critical remarks on, with specimens of Dryden'a 
translation of this poet, 36. 

Wace, his Brut d 'Angleterre, 7. 

Waller (Edmund), specimens of, 339-342. 

Compared with Carew, 212. 

Sometimes metaphysical, 51. 

Influence of his numbers upon English versifi- 
cation, Appendix A. 
Walsh (William), song by, 369. 
Walto.v (Isaak), notice and specimen of, 331. 
Ward (Edward), notice of, 398. 

Specimen of, 399. 
Warner (William), notice of, 48, 129. 

Specimens of his poems, 129-131. 
Warton (Dr. Thomas, sen.), specimens of, 446. 



Warton (Thomas), notice of, 655-657. 

Specimens of, 657-662. 
Warton (Dr. Joseph), notice of, 698. 

Specimens of, 700, 701. 
Watts (Dr. Isaac), notice of, 459. 

Specimen of, 459. 
Watson (Thomas), specimens of, 104. 
Webster (John), notices of, 49, 219. 

Specimens of, 219-223. 

His Duchess of Malfi, 35. 
AVedding, bnilad on. Sir J. Suckling, 238. 
Weekes (James Eyre), specimen of, 421. 
Weelkes's Madrigals, songs from, 119. 
Welsted (Leonard), specimen of, 460. 
West (Gilbert), notice of, 474. 

Specimen of, 474. 
West (Richard), specimen of, 420. 
Whetstone (George), his "Promos and Cassandra," 

30. 
White Hairs, verses on. Lord Vaux, 94. 
Whitehead (Paul), notice of, 576. 

Hunting Song by, 577. 
Whitehead (William), notice of, 619-622. 
Specimens of, 622-626. 
Whyte (James), specimen of, 665. 
Wife, quiilities of one. Sir T. Overhury, 131. 

Monody on the death of. Shaw, 552. 

Lord Lyttelton, 559. 

Verses to, with a present of a knife. Bishop, 
674. 

Verses to, with a ring. The same, 674. 
Wilbye's Madrigals, songs from, 118, 119. 
Wilde (Dr. Robert), specimen of, 304. 
Williams (Sir Charles Han bury), specimen of, 487. 
WiLMOT (Robert), notice of his Tancred and Sigis- 

munda, 30. 
Wilmot. See Rochester (Earl of). 
Winchelsea ( Lady), her genius for descriptive poetry, 
51, note. 

Poem by, 737. 
Wit, nature of. Cowley, 290. 
Wither (George), notice of, 38, 299. 

Specimens of, 299-302. 
Wolsey (Cardinal), verses on. Storer, 124. 

Extract from Skelton's satire on, 22. 
Women, verses on. Vere, 123. 

The praise of. Randolph, 193. 

Simile on. Whijte, 655. 
Wordsworth (William), note by, on Dryden's genius, 
55. 

On Dryden and Pope's descriptive powers, 61. 
WoTTON (Sir Henry), specimens of, 215, 216. 
Wyat (Sir Thomas, the elder), notice of, 89. 

Specimens of his poetry, 90, 91. 

Character of it, 25. 

Yardley Oak, description of. Cowper, 714. 
Young (Dr. Edward), notice of, 510. 

Specimens of his poems, 512-517. 

Imitation of, by /. H. Browne, 489. 

Disgraced his talents by his flattery, 43&. 
Youth, vanity of. Gascoigne, 100. 



THE END. 



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